He walked out of the bedroom, his mind made up, his story already arranged - walked into a cloud of olfactory bliss: Cerise had baked, poached, cooked, and it was ready and waiting for him. As was she.
The sight of the Eggs Benedict smothered in hollandaise made the blood pound in his temples. She’d brewed more coffee, baked some sort of braided bread that glistened with honey, filled bowls with fruit. Around the corner in the kitchen, she looked up from pouring him a mimosa.
She was naked: she’d cooked breakfast in the nude! She offered him that alluring smile once again, and proudly carried the fluted glass to him. Which he accepted. Her hands slid around his neck, into his hair. She kissed him, tasting of strawberry. Her tongue snaked along his own. His will dissolved.
They ate breakfast in almost complete silence. She treated it as if it were a silent sharing. He tried to remember between bites of egg and ham and buttery sauce what he was going to say to her. He began to wonder if he couldn’t continue seeing Cerise. Pick some new Alison or Sandra or Jill or Rebecca to take on this cooking, too! He could have it all - Cerise and a vessel - and why not? They never had to meet, or even know the other existed. His eating picked up speed. He ate now almost as a test, just to make sure the spell hadn’t taken late. So long as that chance remained, he didn’t want to do something rash.
When he had eaten, she served him more coffee, then led him back to her bed. He followed docilely, in something of a daze. His body responded to her touch as before; he grew hard and let her ride him into near exhaustion. It went on longer than he would have thought possible. He couldn’t believe that after half an hour he was still erect, still going, still unreleased. Tension, he told himself. Tension.
Finally, after she had experienced repeated orgasms of her own, he joined her. She sat awhile, then lay beside him. He sprawled, twitching like a galvanised frog’s leg. unable to coordinate his muscles enough to stand up. His whole body smelled of her now. Even the scent of her sex worked on his appetite, making him hungry for more. He dozed, then woke with a start from a dream of having fallen, to find her sleeping beside him with feline contentment upon her features.
He rose unsteadily, glanced at the time, found his underwear and socks. Before he dressed, he stepped in front of the old mirror again. If anything, he looked fatter than just a few hours before. That wasn’t possible, was it? It had to be an illusion - his fear working on him. No one got fat this fast...except for his vessels. As if to drive the point home, his pants had to be coerced into meeting. He sucked in his gut and used his belt to keep them together. All right, then, there it was - the spell didn’t work on her. Now there was no question. No tempting fate further; he had to get out of here before she cooked another meal for him.
Cerise made a noise deep in her throat, not a moan exactly, more like a few notes from a song being hummed below his hearing. She didn’t move, but her golden eyes tracked him. ‘You are going, my darling?’
‘Ah, you’re awake. Yes, I have to. That is, I have business that I should have taken care of this morning, and now it’s late afternoon, and if I don’t do it today, I’ll have to wait until Monday.’
‘Oh.’ The sound of disappointment. ‘You’ll come back tonight?’
‘Well, I—’ He could think of nothing to say by way of an excuse. ‘Of course. Unless there’s a problem. If there is, I’ll call you.’
‘All right.’ She stretched languorously, her black hair reaching all the way to the dimples above her buttocks. Her legs were slightly spread. With her smell clogging his nostrils, all he could think of was how much he wanted to push them wider apart and dive in between.
He made himself turn away. ‘I’ll call,’ he repeated, but she had fallen asleep, and he fled from his returning arousal and the accompanying fear that if he gave in, he would never get away.
* * * *
Back home, he stripped and showered, scrubbing hard to rid himself of her maddening scent. He put on fresh clothes, leaving the others in a heap beside the laundry hamper. He would have to bag them, take them to a dry cleaner’s and get the smell removed.
Comfortable but exhausted, he sat on his couch and dialled his account box and listened to the list of those who had responded to his ad. There were five, and from that list he culled two who sounded the most promising and self-absorbed. He wanted someone vain and stupid right now; someone he could manipulate without having to work hard at it.
The first woman he called was named Gwen. She giggled when he made the simplest joke, said she had never eaten anything like he described and couldn’t wait to try. He made a date with her, hung up and called La Parisienne. By luck they had a table. The maitre d’ knew him of course and was delighted to hear from him. He sat back, sighed with relief, then curled up on the couch and fell asleep. His descending thought was that he had escaped from something terrible.
* * * *
The new vessel was perfect. She had artificially dyed red hair, and wore an outfit which she undoubtedly thought appropriate for an evening of fine dining but which was just a few steps shy of a hooker so far as he was concerned. Her jewellery was cheap and gaudy. His ring would be lost within the trappings. Still, it was the easiest thing in the world to ask her what she thought of it, if she liked it. She turned it over, studied the stone - ‘This is a real one, isn’t it?’ - and tried it on. He let her wear it all through the soup course. He listened to his body as he ate the rich mushroom bisque, but sensed nothing. Convinced that the bisque wasn’t touching him - that it was going where it was supposed to go - he relaxed and anticipated the rest of the meal.
