Dish of the day

Henry glanced down at the menu – looking, not seeing. He gripped, too tightly, the thick embossed card and took nothing in. The words blurred before his eyes like tiny smoke trails.

Miranda, by contrast, appeared inspired. She too was scanning the offerings, the odd ‘ooh’ and twitch of an exquisitely plucked brow indicating that she was greedily devouring the information, washing it down with delicate sips of chardonnay. Her pale fingers held the stem of her glass as if it were a precious flower, and the deep blood red of her fingernails disturbed Henry in ways that were frankly indecent. He imagined those claws carving into his back as he… He watched the pink flash of her tongue, the imprint of her crimson lipstick on the glass – open-mouthed, hungry.

All of this was killing his own appetite, at least for the menu selection in front of him.

Also he should say something. Anything. It had been a while. The pause was long. Awkwardly long.

Focus, in god’s name focus. This, here, now. Don’t blow it. Must not, absolutely must not…

He renewed his attempt at concentration, hamming it up terribly – a kid in a school play pretending to read like a grown-up. His armpits felt sticky.

What should I say next?

Miranda looked up at him. Amused. Coquettish. Curious. The arch of an eyebrow again.

Oh, but those brows are beautiful. Like pumas leaping after their prey.

Damn this menu. Yes, yes the ‘plant-forward’ cuisine at Forest and Fern was not to be missed, a theme park for the palate, blah, blah, blah – but why did they have to make it all so complicated? It was bad enough trying to pay attention as it was.

Not one morsel, apart from Miranda, seduced his tastebuds. On the contrary, the menu descriptions were so pompous they made him want to puke. What in god’s name was ‘Black Trumpet Mushroom Foam’ anyway? Was that a culinary component or a threat? Also, he wished people would stop thinking that the term ‘foraged’ was somehow a point of pride. Why croon about the fact your kitchen staff were simply too lazy to head out early to the market, preferring to snatch up a few weeds and lawn clippings on their way to work?

Miranda noted his discombobulation, gave him a look of genuine concern.

God, she’s good. 

“If you want to keep looking, we could just order some garlic bread in the meantime?”

Henry visibly recoiled, drew into himself.

“No, I erm, I’m allergic.”

“To bread or to garlic?”

He winced. “Garlic. It makes me, gives me… “

No, dear god, not again. What do I say, what do I say…

“It gives me wind.” 

From somewhere beyond their table, muffled laughter.

Miranda arched her brow again. And then a look so fleeting – an insect rippling a pond’s surface – that he might have imagined it. Yet it troubled him. Was it desire? Or disdain…

He had no time to dwell on the subject, as he was suddenly aware of a presence. A slender figure in black, a human question mark exuding sycophancy and expectation.

“Sir, Madam… are we ready to order?”

No, thought Henry. No, ‘we’ are not ready to order.

“Yes!” trilled Miranda with girlish excitement. As she glanced up towards the waiter, her neck was revealed to Henry in all its pale, slender glory. A porcelain work of art, the hollow at the base of her throat not a dip but an invitation. That’s where he would begin. He would delve his tongue into that delicious cavity, work his way upwards, trace a line with saliva and longing. Murmuring softly, under his spell, she would expose her throat to him, offer up her veins… she would perceive the sensation of teeth on neck as nothing more than desire unleashed – the amuse-bouche before the main course. She would not suspect – poor, sublime, succulent creature – that this was simply the initial basting before the final bite.

“I’ll have the Blood Orange and Vegan Burrata Salad to start”, the throat was saying, quivering before him.

He could barely contain himself any longer. He had to fight the urge, had to. Not here, not now.

“And for you sir?”

“I’ll have the lady,” he replied. “I mean, I’ll have what the lady is having.”

“And CUT!!!!!”

Archie hauled himself up from the chair, puffily. Waddled over to the ‘restaurant’ table. Despite having kicked his 50-a-day habit some months earlier, his lungs hadn’t forgotten. Still they sulked, hanging there like old net curtains, grey and forlorn.

