The Creation of Frankie Carrozza

Frankie Carrozza And The Underground Soirée.

‘We are not going to be attending an educational lecture at the Hever Castle in Kent on Anne Boleyn and then proceeding onwards to a tour around all of the other surrounding haunted castles, are we?’

‘Oh good gracious, oh heavens darling, don’t be terribly ridiculous, you screaming genius.’ Seraphina laughed.

‘Every single time!’ Bethany cried, shamed with herself. ‘That is every single time I fall prey for such foul trickery.’

The four of them; Frankie, Trevor, Seraphina and Bethany, sat in the carriage of a train around a table. The chandeliers hanging above them and the gems of the little lamp by their side twinkled and jingled as the train meandered across the countryside. Smoke wafted out the window from Trevor’s thin black cigar and Seraphina’s cigarette; amongst the smokers adding to the mechanical thrusting puff of the train.

Seraphina looked to the girl beside her as she took a sip of her martini. ‘However you thought I would be able to sit longer than fifteen minutes to listen to some old dusty owl harping on about a woman who wasn’t cleverly womanly enough to kill the man first, is beyond me.’

Bethany looked over the rim of her teacup to the two consulting boys opposite her. ‘And you two were in on this ploy?’

‘Naturally.’ Frankie replied, swirling his brandy in hand and watching the rest of the passengers.

‘Well, where are we actually going for Halloween?’ Bethany sighed.

‘We shall be attending an underground rave. If you’d used that rather prim mind filled to the brim, you would recognise some of the passengers of these particularly lavish carriages are housing some of the older boys and girls of Eton and the Academy in its swelling lungs bound for exuberant fun.’ Seraphina threw her hand across the air in front of her like a swan wandering the riparian. ‘I’m very well aware that secret parties aren’t very vogue right now, but wild bohemian parties of the Soho beatnik era are reviving along with modern times. Trust me, in less than a decade a secret kiki like this will be sizzling with galore.’

‘If it is so very clandestine, how have you heard of such a party brewing?’ Bethany asked. ‘I might have suspected something such as this to take place rather than such an educational festivity.’

‘Well, it’s all very secretly whispered about like gorgeous espionage. Isn’t that marvellous? It is usually illustrated fliers written in code or trendy radio hosts giving coordinates on the night the fabulous ball is to take place. I, however, heard of it through secret body language.’

‘Secret body languages…tell me more.’ Frankie inquired, edging across the table to disengage from discussing the dynamics of Vincent Van Gogh’s passionate madness in his removal of his ear by his own doing with Hamilton and the disturbingly delightful true tale of A Ring a ring O’ Roses based on The Black Plague.

‘Well, I was in Soho the other night. I had a shoot reimagining a spread inspired by Twiggy and I met up with my old chum Delilah after her night with a member of a rather infamous band living on Denmark Street. We went to The Marquee for some drinks and music. Whilst there, this rather quirky gentleman who was the absolute image of Buddy Holly had sauntered towards us with a delightful, delicate swagger.’ Seraphina continued, waving her glass in mid-air to a waitress. ‘Though one should know that in Soho everyone acts as if they have beautifully known strangers for an absolute lifetime. Rather than speak, he squeezed his nose gently with one hand and placed the other over each of our mouths in turn.’

‘What an odd thing to do.’ Bethany Holiday pondered as her Caesar salad arrived.

‘That’s exactly what I thought but before I could have flayed the little chic geek alive, Delilah had squealed with sudden delight. She immediately had begun to inquire where and when it was; whatever it was.’ Seraphina responded as her third martini was placed before her. ‘I was instantly enthralled with fabulous fascination. It wasn’t before long that it was exposed as a secret underground party initiation and invitation. I cued into the radio station frequency written on the flyer for an Anne Boleyn museum on Halloween night by the date and time given on it for the exhibition. Following the numerical prices for tickets and merchandise as the radio frequency, time and date to listen to the radio host; entirely poppycock to anyone who would happen to find and pick the flyer up without the knowhow in a quirky café by the name of Top Cat which is where I snatched it.’