Chagrin Confessions

Chapter One: Madame Cleo

Three weeks ago.
12 March 2018

"Cassie, have you chosen the five letters you're going to publish in the column yet?"

Looking up from my desk, I push my black hipster glasses further up my small elven nose, and nod my head in response. Julie, the editor-in-chief of Venus magazine, always passes by at the same time every month for her usual round of check up. We've got a week left to submit our columns to Julie, which she goes through, then she'd either accept or reject them. Ultimately, after she's done, the new monthly Venus magazine gets released.

"I picked out five random dates a few days ago, but I've only typed up the reply to one of them. Dont worry though, I'll have the column ready and sent to your office by tomorrow afternoon." Granted there's a few days left to the deadline, but I'd rather finish it up and be rid of any extra pressure.

She lifts her Botox-injected lips up slightly, I can barely call it a smile, which is a rare occasion of it's own. She's a power woman through and through. Her auburn hair is always perfected into a tight bun, and her facial expression is in a constant resting bitch-face, or it could be the constant plastic surgeries constricting her facial movements. I don't know anymore.

"Perfect. Make sure at least three of them are juicy. Then again, I'm sure you don't need the reminder. Anyways, I'm off to circle around the rest, make sure you check your mail for the details regarding the gala event this Friday. I expect to see you there. No excuses." She presses on the last two words with an icy glare.

What? No. No no no no. I can't go to another one of those events, once a year is more than enough. I hate meeting pompous stakeholders with their noses held high up in the air, and having to fake a smile here and a laugh there. My mind draws a blank coming up with an excuse. I can't really tell her that I'd rather let Edward Swissorhands give me a massage than go to the gala dinner.

Then again, Johnny Depp.

I cut my train of thoughts before Johnny gets the better of me, and my honey-coloured eyes are met with her questioning blue ones. Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?

"Julie, I have something else --" I can barely finish the sentence before she interrupts.

"I said no excuses. Rearrange your schedule. It's the annual gala and you're nominated for the best columnist award. You'll get your invite by the end of the day. Ta ta for now, dear." She leaves my office, sucking out my soul with her. 

Well, shit. Now there is no way I'm going. I refuse to be acknowledged as Madame Cleo. It's my alter-ego. My alias. My sinful identity. I need to catch a cold before Friday. Or maybe a temporary and contagious disease. Surely she wouldn't let me go then. Right?

Groaning, I lay down the remaining four letters in the cleared desk space in front of me. In order to be unbiased when picking out letters for the column, I designed a system which picks out letters at random dates. That way I don't get to choose letters I find easy to answer and slack off. Madame Cleo, my alias,  usually gets about two hundred letters a month and hundreds of emails weekly. I would like to say that I reply to them all, but yeah, I don't. I usually spend my time in the office replying to the emails, while my time at home is spent replying to the letters. Call it paranoia, but I'd rather not use my home IP address for work. Just one of the perks of being raised by Major General Henderson.

I pick out the first of the four randomly, then lay it down next to the notepad I scribble my replies on, and take out my pen from behind my ear.
Here we go.

19th of Feb 2018
Dear Madame Cleo,
I've been in a two year relationship with my boyfriend, whom I love deeply, but I fear that our sexual compatibility is a huge problem. I have a really high sex drive while my boyfriend only prefers to have sex once a month. I keep trying out all sorts of methods to excite him, from stripping and lap dancing, to trying out different role plays and costumes. They all fail! I don't know if I can truly be happy without getting my needs filled. What do I do? I really don't want to leave him.
- High and dry.