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Rafaella Giovanni
Jan 12th, 2010, 05:51:31 PM
LONDON, 2010


It was the night of the premiere. A clear wintry night which draped itself in ribbons of silken sapphire and velvet black over a vast metropolis bustling with life and light. In the pale glow of the full moon a maze of frozen streets glistened silver while a horizon of snow-capped rooftops shone immaculately against the gloom. And between the ranks of straight roads and tall walls, the River Thames weaved, carrying on its turbulant surface reflections of streetlamps, cars, and towerblocks. One prominent building dominated the waterfront that night, and from above, helicopter film crews watched how the masses clamoured around it like insects and how sweeping spotlights struck out from its heart and pierced the star-dusted sky.

Cameras flashed, and Somerset House glimmered like a great jewel alive with the buzz of excitement. A procession of long black cars filtered along the Strand where crowds gathered behind metal barriers, each passed through a pair of wrought iron gates which opened onto the vast courtyard beyond. Here, braziers burned around the perimeter and set leaping water fountains ablaze with their azure flames. From towering pillars hung banners adorned with ornate golden Vs and on the steps beneath them performed a lavish host of mime artists. Leading up to the staircase was a long red carpet flanked by television crews and as the first car of the motorcade rolled to a stop, Sharon Doherty, a brunette journalist in a snappy grey suit, turned to the camerma and commenced her report:

"Famous faces, expensive cars, extravagant dresses, and an army of photographers here in the heart of London. This is the sort of scene we have come to associate with the arrival of royalty but tonight, at the charity gala in Somerset House, we're not expecting a prince or princess. Beyond these walls, the gathered crowd has braved ice and snow to catch a fleeting glimpse of another kind of royalty. Tonight, the elusive queen of haute coture herself, Signora Rafaella Giovanni, is to make her public debut as the new head of global fashion giant, Visage.

The twenty-six year old is the youngest member of the Giovanni family to take on the role since the label was founded by her grandmother, Rafaella Donni Giovanni, in 1920. And in addition to having the same name, the Italian fashionista also shares a startling resemblence with her late grandmother. And when this is coupled with the company's notorious penchant for secrecy, a family history of mafia scandal, and a strictly limited number of public appearances, Rafaella Giovanni has already achieved a status of pop culture legend.

Tonight's gala marks the beginning of this year's eagerly anticipated Visage Fashion Show which will run for the next three days. Then following hot on its heels next week, rival label Bolero launches its own show at the very same venue. Comparisons are inevitable and in a time when fashion icons are treated like rock stars, Signora Giovanni is expected to put on a spectacular show, especially after being on the recieving end of a barrage of fierce criticism from none other than-"

Suddenly, a roar sounded into the night and carried like a tidal wave throughout the crowd outside. Men, women, and children all surged forward against the barriers, many wore theatrical masks - a trademark of the Visage brand - and Italian flags were everywhere. Wild shadows scattered against the monolithic walls and took on the shape of great beasts. Three white horses crowned with black-feathered plumes carried soldiers in ceremony dress down the road. In their wake rolled an enormous version of a classic Bentley Continental S3, it stretched six feet longer than a normal model and stood two feet taller, and with its polished black body and gleaming silver trims, it was an impressive sight to behold. The atmosphere reached fever pitch as the surreal vehicle passed by and turned into the courtyard. A second trio of mounted troops followed it to the red carpet where it came to a stop. There was a collective intake of breath, the swarming press closed in, and as the enormous door swung open, Sharon Doherty gasped.
<P><IMG SRC="http://www.andrew-milligan.myby.co.uk/wod/premier.jpg" BORDER="0" ALIGN="RIGHT">She was like a portrait; stood framed by the car door, so still and serene, and yet her eyes were on all of us, filled with pity as we swarmed like hapless moths drawn to a naked flame. She was so beautfiul. So glamorous. The black lace of her dress barely moved as she descended the few steps to the carpet, like some unearthly creature walking on air. My mother always told me there was magic in the world but I didn't believe it until now. All around me people pushed, stabbing microphones and aiming cameras, making ham-handed remarks about fashion and art. But they didn't understand: she was art. I saw her for who she was and she... she saw me!

From behind a mask of ornate gold, the emerald green of her eye pierced me like a spear and I was transfixed. But it was not awe which left me paralysed, but horror. She was like a portrait; decadent, empty, drained of colour and life. It was such a terrible beauty which left us enraptured, braying like pigs, and at leagues she held us with looks of horrific alien vacancy. And between us stood nothing but an endless sucking maw into which she tempted men to their end. God, it was cold! A chill wind swept into the courtyard, snuffing the brazier light, and from their dying embers thick smoke coiled like serpents on the air. And as shadow pressed in upon me, I saw shapes in the dark, gnarled broken shapes which unfurled from corners where the black was blackest. Did no-one else see this? Did anyone care? Did they think they could hide behind their machines or that the torrents of crashing camera light would hold the monsters at bay? My heart raced as she walked by, blooded-red lips curled in a treacherous grin, her presence weighed down upon me and closed around my neck like a vice. How they cheered! She sauntered away and from above came a sudden rush of wind. I looked up and terror ensnared my soul! Great ebon beasts circled against the night sky, beating wings of shadow, trailing tails of smoke. My scream rent the spell asunder, and I tore through the shocked crowd, racing from the courtyard.

The streets of London offered no safe refuge from the closing dark, and breathless, I cast my frantic gaze into every corner and scanned every rooftop until I reached the car. Cold-numbed fingers fumbled with the keys, and I sobbed every second I was out in the open, vulnerable and exposed. The door swung open at last, and I collapsed into the driver's seat, pulling it to with a dull thunk. Leaving nothing to chance, I pressed the lock and sighed with hysterical relief at the resounding click which followed. Then I waited, exhaling pale mist until my trembling hands were steady enough to uncap the bottle of pills in my jacket. I took a couple without water, scratching my throat like chalk, and was left with two for later. Maybe I was going crazy. That must be it. Insanity was a valid enough reason on a letter of resignation, I thought.

The engine rumbled to life with a twist of the ignition. I groaned at the sight of the windshield, coated in frost, and the pitiful scrape of the window wipers making no difference whatsoever. Perhaps the rear window wasn't so bad, not that I could drive home backwards anyway, I checked in the rear-view mirror. There was a man in the back seat.

The cry was caught in my throat by an icy hand. And in my last fleeting moment of cognition, I noticed that he hadn't moved. It was the woman in the passenger seat beside me. She twisted my head violently, the woollen scarf falling away from my neck, and in the glass I saw my reflection, and hers. Despair wrapped itself around my heart as she sank her teeth into my flesh, and wrestled with a sudden surge of euphoria. The warmth filled me at first then began to slip away. Blinking frozen tears from my lashes, I thought of my mother, she was wrong: there was no magic in the world, only monsters.</P>