'There's a few problems we've got. Not that we don't want you, of course. We really want you. I mean REALLY. But what if someone decides to make scones as their dessert? What if someone tries to EAT you, thinking you're an amuse-bouche?'
'Frankly...' Devlin thinks on this for a while, 'I think they can fucking sit on it.'
'He's perfect.' the producer whispers to the director.
'I'm STARVING.' says Devlin, eyes boggling.
It's another slow afternoon in a slow year in the cafe where Morgan works. A portly gentleman in a flat cap has commandeered three seats in the corner. Morgan is too scared to shoo him away. A girl with the world's highest pitch voice screeches down her mobile and a man with a three-legged dog lingers outside. Soho never loses its magic.
One side of Morgan is slightly higher than the other.
He lost one of his shoes on the way to work today and his boss, Landry, a tall, moustachio'd, 1920's-built man who moonlights as a burlesque dancer, will just not let him out to go and buy new ones.
The shoes he does have on are- of course- a pair of brothel creepers.
Morgan gets a text off Esther, the flatmate he never sees.
'Did you KNOW devlin's on come dine with me next week? E'
He hates the way she signs off her texts E. He hates the fact that she will never, never reply to a text. Perhaps unless she is drunk. She's such a mystery.
'Alright, big leggy. Time to go and get some shoes, methinks.' Landry nods at Morgan's feet.
'Yep. Alright.' murmurs Morgan, hopping out so as not to avoid the general Soho shit (you really never knew where those flyers for G-A-Y bar littering the street might have come from or been, on their journeys). Like most of the bosses Morgan had worked for, Landry was a complete and utter nightmare. He claimed to have been born in Soho but was never sure the exact date, or decade (possibly century). He had partied with Sebastian Horsley, Danny la Rue, Issie Blow and Andrew Logan in his years, had accompanied Jarvis Cocker on his first visit to Bar Italia and claimed to have once worked as a pimp, male prostitute and Thames boat operator at one point in the mid-seventies. And yet. He was now pulling babycinos and iced macchiatos for the mumsnet mafia, efficiently silenced. Another Soho character. Morgan had declined the offer to see his burlesque show, on the basis that he was allergic to corsets. All that nylon.
Morgan eyes up the nearest vintage store. A Hell's Angels-a-like behind the counter scans him, suspiciously. For some reason, Morgan's never been in before, but he's feeling lucky today. Despite the shoe and all.
The dusty racks are filled with discount Comme des Garcons and 90s Burton clubwear, all beige and brown and orange argyle prints, clothes that make you think of TFI Friday all over again.
He places his foot down and looks at a rail filled with crocodile loafers and smart brogues before having one of those shocking moments that makes your blood boil.
WE VIEW HORIZONS KINDLY
'WHAT?!' cries Morgan. Yes, a magazine. WE VIEW HORIZONS KINDLY, the name of his band.
His eyes alight, he forgets the shoes and picks it up, flicking furiously through the pages.
Devlin's taxi arrives at five o clock sharp. He hops his way in and finds himself being taken down unfamiliar roads that don't even look like London. He feels a slight sickness and doesn't talk to the driver, as he suddenly begins to realise just what he's put himself forward for.
'She's called Burgundy,' mumbled the driver.
'Do you work for Channel 4?' asks Devlin. 'Do you have the voting cards?'
'Just get out of the car, sir.' he says before swearing profusely under his breath.
The door opens and Devlin finds himself staring up (for he is a scone, and scones aren't very tall) at a burgundy front door and several gnomes in rude positions. He can hear the voiceover man now. The driver rings the bell for him and the door opens.
'Hi!' screams someone, hugging the driver.
'It's me.' cries Devlin. 'I'M THE GUEST!'
The host is a woman in her sixties with a Su Pollard haircut and angular glasses.
'Hello,' she booms in a west country accent, bending down and offering her hand. 'I'm BUUUUURGUNDY!'
'I'm Devlin.' says Devlin.
'Didn't ya bring a bottle of wine, then?'
'I've got really small arms,' says Devlin, looking back at the taxi. Is it too late to turn back? I could just run into the car...
'Oh don't worry chuckles. I suppose you don't drink much anyway, do you? I'd be pissed just sniffing the bottle if I were your size.'
Devlin thinks about biting her hand but holds off until she carries him to the dinner table. Technically, he is a very big scone for his size.
'This is Miranda, James and Savannah. What was your name again, pet?'
'Devlin.'
'Ooh!' cries James, who instantly appears to be very camp and is wearing a floral shirt to advertise this. 'Like the Devil!'
The producers usher the guests upstairs to look at Burgundy's house.
'Why do you think she's called Burgundy?' asks Miranda, a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties, who looks as if she's just come from an especially glamorous work do.
'Maybe she likes a drink,' says Devlin. 'This bedroom stinks of moth balls.' It seems Burgundy has left handcuffs and a whip on a leopard-print bedspread, ready for them to find. 'God. This is degrading. For all the wrong reasons.'
'How are you feeling?' asks Miranda to the talking scone.
'Alright. I really bloody need the money, actually.'
'Same here. These teeth don't buy themselves.' she leans in further. 'Home bleaching kit.' she whispers, conspiratorially.
'Really? They're um, very white.'
'I KNOW.' she says, winking to him.
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