𝐀𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

Elgin Crescent.

The 1975 (ILIWYS)

Burial - Near Dark

PART ONE.

On principle, I avoided Notting Hill like a disease. It felt like a big fat cliché, and since I never ventured west of Baker Street as a student, it didn't even have the advantage of being slightly familiar, or sparking memories of being young, dumb and drunk like Soho did. I so wished that I was heavily inebriated now. I was about to walk into a party that, based on my new manager's histrionic WhatsApp messages, promised to be quite outrageous, and perhaps the first big Party with a capital P. The house was completely blurred out on street view when I looked it up – a dead cert for a celebrity home – and the fear of getting lost was the only thing that kept me from downing the half bottle of Bordeaux that languished in my fridge before I left.

Elgin Crescent. This was definitely the right street; I counted the odd numbers until I got to the right house, a narrow, minimalist, rather jarring creation squeezed between the area's classic, rococo houses. The top two floors were visible from the road, but everything else was shielded from view by a high wall and electric gate, both painted a flat grey and so solid they could probably withstand a bomb. The only visual disturbance to this minimalism was the little, red LED light that peeped out from on top of an intercom, a brushed steel plaque lying flush against the spotless wall.

Stalling for time, I kicked my heel against the kerb and exhaled heavily into the autumn air, until I could see it in front of my face. I knew I was probably meant to be puffed up with excitement and flattery at my position, but instead I had jangling nerves and a hint of nausea in the pit of my stomach. I tried to see myself through other people's eyes for a moment, imagining an unknown face walking in, complete with (artfully) unbrushed brown hair, wearing a too-big suit and candy-striped silk shirt. It was a get-up that could have passed for Depeche Mode fancy dress.

The handles of the black plastic bag I was carrying cut into my hand; it suddenly seemed quite vulgar. Despite the salubrious address, it felt unnatural to show up at any home without at least a symbolic, boozy offering, but the bottle of middle-shelf gin and flimsy carrier bag appeared pathetic now. The only sign of activity behind the behemoth of a wall was a faintly audible bass rumble.

'Hurry the fuck up, already,' I muttered to myself, and resolutely pressed the buzzer.

After a torturous ten seconds, the intercom crackled to life with a deep, possibly female voice. 'Hello?'

I cleared my throat, but still croaked, and when I spoke it sounded like another question. 'It's Joanna. Dean invited me?'

'Dean... oh, sure. Come on in.'

The gate inched open painfully slowly, revealing a front door and general façade to the lower floors of the house that was entirely out of character with the rest of the street, in that it looked like the house from Ex Machina. A red neon glow filled the hallway, just about visible through the glass above the door. Neon glows were something of a theme, as I would later discover. As I walked up, I half expected to have to knock again, but mercifully it opened just as I reached the porch. Dean's not-quite-sober grin greeted me.

'Jo! Heard your voice on the intercom, Sal came to fetch me. You've been an absolute eternity! I've been boasting about my new signing to anyone who will listen, and it's far more difficult when your face isn't here. What detained you?'

'Bloody Central line. It's a hellhole tonight.' I kicked a few coats aside in the hallway and eyed up the copious number of furs.

'Well, when isn't it? You haven't missed much' – he paused to take a drag from a joint. 'Only I didn't want you to not get the opportunity to see the place, I know you have something of a penchant for this stuff, after we scouted all that modernist stuff for the video. Drove me nuts, but I do admit, it grows on you...'