Gwen babbled about her job - something clerical in a photo-mounting company where her manager kept finding ways to touch her. It was all accidental, according to him, but she knew better: the man was a sleaze. She was thinking about filing a suit.
He tried to seem interested, nodding, giving her warm smiles of sincere support. His mind, however, refused to focus on her. The main course arrived - he’d ordered a wonderful fillet of beef in a sauce of wine, shallots and Dijon mustard. When he closed his eyes at the first mouthful, he saw the dining room of Cerise’s apartment. It was dark, cold. Leaves were blowing, swirling around the empty room. Startled, he opened his eyes, swallowed. Glanced around himself at the restaurant. The noise of a dozen conversations seemed to echo the hiss of the leaves. Gwen asked, ‘Are you okay?’
He said, ‘Of course,’ and to prove it took another bite. Again, he couldn’t help closing his eyes with pleasure, and again the instant he did, he was whisked away to the empty table. But it wasn’t empty. Cerise was sitting in the chair across from him, motionless, like a corpse, her face hidden in the shadows.
He opened his eyes and found that he’d dropped his knife. A number of people were looking his way, and Gwen said, ‘Honey, I think you need an aspirin or something.’ This opinion seemed to be shared by the maitre d’, who along with the waiter appeared at his side to ask if everything was all right. He laughed lightly and replied that it was nothing - simply, the meal was so good that he’d been transported by it. The maitre d’ bowed slightly at the compliment and retreated. The waiter replaced his knife.
‘It is really good, isn’t it?’ said Gwen.
This time when he ate, he was careful not to close his eyes. This significantly diminished his pleasure in the meal but he had no choice. He ate thereafter a subdued dinner. When Gwen couldn’t finish her Supremes de Volaille Basquaise, he didn’t even attempt to eat it for her, even though the sautéed chicken breast looked and smelled so wonderful. He ordered dessert over her protest that she couldn’t touch another bit; after all, he didn’t care what she ate, but he presumed that her early satiety meant that the magic was working better than ever. So smug was he over this that he forgot himself again at the first taste of the coffee crème caramel. He let his eyes close.
A fierce wind circled him in the cold dark dining room. The cadaverous Cerise rocked in her chair, as though buffeted. Her hand, crablike, reached for his
across the polished surface. Her voice, a rasp, asked, ‘How can you leave me? How can you leave me like this?’ The final sibilance went on hissing. Her hand caught him and he tore himself free of her grip.
He came to, on his feet, moving, the chair already falling back from him, Gwen with her hands up as if to ward him off. There was crème caramel on her forehead, her arm. He couldn’t find his spoon.
The whole restaurant was watching. Silent. He’d only closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, how could so much have happened? He sat down, confused, terrified. When the waiter came this time, he asked for the check, added a generous tip and apologised quietly, explaining that he was on a new medication and was obviously reacting badly to it. This did not remove the worry from the waiter’s eyes, but at least it might serve to protect him so that he might return another night, after a few months. Once he’d seen through this...this whatever it was.
He apologised to Gwen, who suggested that maybe they should call it a night. She handed him back the ring. He knew she would have nothing farther to do with him. He’d thrown food at her, like some sophomoric fraternity twit.
Not far from the restaurant was a small cafe where he could get a drink. That, he decided, was exactly what he needed. He sat at the bar and ordered a double of Glenmorangie, his favourite Scotch. He huddled over the glass, inhaling it, trying to calm down. The smell was, as always, intoxicating. His guard came down for only a moment, but that was all it took to transport him again.
Her bony hand gripped his. ‘You are mine,’ she said. ‘Only for me. You swore. You chose.’ She leaned towards him and the light from outside fell upon her face - the face of the gorgon. Her golden eyes seared him.
He screamed, lunging back from the bar, pouring Scotch over himself. He slid from the stool and fell heavily. The back of his head struck the floor, bounced and hit it again.
The next thing he knew, someone was helping him to his feet, and a voice asked, ‘What bit you, there, fella?’ He heard other voices saying, ‘Seizure’ and ‘drunk’.
‘I’m all right,’ he insisted. ‘All right.’ Although his head ached and he felt nauseous. ‘Sorry, sorry. Medication. Bad reaction.’ He slapped a twenty on the bar and fled. Four doors away, he doubled over and threw up his dinner. So much, he thought, wheezing,for needing a vessel.
After that he walked without destination, without purpose, lost in a fog of pain and fear, stinking of Scotch, the smell of which reactivated his gag reflex twice more until all he could vomit was air.
Finally he stumbled inside. There was nothing for it but to sleep off the whole experience.
Head hanging, he rode the elevator up and was halfway down the hall before he smelled the food. His stomach rumbled, and he stopped dead and looked around himself. This wasn’t his building. His hallway.
It was hers.
He knew where the smell of cooking came from. Somehow he had slipped right past the doorman without noticing, been let in - no, been brought in. He turned and lunged back into the elevator, slamming the cage door closed; then he stood inside, his hands on the bars, the odour of cumin and cloves, coriander and cardamom spinning around his head the way the wind had spun about the table in his vision of her. The smells - how could he ignore the rich - the divine - smells?
