I was thrilled to be in the city of stars. It almost made me feel like a star myself. God, I so wanted to be one of them. Ever since I could remember, my transfixion, preoccupation and obsession had been with glamour. I dreamt of stilettoes and boudoirs and champagne and stars since I had been taught the words and how they were irrelevant to a high functioning member of society. I dreamt of parties and of sweet truffles in little pink boxes and of handsome men in tuxedos who I hoped would one day be my husband.
Who could blame me?
Walking down the busy London street with five inch black stilettoes and a deliciously retro black cameras bag which held my writing supplies, I truly felt like I was achieving my dream. I wondered what the scene looked like from above or in front of in a museum as I continued down towards the turn off for Russel Square. My feet were starting to hurt, the city clearly hadn’t been designed with ladies of glamorous enchantments in mind. I brushed my hair out of my eyes as I passed two gentlemen in their mid-20s standing on the corner engaging in hushed tones on a subject in which I had no interest and popped my knee with a smile as I passed them. They smiled back. It was working. Though I had very little knowledge on the topic of love other than what I felt with Owen and what I had read in books and what I had written about for that matter, I already seemed rather adept in the arts of seduction – and it was easier than I had imagined. Then I remembered my purpose; I had to find my new residence.
Shaking my hair out of my face once more, I swallowed a little and trotted back towards the men on the corner “Sorry sir,” I said in my practised breathy tone, making eye contact with the man on the left “I’m looking for number 13, Russel Square” I fluttered my eye lashes a little “Baby Doll” he smiled patronisingly, his left hand indicating a neat monochrome sign that read Russel Square. “It’s just down there on the left, the one with the red door” I blushed a little, I couldn’t recall anyone other than Owen calling me Baby Doll before. “Oh,” the other man started “If you can’t find it, you’re welcome to come to mind, it’s the one with the black door… number 22” he winked a soft wink of his hazel eye. I blushed again. I trotted back off on my journey. I couldn’t believe it, men would do anything for a pretty girl. Was I pretty? I suppose the proof had been in the pudding, Baby Doll.