The Initiation

Dolores Clayberg taps quietly on the unassuming front door, hoping that she hasn’t been followed. Seconds later, the door inches open and a voice whispers “Password?”

“Gucci.” It’s a ridiculous password, but some of the others had insisted they needed a link with their everyday selves and so this simple five-letter word has become their entry ticket to a sleazy world where they indulge in their most shameful pleasure away from the judgemental gaze of anyone else who knows them.

Dolores struggles now to remember which one of her fellow secret society members first lured her in. They’re all wealthy socialites whose husbands make more money than their wives can spend and whose afternoons until a short while ago took place at exclusive spas and country clubs, clad in only the most expensive designer clothes. She still pretends to attend these places, of course, making a show of placing her Louis Vuitton Keepall 60 in her trunk every afternoon when she leaves for her secret assignation. It’s not that she thinks any of the neighbors are spying on her – she just gets a kick out of all the cloak and dagger stuff, like changing her tailored blouse and slacks for grungy sweatpants, a ratty t-shirt and a baseball cap as soon as she’s a safe distance away from her neighborhood, then riding the bus to this hideaway in a less than salubrious area of town. Is it wrong, she thinks, that she gets a kick out of dressing in this way? The persona she’s adopted for society business is a million miles away from her usual sophisticated self; but, like the true addict, she finds she can’t get enough of the forbidden delight, and the disguise has become part of the experience.

She’s ushered inside by Rosina de Witt, a woman Dolores knew only through reputation before she joined this select little coterie. Rosina chairs several fundraising committees and her husband has friends in the White House and a property portfolio worth millions. From time to time, snapshots of her looking effortlessly glamorous appear in the celebrity magazines and her chic image there is at odds with the one she presents now in a questionable leopard print dress that wouldn’t look out of place on a hooker.

“Is everyone else here?” Dolores speaks in a low voice – it’s all part of the covert nature of the group.

“Not quite. Jacinta’s bringing a potential initiate with her. We’ll start the ritual as soon as they get here.”

As they wander through into the meeting room, Dolores finds her mind returning to her own initiation ceremony three weeks ago. No, that can’t be right! Is it really only three weeks since she dived into the sordid underbelly that’s become her personal life-support machine? It can’t be... and yet...

For a moment, she’s reliving the thrill of recruitment, finding once more the surreptitious note tucked into her pocket and the agonising few moments when she contemplated tearing it up and pretending it had never happened. She’d been tempted, of course, but she knew the risks. Yes, destroying the invitation would have been the sensible option, but instead she succumbed to the heady lure of decadence; and now she’s in so deep, she’ll never escape.

If anyone discovers what she and the others do in secret, they’ll be outcasts in society: it will be social death. They all know this, and somehow, the risk adds an extra spice to the mix – it’s like smoking without your parents’ knowledge when you’re a teenager or adding vodka to the fruit punch at Prom.

Now, gazing round at the other women in the room, Dolores thinks how their paths might never have crossed were it not for this perversion they all share. At sixty-two, Louisa is the group’s most senior member, the wife of a Supreme Court judge. Her presence here could potentially jeopardise her husband’s career; but like the others, she’s had a taste of a different lifestyle now and she can’t give it up.

Not that any of them were supposed to divulge any details about their personal lives – they’d started off with codenames a couple of weeks before Dolores had joined, but liquor has a way of loosening tongues and it wasn’t long before each of the women had not only given her real name but also added all sorts of information about herself and her husband. The rules now are very simple: inside this house, you can talk about anything you want to; outside this house, none of the members or the activities exist.

Dolores crosses the room and goes to sit by Alina. The two of them send their daughters to the same exclusive academy, but while they chat away happily here, they never acknowledge the other’s presence at school recitals or fundraisers. Alina’s features are small and delicate, her nails carefully manicured – even in her chosen grungy get-up, she’d still look alluring were it not for the orange stains around her mouth and fingertips. Dolores nods at the discolored flesh and grins. “Looks like you started early!”

“I had no idea how addictive they’d be,” Alina admits. “I’ve always been so strait-laced, y’know: no alcohol, no drugs, no carbs, no dairy – and now look at me! I can’t get enough!”

Dolores knows the feeling. She’d have been shocked and disbelieving if someone had told her just a few months ago what she’d be doing now.

“Have you heard about the new recruit?” she asks, wondering if Alina knows any more than she does herself.

Alina nods. “I know Jacinta’s bringing someone,” she says. “Beyond that, I don’t know any other details. It’s best not to know – in case she doesn’t make the cut.”

“Has anyone ever failed before?” Dolores wants to know.

It had been touch and go with herself for a while. In the two elements of the Taste Test, she’d sailed through the first but then been caught off-guard by the second. How was she supposed to know what an illegal substance tasted like if she’d never experienced it before? She’d redeemed herself in the clothing round, though, managing to identify three of the outfits worn by the five other women. Not that she’d be seen dead shopping in Target or ASOS, but she’d seen enough reality shows to recognise the hallmarks of their clothing – and the one from Goodwill had been an inspired guess.