He had only to relinquish control and his body took over. His body, now divested of all extrinsic food, wanted desperately to fill itself again. It led him step by step to her door.
He raised the knocker, and the force of it dropping was enough to push the door open further; it had been ajar, waiting for him. He walked in. She was standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron and her golden sandals, her body the colour of wheat toast, and he went to her, his arm outstretched, the ring between his thumb and forefinger. She turned as if on cue, her own hand raised to let him slide the ring into place. Once she had it on, his arm dropped and he stood, transfixed, unable to move or think, bound to her utterly.
‘You love your food too much to do without me, don’t you? Even on the telephone, I knew you were the one. You’re so like Odysseus’s men. They loved their food and drink to excess, and so were halfway to being swine before they even set foot on my island.’ She turned the ring with her thumb, admiring it. ‘Complementary magics. Of course, mine is the stronger for being the older of the two, so I can use yours as you have done.Of course, you are my vessel and my pleasure, my piggy. For so long as you last. Now, go sit down and I’ll serve you.’ She said it all without malice or cruelty, but gently, with affection.
She turned back to her cooking, to the huge clay pot she’d removed from the oven.
He shuffled past her and into the dining room. Took his seat. A bouquet of roses stood in the centre of the table. There were dry, dead leaves on the tabletop. Circe brushed them aside as she set his plate before him - a mountainous biryani sprinkled with varak. ‘There, my darling, now eat to your heart’s content.’
Staring at the rice and meats, inhaling it, his terror drowned beneath the ocean of his appetite. He looked into her eyes as his own flooded with tears. It was all going to be his.
Gregory Frost lives in Merion Station, Pennsylvania, and he has been writing and publishing stories of fantasy, horror and science fiction for two decades. His story ‘How Meersh the Bedeviler Lost His Toes’ was a finalist for the 1998 Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award for Best Short Science Fiction. He has twice taught in the Clarion Writers programme at Michigan State University, of which programme he is also a graduate. He teaches fiction writing courses occasionally at the University of Pennsylvania, works as a publications designer, and is a student of aikido (where he wears the ‘angry white pyjamas’). He is currently working on two fantasy novels, neither of which knows that the other exists. ‘ “The Girlfriends of Dorian Gray” owes a debt of gratitude to two friendly dinner tables,’ reveals Frost: ‘first to that of Michael Swanwick and Marianne Porter, where the idea manifested; second to that of David and Karen O’Connell, where the story found an ending. I’m sure it had something to do with the wine.’
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* * * *
Bottle Babies
MARY A. TURZILLO
Allie first saw the fairies in the flower garden beside the driveway, and they were naked. But maybe they would be her friends. She didn’t have any friends because Mom and Dad didn’t want people to come into the house and discover Bobby.
How to make friends with them, when they were almost invisible?
She thought the spicy-fragrant petunia blossoms were small enough to make skirts for them; she knew they were girl-fairies because of their long hair, lavender, pink, and pale green, but her eyes weren’t good enough to see if they had nipples, like her own, which must be concealed. Perhaps a tiny cloverleaf could cover each breast, though she wasn’t sure how to keep them in place.
‘Mom,’ she said, ‘may I borrow some thread?’
Mom’s sharp grey gaze flicked away from the needlework scene of a Japanese garden she was doing. Mom had all sorts of hobbies. ‘You may have that black spool that’s almost gone.’
Allie chewed the end of her braid. ‘Colours would be better.’
Mom threw down her needlework in annoyance.
‘I want to make little clothes.’
Dad came in. He was carrying one of Mom’s bonsai plants. A little dwarf maple tree, just right for the fairies. ‘Little clothes for who?’
‘Not for Bobby. Bras.’
Allie was pretty sure she really had seen the little people. She also knew she had better not say any more about them. Some things, like Bobby, were not discussed even in the bosom of the family. ‘For pretend little people.’
Dad spoke over her head to Mom. ‘The child needs glasses, Sara. She’s been seeing fairies in the garden again.’
‘My daughter,’ said Mom, taking the bonsai from him, ‘will not wear glasses. My daughter is perfect.’
Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses,Allie thought. Mom always said that.
Allie felt no need for glasses. School was out for the summer. Anyway, she could see fine when the teacher put her in the front row.
‘Black thread,’ said Mom, and began to lay out the bonsai tools, scissors, wire, tweezers.
The black thread was so old it came on a wooden spool, but Allie didn’t mind. It broke easily so she wouldn’t have to use her kindergarten scissors, which didn’t cut.
* * * *
She carefully selected six petunias, two each of pink and white, one purple, and one purple-and-white striped. She snapped these off close to the stem and removed the stamens, making flared skirts. Next, she selected twelve cloverleaves and laid them in pairs on the walkway. A breeze stirred them. ‘Darn,’ she said softly, trying to line them up again.
A fairy darted out and placed the cloverleaves back in place.
Allie was too startled to say anything. She sort of believed in the fairies, but she also knew that she couldn’t see very well, and as Dad said, was maybe making them up.
Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 32