Machia Veil Timeline

10 pm, July 12th – Club 7, Suffox Place, Londoom

Nate was in the Beaufort room, the loud music echoing around him as he ordered another drink from the server. He sat between Madama Rossi and the Gueye sisters. Madama Rossi was a dazzling Italian heiress in her 70s. Her eyes glinting with authority and her commanding presence taking up the room. She wore a red stiff upright Elizabethan collar. The Gueye sisters were from Zambia and had a distinct penchant for overblown ball gown trains made of their native fabrics. Nate was in awe of Club 7 members’ opulent clothing. At least those with sophisticated and genuine singularity like the Gueye Sisters. Others paraded themselves in overblown expressions of pretence. Club 7 was about being admired. All eyes fell on the most fashion worthy, with reverence filling the air. Many members stopped in their tracks. Among the latest fashion, fluorescent make-up shone under the vintage neon lights of the Dance Room. Regular members wore bouffant wigs that were adorned with detailed roses, and some had fake birds perched atop them. Others wore dramatic hairdos and makeup that reflected their mood that day. Some opted for fancy elaborate and artistic masks, and others, mediaeval chain mail covering them from head to toe.

They had a rampant tendency towards excess. A runaway exaggeration of everything they did. It was absurd and yet endearing. No one ever questioned it. Scenes would be disturbing, and yet they were oblivious. Excess was their nature. A woman discovered she liked a fabric, and if she was wealthy, the flamboyant dress would billow in yards and yards of that twisted fabric. They were childlike. They pursued pleasure as if pleasure was all the world would afford them. As though nothing else was of value. This relentless pursuit meant that the mere absence of pleasure triggered a social uproar, leaving people in a state of panic and outrage.

***

Nate was keen to speak to everyone. Hoping that person, at that moment, was his key back to his mother.

“Have you ever visited Bellatorn?” he often asked.

“What is Belton?” they replied. He wished his family was not so close-knit.

“Bartholomew, tell us your stories of Milane,” Madama Rossi interrupted. “We are fascinated, my love,” she asked a world-renowned fashionista.

“Haute Concern, Haute Concern!” said Bartholomew.

“What?“ asked Madama.

“It began well, with original fashion, but soon descended into simplicity.”

“Simplicity!” They all gasped.

“Simplicity. Yes. Feltdease is a great brand for channelling oversize styles, but for some ridiculous reason, they experimented with undersize clothing and dull colours!” said Bartholomew going on a long story about models and troubles on the fashion floor.

Nate tried to follow along, but his mind was elsewhere; consumed with finding his mother. “Have you ever seen Kinshots there?” he asked.

Bartholomew hesitated, a startled expression on his face. “The Kinshots?”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“Yes?”

The atmosphere grew strained.

Someone always changed the subject, but despite their best efforts to dissuade him, Nate was determined to return to Bellatorn.

“Yes, of course!” said Ellis.

Bartholomew nodded. “Yes. Of course, my dear. The Kinshots, Ava in particular, call us over to Bellatorn at least once a month!”

Nate’s eyes brightened. He inhaled, bracing himself for questions. Bartholomew lifted his palms into the air when a couple of guests began a vicious fight.

The room fell into chaos as they crashed the drinks. They intimidated each other by overturning tables on their path. Members screamed and pushed to avoid being trampled.

Ellis grabbed Nate’s hand. “This way!”

Nate ran with Ellis but kept looking back. She led him up one of the spiral staircases to the second floor.

They overheard the staff shouting orders below to contain the fight.

“They’re containing the fight. We’ll be okay in the attic,” said Ellis.

“Where did Bartholomew go? I want to speak to him in the restaurant,” said Nate.

“Best we cut the evening short, Nate,” she said.

They stepped into Castar’s private lifts and headed up to the attic.

The lift doors opened; Nate’s shoulders drooped.

Kit Mannon and Castar were on the balcony.

Clarice came out of the office.

“What happened?” she asked.

“A fight,” Ellis said with despair in her voice.

As Nate made his way to his room, he overheard Kit and Castar’s deep voices in conversation. They always huddled together, whispering and scheming. As Nate headed to his room, they lit up in smiles, then went elsewhere.

Something is off.

Whenever he was getting closer to his mother, the contacts he made vanished, and they took him on detours from closed-off areas. The same sequence of events kept happening.

***

Ten am, July 13th, The Attic, Club 7, Suffox Place

When Nate awoke the next morning, he headed downstairs. The contrast between the bustling, noisy nights, and the tranquil silence of the club during the day always struck him. He was relieved to find the Beaufort Room in fair shape despite the fight. The maintenance crew was busy fixing the damage.

He sought Clarice, who was at the Mirror restaurant with Castar.

“Hello my dear,” she said.

“May we speak?” asked Nate.

“Sure,” she said, leading Nate to the corner of the restaurant.

“I’m searching for a particular guest. His name is Bartholomew,” said Nate.

“Sure! Let me check,” she said, getting up and bringing her laptop over.

“We have about fifty Bartholomews. Did you get his last name?” asked Clarice.

“Er, no, but I know he travelled to Milane, to the fashion week there,” said Nate.

“My dear, almost everyone loves Milane. Find me his surname and we will contact him.”

“Okay. I’ll find him tonight,” he said.

Later that evening, he scanned the guests for Bartholomew, but he was nowhere to be seen. Ellis led Nate to the Dance Room. They restricted the Beaufort Room due to wet paint. The music was loud, making it hard to speak to anyone.

Ellis approached a woman on the dance floor. Nate was with her, and he followed in awe as the enticing woman glided around the room. Her olive martini swayed with every movement.

“This is Tipper Wilderman. She will look after you,” she said to Nate.

Tipper raised her eyebrows at Nate. “Enchante,” she said in a provocative tone.

Nate’s eyes crinkled in a smile. His magnetic personality always drew women in.

They brought him up surrounded by staff around his parents. The Kinslow clan were close and the many cousins, and relationships, meant Nate was used to company, and with company came girls. There was nothing better than being welcomed into Nate and Miles’ inner circle. They enjoyed the Orangerie pool, the gold and aquamarine tiles a testament to the luxuries of the Bellaton Estate. Many a pool evening resulted in sex with multiple girls.

Tipper magnetised him. He moved with the music. Moments later, however, he recalled Kenya and how keen he was to be freed of Club 7, find his mother, and return home.

“I have to go,” said Nate.

Tipper held his arm.

“One dance!” she insisted.

“I can’t. I am tired,” he said, heading to the lifts. On the way, he found Ellis. She was biting her nails and glaring at Nate. “Are you okay?” he asked.

But she vanished into the crowd. Was she angry? Ellis was a mystery to Nate. He shrugged and headed back to the attic.