He was chuckling. Yes, Archie actually chuckled. A plump, bubbling, cartoonish laugh with the odd soprano note.

“’I’ll have the lady’”. That line cracks me up every time. Great work, guys! And jeez, the sexual tension. You could almost taste it. But Stephen, what the hell was that – ‘It gives me wind?’ The line was actually “it makes me want to flee”. And she looks puzzled, so you pretend that what you actually said was ‘It makes me want to pee’. And, kid, you looked a bit lost a couple of times back there. So yeah, maybe actually learn your lines before tomorrow’s shoot?”

He erupted into a coughing fit, waved his hand to indicate all was well, and continued:

“But you two, so much chemistry. The air is crackling with it. Janet darling,” – he turned to ‘Miranda’ – “you are just fabulous. Don’t change a thing. I want to eat you myself.”

He giggled, rather camply, before turning back to Stephen / Henry.

“Now Stephen, remember your backstory. I’m not getting enough of that real, visceral pent-up lust. You are tremendously frustrated, but you transfer that energy into exasperation at the pretentiousness of the menu.”

“Wait… I’m sexually frustrated?”

“Yes, I mean no,” said Archie patiently. “It’s bloodlust. You are vampirically frustrated. You are full of want and desire. It’s been a long time since your last victim, but Miranda is just so luscious. You’re really fighting the urge to sink those fangs into her because… well, you kinda can’t. Not just because you’re in a busy, Michelin-starred Manhattan bistro but also – for reasons explained later in the script, which I’m hoping you’ll acquaint yourself with a bit better – you simply cannot return to your bloodthirsty activities. It will destroy you. So, you had the vibe earlier, I felt it, it was perfect. Just hold onto that.”

Stephen / Henry nodded.

Archie couldn’t believe his luck with ‘Henry’. Sure, he was fluffing his lines a little. But that was to be expected. An unknown, with no film credits to his name, scouted on the street by Archie’s casting director and now playing opposite one of the most bankable movie stars of the past few years.

Archie had been skeptical at first, but the audition proved him wrong and now, watching his protégé, his future goldmine in action… it was truly something to behold. He wasn’t just a solid performer – when he actually stuck to the script, that is – he was physically perfect for the role. His beauty was delicate, almost diaphanous. He oozed vulnerability, an inner knowing, a sense of horror at what he truly was.

This movie was going to knock it out of the park. What with Janet’s star power and this boy’s – what was it – almost other-worldly presence, a true rare quality. And what was amazing was that he’d seen this kind of waif-like beauty before. But often the stress was on ‘waif’, bad dental hygiene and all. Yet this kid. Groomed. Elegant. Stunning white teeth. Slightly over-sized canines, but they didn’t detract one bit. Hell no, quite the opposite. They gave him a wolfish charm.

Stephen, meanwhile, was pleased with how the scene had gone. Sure, he’d frozen a couple of times, had had to improvise a little. But they’d liked it. Loved it. Archie wasn’t fooling him with his gruffness; he knew the little pot-bellied director was excited at his ‘discovery’. Besides, Stephen was made for the part. Having to channel Henry Lightfoot, the charming playboy constantly in conflict with his true longings – the dark conundrum at the heart of this offbeat rom-com, Killing Me Softly – wasn’t a chore. Not at all. He could totally understand a man with a past he’d rather conceal.

He was already imagining the reviews, wondering where his career would take him next. If he could just keep his nose clean. Changing his name, moving cities, all the work he’d had done. Just in case. You never knew who might recognize you.

Right now, however, all he could think of was food – ironically, given the scenario that had just played out. Thank god they were done for the day. He had a nice gazpacho waiting for him at home. Chilled, fresh, garlicky. Yes, he’d come a long way. He’d had to train himself to become an urban sophisticate, difficult given his upbringing and track record. But he was well on his way to societal acceptance. Adulation even.

Archie’s wheezing voice gatecrashed his thoughts.

