Dessert in the Penthouse

A Georgina Conway Documentary Story As told by Anna Mercer The women on Mercer Street laughed when Georgina asked whether they were afraid of the vampires. It was nearly one in the morning, cold rain glistening on the pavement beneath a row of faulty streetlights, and our tiny documentary crew had been standing on that corner for almost forty minutes, carrying enough expensive equipment to make every sensible person in the neighborhood wonder whether we had become lost. Georgina stood beneath the striped awning of a shuttered pawnshop, dressed in her usual black coat, dark scarf and practical boots, holding her little notebook as if she were interviewing city council members rather than four women waiting for customers beneath red umbrellas. “Afraid?” said the tallest of them, a sharp-eyed woman named Rochelle. “We were afraid when they first arrived.” “And now?” Georgina asked. “Now we wish there were more of them.” The others laughed, and I nearly spoiled the sound by coughing into my fist. I am Anna Mercer, twenty-eight years old, sound engineer, reluctant traveler, obedient wife and, according to everyone who had ever worked with me, the shyest member of the Georgina Conway documentary crew. I stood a few feet away holding the boom microphone, wearing headphones over my long auburn hair and watching the levels rise and fall as Rochelle explained how the vampires had quietly taken possession of several corners throughout the city. “They don’t compete with us,” she said. “One man a night, that’s all they need. They offer him something cheap, take him somewhere private, drink what they want, and leave him sleeping like a baby. He wakes up later with no memory and no reason to complain.” “Has anyone been seriously harmed?” Georgina asked. “Not that I’ve heard.” A petite woman in a silver coat leaned toward the microphone. “The best thing is what happened to the pimps. They’re terrified of these pale ladies. Won’t come near the neighborhood anymore. We keep our own money now, watch out for one another and call the vampires if someone gets rough.” “So they protect you?” “Not officially,” Rochelle said. “But a man who beats one of us might discover a very beautiful woman waiting outside his apartment the next night—pale, elegant, and smiling as though she already knows exactly what he has done.” Even Georgina smiled at that. Our camera operator, Lorna, asked, “And what do the vampires do after they feed?” Every woman beneath the awning suddenly looked amused. “They find dessert,” Rochelle said. Georgina raised one eyebrow. “Dessert?” “A woman,” another explained. “A girlfriend, a lover, somebody they meet in a club or a hotel bar. They feed on men, but they love women.” “Have any of you ever been selected?” “I wish,” Rochelle said, laughing again. “They hunt for dessert in expensive places. Hotel lounges, galleries, private clubs. Women like us don’t get invited upstairs.” Georgina lowered her notebook. “Do you know where any of them go?” The women exchanged glances. Finally, the petite woman in the silver coat sighed. “There’s one called Agrona. Pale blonde, looks about thirty-two, although she’s probably older than this whole city. She keeps a place at the Beaumont Grand downtown. People say she visits the hotel bar after feeding.” “You have seen her?” “Once.” “And?” The woman’s expression became almost dreamy. “She looked at me for perhaps three seconds, and I forgot what I was saying.” We held our staff meeting at an all-night diner where the coffee tasted as though it had been poured through an old shoe. Georgina sat at the center of the booth, surrounded by notebooks, release forms and half-finished slices of pie. “I’ll go to the Beaumont tomorrow night,” she announced. “I’ll sit alone at the bar and see whether Agrona approaches me.” “No,” Lorna said immediately. “That is a catastrophically bad idea,” added Peter, our production assistant. I was surprised to hear my own voice join theirs. “You cannot use yourself as bait for a vampire.” “She isn’t killing people,” Georgina replied calmly. “According to four women we met on a street corner.” “Four independent witnesses whose accounts were remarkably consistent.” “You’re still not going alone,” I said. That settled the argument, although not in the way I intended. The bar prohibited professional recording equipment, and none of us believed a concealed camera would escape the attention of a creature who had survived unnoticed for centuries. Georgina therefore proposed that I sit at a table in the rear of the room as an ordinary hotel guest while she occupied the bar, giving us one reliable witness if an encounter occurred. The following evening, when Georgina stepped out of the bathroom in her hotel room, I stared so openly that she stopped beside the door. “What?” she asked. I had worked with her for two years and had never seen her wearing anything that could not survive a rainstorm, a mountain trail or a police evacuation. Now she wore a deep burgundy satin dress, cut low at the neckline and gathered elegantly across her waist, with a daring slit revealing sheer black stockings beneath a matching floor-length coat. Gold jewelry glimmered against her skin, and for once Georgina looked less like a documentary filmmaker and more like the