Krystle Carrington, in soft-focus dream time, slowly lifts her hair from her pillow.
Her eyelids snap open.
Light furls in through the blinds as she descends the white, spiralling staircase in her ivory colored nightgown; one slipper after the other; her towering, great tent of hair not moving, not an inch.
She is alert. Primed, somewhere in her gut, for another ferocious, nocturnal encounter.
Sleepily, Krystle fumbles; switches on the chandelier, glancing quickly about her in the opal landing mirror, trying worriedly to make sense of what is going on, as Blake, finally waking up from a dream about oil, and finding his wife absent, intuitively follows traces of her luminous, phantasmic, skin-oozing scent down the ivoried, cascading staircases towards her.
The perfume she has lovingly applied to her décolletage, before retiring for the evening by her magnificent dresser, that she is trailing, like ropes of plush, silken-cream ribbons, is Oscar, by Oscar De La Renta: fulsome, blurred – a magnificently US blockbuster that she emanates from her skin, soft; womanly and lubricious, as a dream.
Fuzzed. Caressing. Hyper-feminine. Close.
That bottle: that squat, thick stopper……..that suave, and voluptuous, and dense, almost tropically Californian blend of orchid; basil, peachy orange blossom; jasmine, tuberose, and lavender absolute, splayed unselfconsciously, lovingly, over a full, man-dominating, Santa Barbara-goes-oriental base.
Oh, she know exactly how good she smells.
And so she hovers on the landing.
Beatific; unmoved: radiant.
Yet Alexis, standing there, hands on hips, eyes defiant, vilified, manages to outpower her, again – again, yet AGAIN !- in the poisonest; the most sugared, powerful, cloyingest Venus fly trap of a perfume that there ever was: Oleg Cassini.
Krystle’s hand begins to lose its grip on the handrail….