“Actually guys, I feel we’re kind of on a roll here – so, what the hey. Whaddya say we keep going, into the next scene. Henry and Miranda’s cab ride home… “

Stephen wanted to protest. It had been a long day already. Janet, however, simply nodded. She knew that her three homes with their infinity pools, her Prada-stuffed wardrobes and nascent art collection wouldn’t maintain themselves. And she wasn’t one for on-set tantrums. So crass. So beneath her.

The ‘cab ride’ set was already installed, right beside the one for Forest and Fern. June, the young assistant makeup artist, was already dabbing at Miranda’s forehead, the heat of the lights having coaxed droplets of perspiration to bead across her luminescent skin.

****

He was unsettled. Stupid, stupid man, he should have eaten earlier. Longing gnawed painfully in his stomach, like a giant pencil sharpener churning his guts. He wasn’t just ravenous. He was dangerous. He shouldn’t have let her talk him into sharing this cab. Why, why? Why didn’t she leave him alone? His willpower was crumbling. 

He tried to think about other things. About child poverty, animal cruelty, the wafer-thin truce in the Middle East. About artificial intelligence, and how it might make him redundant one day. Or kill us all. But none of these mental images really took hold. They were distant, murky, vaguely outlined. She wasn’t. She was right next to him, ravishingly contoured. Fragrant, irresistible. He tried not to look, couldn’t help himself. Glanced over. Big mistake. The lights of the city flashed intermittently, flickered on her neck. Her hair cascaded in rich, thick waves and he pictured himself plunging his hands into that dark thicket, raking the strands clear with his fingers so he could nuzzle her opalescent skin. 

The cab slithered to a halt in the rain.

“Well,” he said cheerily, almost crying with frustration. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’ll get out here too,” she told the driver.

She joined him on the rain-washed street, gave him a look that was unmistakable. No smoke trails there. He really hadn't seen this coming, must have misread the signals. She wanted him.

As they approached the door of his apartment block, she smiled, this time baring all her teeth. He gasped.

Wait, what… calm down, man, just the streetlights playing tricks.

Once inside the hallway, he didn't he have time to fathom what was happening. She drove him with some force against the wall, leaned in, her mouth finding the side of his neck, her tongue playing vigorously up and down the flesh as if to wash him clean. 

Then suddenly she stopped. Moved her head back slightly as if trying to read a menu without glasses, then jerked back towards him. And it was only when he felt the icepick points of her fangs break his skin, causing him to scream like a fox in the night, that he knew for sure – but too late – that this woman had a secret far darker than his own.    

****

8am. Archie couldn’t understand it. Janet was a pro. Had never, ever turned up late on set. Never given him a problem. Apart from… but well that was just a nonsense. A year or two back, those reporters hounding her, trying to make out she had some murky dealings, something to do with disappeared ex-lovers and co-stars. Yep, that was how this industry worked – there was no limit to how low people would go, jealous rivals spreading rumours that could not possibly have been true. She was such a dream to work with. And of course, those verminous hacks gave up eventually; must have caught a fresh whiff of scandal elsewhere. One minute crawling all over the studio, the next – pouff! Gone.

He checked his watch again. He’d had his people call Janet’s apartment but no reply. They’d sent a car for her, but she wasn’t waiting promptly, as she always was, on the sidewalk outside her brownstone.

Stephen was also late, but that didn’t shock him quite so much. After all, he’d said he was feeling unwell the previous night – probably shouldn’t have pushed him so much on his first day – so they never did shoot that cab ride scene in the end. But also, these novices, they were often a bit sloppy. They had to learn that talent wasn’t enough. Discipline, focus, that’s what was needed.

Still, he consoled himself knowing what a smash hit this movie was going to be. How could it possibly fail? It had been too long, brooded Archie, since his directorial talent had been truly acknowledged. All this woke, subtitled, artsy-fartsy crap – all those tedious long silences and moody shots of trash cans and stairwells... it had deprived him of what was truly his.

This time, when awards season came round, he was gonna bleed those suckers dry.