kind of woman a vampire might cross a room to meet. “You look…” I began. “Unrecognizable?” “Stunning.” She smiled. “Remember that when you submit your next expense report.” I wore a dark green cocktail dress that I had packed for formal interviews, although I could not remember the last time I had worn it without carrying an audio recorder. We entered the Beaumont Grand shortly before midnight and crossed a marble lobby decorated with enormous white orchids, gilded lamps and enough discreet security personnel to make me wonder whether everyone but us knew precisely what lived in the penthouse. I took a table at the back of the bar. Georgina sat alone beneath a row of amber pendant lights, looking composed, beautiful and painfully uncomfortable without her notebook. Within two minutes, a gray-haired businessman moved onto the stool beside her. Within ten, Georgina had rejected his offer of champagne three times. Within twenty, he had placed his hand on the back of her chair and begun leaning too close. I crossed the room. “She said she isn’t interested,” I told him. He looked me up and down. “And you are?” “Her wife.” It was the first useful lie that came into my head. The bartender appeared behind him with the quiet authority of a man who had removed richer and more difficult customers. Together we persuaded the businessman to relocate, although he complained all the way to the lobby. As I returned to my table, I noticed a woman sitting alone at the far end of the bar. She was pale enough to appear almost luminous beneath the warm lights, with long golden-blonde hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder. Her black silk dress was simple, expensive and perfectly fitted, and a glass of red wine rested untouched before her. She looked neither predatory nor hungry. She looked bored. For almost an hour, nothing happened. Then Georgina glanced at her telephone, gestured toward the lobby and mouthed, Call. I nodded. She slipped from the bar and disappeared through the doors. I ordered sparkling water and waited. Less than a minute later, the blonde woman lifted her wine, crossed the room and sat opposite me. “You rescued your friend,” she said. Her voice was low, warm and touched by an accent I could not place. “She would have rescued herself eventually.” “But you did not enjoy watching him trouble her.” “No.” “Are you lovers?” My face became hot. “No. We work together.” “That is a shame.” I had expected fangs, supernatural threats or perhaps a hypnotic command. I had not expected her to make me blush with six words. She extended one elegant hand. “Agrona.” I stared at it before accepting it. Her skin was cool, but not cold. “I almost expected that,” I said. One of her eyebrows lifted. “Did you?” “Anna,” I said. “Anna Mercer.” “A pleasure, Anna.” That was the moment when a competent documentary professional would have invented a harmless explanation, excused herself and warned Georgina. Instead, I told Agrona everything. I told her about Mercer Street, Rochelle, the rumors, our documentary and Georgina’s plan. The faster I spoke, the more horrified I became by what I was saying. “I am so sorry,” I finished. “We had no right to follow you. This is intrusive and unprofessional, and you should forget that I ever—perhaps I should go.” “Anna.” I stopped. “You have apologized four times.” “I have?” “Five, if we include the expression on your face.” She leaned back and studied me, not like a predator measuring prey but like someone who finally had something interesting to consider. “I will not participate in your documentary,” she said. “I have spent too long avoiding inquisitive people with cameras.” “Of course.” “But I am not offended.” “That is very generous.” “You are doing it again.” “What?” “Apologizing without using the word.” She asked about my work. Within minutes, I was telling her things I had barely admitted to myself: that my husband hated the travel, that he considered Georgina reckless and believed my job was an embarrassing stage I should have outgrown, that I loved entering unfamiliar places with headphones over my ears and capturing sounds no one else noticed. Agrona listened without interrupting, without glancing around the room or waiting impatiently for her turn to speak. When I finished, she asked, “When was the last time your husband told you that your work mattered?” I could not answer. “And when did he last ask what you wanted?” “I am happily married,” I said, although my voice made the sentence sound like a question. Agrona’s gaze rested on my face. “Then I am pleased for you.” That should have relieved me. Instead, I felt disappointed. I became acutely aware of her fingers around the stem of her glass, the softness of her voice and the faint floral scent of her perfume. I wanted her attention to remain on me, and the realization frightened me far more than the possibility that she was a vampire. “I have a room here,” I said. Agrona smiled faintly. “Do you?” I swallowed. “Would you come upstairs with me?” Her expression changed from amusement to genuine surprise. “You walked into this hotel searching for a vampire, told that vampire the entire plan and now wish to lead her into a room arranged by your crew. You understand how much that resembles a trap.” “It isn’t.” “Anna.” “Please.” I had