Margot Jane's London Foxes

A red envelope fluttered to the floor.

Margot Jane didn't stir. Pitted in Hampstead Heath, her mid-forties seemed bleak. Each morning she languidly hid a white strand of hair behind her ear with the pearl comb Oliver gave her.

The only company she had now were elderly women she nursed. She called them her London Foxes. Cunning, playful, elegant.

Her eyes shined as she opened the letter.

"Margot,"

The letter's voice was chauvinistic, unconcerned.

"You're a giving wife, mother..."

It read on with insincere compliments.

"But I love another. She's younger and meets my needs."

Margot's heart ached. Oliver had abandoned her.

"Comes with age," sighed Alice, one of the resident elderly women. "We lose our soulmates, then our souls. Younger men ignore our wrinkled faces--though we've got the legs to fool 'em."

Margot's eyes widened. A row of antique white fox masks stared down at her. She persuaded Oliver to buy them, fascinated by their myth to make women younger for however long they wore them. Now, they were ready to be used.

That night, Margot wore the mask to bed. By morning, she looked radiant.

A week later, there was a knock at the door.

"I need a girl! The best London Fox you've got!" A young man named Will shouted. This was now a frequent occurrence. "The prime minister's expecting me and my wife for dinner. I'm not married!"

Margot studied Will and turned away, leaving the door ajar.

Awaiting them in the lavender garden outside was a beautiful woman. She had short, dark hair, milky arms, and wore a white fox mask.

"This is Alice," introduced Margot. "Your escort."

Alice approached. Will handed her the contract and needle but before she could inject the poison in him, he pulled away.

"Is she pretty?" Will pointed to the mask.

"You'll be pleased," Margot muttered indignantly, shoving the needle into his arm. "For dinner and pudding anyway."

"Return me safely before ten?" Alice catechized. Will scoffed.

"You know the deal," Margot put plainly. "If my fox is harmed, you die."

That night Alice escorted Will to dinner. They feasted for hours until she excused herself amidst the cigar smoke and clinking wine glasses.

Will caught Alice outside wearing the mask again.

"Nine-thirty," she said.

"One more hour," Will retorted. "London Foxes give us men the best reputation."

"Because we turn boys into gentlemen," she smiled.

"Excuse me?"

"Selfish and shallow. Women aren't tools. You have a long way to go."

Insulted, Will grabbed Alice forcefully. She pulled away, slapping his face.

Her mask crashed to the ground.

Alice's snowy skin turned into wrinkled velvet. Her red lips now a pink, brittle rose. Her hair unfurled into mousy-silver locks. Brown spots overshadowed faded laugh lines on her corrugated cheeks.

She tossed Will a red envelope. Inside was an empty vial. The antidote.

Will's forearm throbbed.

He looked up panicked, but the London Fox vanished and Margot Jane smiled victoriously in the shadows.