“Not really.” Alina’s hand reaches for the bowl and then she withdraws it guiltily, realising that she must leave some for the others. “We only invite people if we’re pretty sure they’ll fit in.”

“How can you tell?” Had she, Dolores, given off some mystical vibe that told Miranda she would be a like-minded spirit? How the other woman had divined that just from a game of tennis was a mystery, but she had slipped Dolores the note and brought her here – and her life hadn’t been the same since.

Alina considers the question. “I’m not sure... Something about the eyes, I think. Sometimes, you look at someone and you just know...”

The individual conversations come to an abrupt halt as the missing member, Jacinta, enters the room, leading a blindfolded woman dressed in expensive clothes.

“Everyone, this is Yolande. She’s here to join our secret society – if she passes the test.”

Louisa, as the most senior member, steps forward. She addresses the would-be recruit without removing her blindfold.

“Yolande, do you understand who we are and what we do?”

The stranger nods.

“And do you swear to keep the existence of this group a secret, whether or not you pass the initiation test?”

“I do,” Yolande affirms in a clear voice.

“There are three parts to your test,” Louisa continues. “If, and only if, you pass each section, you will become a member of our society and will undertake to meeting with us three times a week. You will not discuss any of our activities with anyone else, even group members, either face to face, over the phone or in texts or emails; you will not post details of what we do on social media; and if you recognise a fellow sister outside this house, you will not acknowledge her.”

Rosina now takes her place. “Your first test is the Taste Test. You will be asked to identify three different drinks and then three foodstuffs. You must name at least half of these correctly to progress to Round 2.”

She pushes a glass into Yolande’s hand and waits for her to identify its contents. Yolande sniffs the glass as if this were a wine tasting and then takes a sip.

“Boxed wine?” Yolande hazards.

“Which one?”

Yolande sips again, swilling the liquid around her mouth as if it were an expensive 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. The rest of the room waits expectantly.

“Franzia Sunset Blush?”

There is a murmur of approval from the other women.

“One down, two to go,” Rosina declares, handing Yolande the second glass.

Unfortunately, Yolande fails to name the Black Cherry Rum Bucket, and although she knows the third drink is vodka, she wrongly guesses Smirnoff instead of Svedka. She’ll have to get at least two out of three on the foodstuffs or she’ll be shown the front door immediately.

Alina rises from the couch and picks up one of the three large bowls that is sitting on the coffee table. “What are you eating?” she asks, popping something into Yolande’s mouth.

Yolande crunches down on the pungent snackfood and decides it must be a Funyun. The others applaud. Alina then sneakily switches from savoury to sweet, but she can’t fool Yolande who knows she’s now chewing a Gummi Bear. She’s stacked up enough points to pass onto Round 2, but Alina tries the third bowl anyway. When Yolande bursts out “Cheetos!”, the rest of the women gaze at her with a newfound respect. No one has ever scored 100% on the food section before.

For Round 2, all the society sisters stand in a row, baseball caps pulled low over their faces, obscuring their features. Anonymity is still key at this stage as Yolande attempts to identify where the various outfits have been purchased.

She does well at this stage too, identifying Target and ASOS like Dolores did, as well as working out that Louisa’s casual clothing is from Walmart. There’s now just one round to go and this one will decide whether or not she becomes a group member: the questions have been carefully selected to weed out anyone who wouldn’t fit in.

Rosina replaces Yolande’s blindfold and the Quick Fire Round begins.

“What are the most essential components of a trashy TV show?”

“What’s the longest running reality show?”

And, finally, “Name the three trashiest reality shows, ranking them from 3 to 1.”

Yolande powers through the first two questions confidently, but then she pauses before giving her answer to the last and most important one.

Dolores and her friends wait anxiously. It doesn’t really matter what Yolande puts at 2 and 3 as long as the number one slot is held by the show that’s the reason for this society.

“Okay...” Yolande speaks slowly now, considering each word as she tries to work out what these other women want her to say. “Um, Number Three is The Bachelor... Number Two... is Tiger King...”

Dolores finds herself holding her breath. So many people would have put that one at Number One.

“And Number One is Love Island – the British one.”

Tears force themselves unbidden into Dolores’ eyes as Rosina removes Yolande’s blindfold and gives her a sisterly hug of welcome.

“We’re so happy you’re now one of Us,” Rosina says, handing Yolande a nylon jumpsuit in neon orange. “This will be your uniform for official meeting days. The rest of us change en route so we don’t attract our neighbors’ suspicion. We feel it’s important to identify with the characters we’re watching, so this is a safe space to be as tacky as you want to be. Oh, and there’s a rota for the cheap snacks and drinks too – I’ll put your name on it now you’re a member.”

And while Yolande changes and Alina gets ready to start the Love Island video, Dolores looks around the room and marvels once more at the secret passion that binds them together. The rest of high society will never get this show – but it’s bonded her and her new sisters for life.