never begged anyone for intimacy in my life. At that moment, I would almost have fallen to my knees between the tables to stop her from leaving. Agrona regarded me for a long, unbearable moment. Then she rose. “Very well,” she said. “We will go to my room.” She used a black key card inside the elevator and pressed no button. The doors closed. The car began rising. I asked, “Which floor?” Agrona touched my cheek. “The highest one.” Then she kissed me. I had been kissed before, but never with such complete, unhurried attention, as though the entire city had fallen away and my mouth was the only place she intended to be. By the time the elevator stopped, my hands were gripping the lapels of her coat and I had forgotten every warning Georgina had ever given me. The doors opened directly into a private penthouse. Beyond a vast living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city glowing beneath us, its wet streets transformed into rivers of gold, red and silver. I ran toward the glass like a child entering a palace. “You live here?” “For the moment.” My phone began vibrating inside my handbag. There were six messages from Georgina. Where are you? Anna, answer me. The hotel says you never went upstairs. Please tell me you’re safe. Agrona stood behind me and looked over my shoulder. “They care about you,” she said. “I should respond.” “Yes.” But when I unlocked the screen, she gently took the phone from my hand, placed it on a table and kissed the side of my neck. “Not yet,” she whispered. That frightened me. It also made every thought disappear. What happened afterward belongs to Agrona and me. I will say only that she never rushed me, never compelled me and never took anything I did not offer willingly. She made me feel beautiful, desirable and important in ways that embarrassed me when I remembered how little of that I had accepted as normal in my marriage. The night did not truly end until morning. I awakened in an enormous bed with sunlight spreading across white sheets and Agrona beside me, watching the city. I was exhausted, aching, ridiculously happy and already terrified that she would ask me to leave. “I think I love you,” I said. It was an absurd thing to confess after one night. Agrona merely looked at me. “You are overwhelmed.” “I am.” “You may stay for a while.” I sat up, clutching the sheet around me. “I don’t want to stay for a while.” Her calm expression finally broke, and I saw something uncertain beneath it. “What do you want?” “You.” I spent the day in a silk nightgown Agrona gave me. My phone remained untouched on the table. At first, I deliberately ignored it. Later, I genuinely forgot it existed. That evening, Agrona explained her routine as casually as someone describing office hours. “I leave near midnight,” she said. “I feed, return several hours later and then, when I have no companion, I look for dessert.” “Am I dessert?” She stood behind my chair and gathered my hair away from my neck. “You were.” “Past tense?” “If you remain, you are something else.” “What?” She kissed my shoulder. “Mine, perhaps.” I should have objected to the word. Instead, I turned and kissed her. After our second night together, I knew I could not return to my former life and pretend nothing had happened. I finally switched on my telephone. Georgina had sent thirty-seven messages and called eleven times. Her final message said she was going to the police. My husband had written once. Let me know when you’re coming home. I answered Georgina first. I’m safe. I quit. Then I switched the phone off again. One week has passed. I am writing this at a desk overlooking the city while Agrona rests in the next room. We have visited two museums, attended a private gallery opening and eaten breakfast on a rooftop where the chef greeted her by name. Yesterday, she introduced me to a lawyer who has begun my divorce proceedings. This morning, she brought me a new laptop and told me that if I had once wanted to write, I should write. So I am writing. Georgina continues to send messages, asking me to explain what happened, and I owe her that much. In an hour, I will email her this story. Perhaps she will use it as narration. Perhaps she will decide it is evidence that I have been hypnotized. I have asked myself the same question. Agrona has never forbidden me to leave. She has offered me money, privacy, protection and every opportunity to walk away. She listens when I speak. She touches me as though I am precious. She remembers which paintings I love, how I take my coffee and which side of the bed makes me feel safest. My husband knew me for six years and never learned any of those things. For the first time in my life, I am not merely useful to someone. I am cherished. Agrona has just entered the room. I can see her reflected in the window behind me, pale and beautiful in a black robe, her golden hair still untidy from sleep. She bends over my shoulder to read the final lines. “Will Georgina forgive you?” she asks. “Eventually.” “And your husband?” “I no longer care.” Her lips touch my neck. That still feels a little frightening. Especially when I feel the faint pressure of her teeth. “Have you fed?” I ask. “Yes.” “Then what do you want?” Agrona smiles against my skin. “Dessert.” And this time, I do not need to ask what she means.