The Lavender Room

The Secret of Dourcas Conrad

Soho was a land of infidelity and debauchery but this was well known. There was a bar in the inner circle of the quarter, The Crimson Crown it was called, where such infidelity and debauchery were simple pastimes of the patrons. Innocence was left outside the door. The proprietor of this infamous establishment was one Dourcas Conrad. If it wasn't his drinks or gigolos that got you then it was certainly his "fun time cures" that would, especially since the man had no idea where the drugs actually came form nor did he care since it got bodies through the doors. Mr Conrad was known to be a tricky fellow, his taste in men was as complicated as his taste in everything in life. 
The Crimson Crown was divided into three sections, the bar being the main area, fitted with dancing poles for the strippers and a dance floor for those inebriated enough to partake in a cha-cha. The Backrooms was where you could pay for a private dance, dancers discretion provided. It was a perfect place for some one on one action, for the right price of course and some of the dancers cost more than others. The most prestigious who was reserved for the VIPs was a finely decorated damsel named Cheetah, actual name was Camile Dubois. The Jewel of the Crimson Crown, never was there a more beautiful woman with eyes like sapphires and a smile that could send you to the heavens or the very depths of hell. 
The last section to the Crown was the Lavender Room. The Lavender Room was named in honour of Mr Conrad's wife, Rosamund. The two had married as a matter of convenience. Their marriage had been arranged by their families for political and economical reasons. Both Dourcas and Rosamund did not care for details. Their marriage wasn't just a marriage of convenience but was also what was referred to as a lavender marriage, hence the name of the room. The Lavender Room was accessible only to Mr and Mrs Conrad, unless one was invited in but that was a rare occurrence indeed. A rarer occurrence was to actually see Mrs Conrad in the heart of the Crimson Crown.

She wasn't dead, at least physically. Mrs Rosamund Conrad was a woman trapped inside her own mind. Dourcas was a reserved man in comparison to Rosamund. She had been a hard woman to tame, hence why she was now often higher than the very clouds resting in the sky far above the Crimson Crown. The only way to keep this woman on her leash, as far as Dourcas was concerned was to allow her to have certain indulgences given into. 
On this particular night, it was a Thursday, partly cloudy with a slight chance of rain, Mr Conrad began his hourly pursuit around the club, checking in with his patrons was a ritualistic behaviour of his. It was his mission to serve and these fine people with sinning on their mind were his meaning in life. 
"Evening, Mr Conrad." The bartender, Declan was his name, nodded his head towards the owner, a wine glass in his hand as he emptied the glass washer. 
"Busy tonight?" 
"Same as usual." Declan replied. 
Mr Conrad continued his way around, throwing notes to his dancers as they entertained the Londoners, and the tourists who stumbled down the stairs not knowing they were in for a memorable night. 
Walking passed the main stage, Me Conrad waved a hand towards Cheetah, she was in a skimpy little outfit made of diamonds and black faux fur, dancing proactively to Lesley Gore's You Don't Own Me, Mr Conrad knew that this was one of his wife's favourite songs, she had danced to it many times in their youth during the early days of the marriage, back when she was sober. He missed those days more than he would ever admit aloud. There were about 11 other dancers of various gender and race. He took a lot of pride in having a choice of flavour in his den of inequity, you want something in particular well chances are that Mr Dourcas Conrad, owner of The Crimson Crown, will have it. 
"Good to see you, sir." One of the male dancers, Jean Paul winked at him as he took a moment to take in the music. Mr Conrad sighed, rolling his eyes at the sheer confidence the young Frenchman inhibited. Mr Conrad liked the younger ones, made him feel alive. The longer the dancers stayed at the Crown, the longer Mr Conrad had enjoyed them for. It was obvious when he didn't enjoy the dancers because they never lasted longer than a month. Strange considering it was Mr Conrad who picked all of the dancers through a rigorous screening process. 

Ignoring Jean-Paul, Mr Conrad finished his round around the club's floor and headed upstairs to the Lavender Room. 
The muffled sound of music playing grew louder the closer he walked to the room. He pressed his finger against the biometric scanner and the door slid open to reveal the Lavender Room in all its splendiferous glamour. In the center of the room was a large bed in the shape of a flower with silk lilac sheets with a large fluffy lighstade dangling above it which resembled a cloud. The checkerboard floor tiles were neatly polished, the walls were covered in a simple purple wallpaper, decorated with hydrangeas. 
"I'm presuming you like the gifts I left you then?" He asked, approaching the bed where his naked wife lay strewn betwixt a satin sheet. 
The gifts in question where a selection of women laid across the floor and a couple on the bed, either side of Mrs Conrad. There was a faint smell of weed polluting the air, the source was the ashtray on the beside table. 
"I would have liked them more if they asked me." 
Mr Conrad sat himself at the edge of the bed, he looked up and shouted for the women to leave who, despite being sprawled on the ground a second ago, leapt up and scattered away even in their half naked forms. Silence enveloped the Lavender Room for a moment before Mr Conrad,pulling his tie off, looked over his shoulder and gazed upon his wife's body. His appetite may have been for other flesh but even he could not deny that his wife was a beautiful woman with her delicate features, crystallic eyes and supple dark skin. Rosamund Conrad was a piece of art and like all art he enjoyed, he preferred to keep her frozen in time,.and in place. In her present state, that had been in place for years now, she had remained in the Lavender Room, unable to leave. 
"You bring me these women and while they are indeed figments of heaven," Rosamund turned onto her back, staring up at the ceiling with dilated eyes, "none of them fit my taste." 
"Moaning? Really?" Dourcas rolled his eyes, "Typical. So rude, woman." 
"Talk to your mother with that mouth?" 
"My mother's been dead for 10 years, Rosie." 
Rosamund gagged, "You know I hate it when you call me that, Dirk." 
"And you know I hate it when you call me Dirk." 
"Understood, Dirk." 
"Why thank you, Rosie." 
Dourcas, in his naivety, had believed that his feelings for the same sex were something to simply be grown out of only to discover upon marrying a woman that most men would kill to call theirs, and finding out that even she could not fill that gap, quench that insatiable thirst, then that was when he knew that he could not simply grow out of his feelings because that was who he was. Similarly, Rosamund diet consisted of women and nothing more, if only men would listen to her. 
"Time for your medicine, Rosie." He said quietly, pulling out the syringe from his pocket. 
"No, I don't want it anymore. I'm going clean. I don't need it." 
"Sorry, what was that? Didn't hear you over the sound of your stupidity."
Rosamund rolled her eyes then rolled onto her side and stared at the opposing wall. She knew there was no use in fighting it, she would only end up regretting it. Her body would cry out for it and she would have to give in otherwise she would lose her head as well as her life. She didn't move when he came closer, hell she didn't even feel the needle in. All she felt was the haze clouding her eyes and falling into a heavy sleep. Perhaps one day, not any day soon sadly, she would see the outside of the Lavender Room.