The Sinclairs' Living Room

Veronica is sprawled across the custom-made Italian white leather couch in the luxurious upstairs living room of the Sinclair Mansion. Her hands juggle with a drink, a smouldering cigarette, and the remote control. She is clicking through tv channels when Debbie bursts in.

"Is she gone?" Debbie had taken a distinct dislike to Lilith LaVey the moment she met her, that was eight years ago now when Debbie was ten. Lilith had been a shadowy fixture in the lives of the Sinclairs for years now.

"You can relax. She left with that worm, Marvin Tork." 

"Good. I don't want her here; I just find her a bit strange and unnerving. I wish she didn't always have to come to the house."

"It's not up to you, she's a business partner of your Father's."

"Well, you don't like her either."

"Look, I tolerate the woman. She's not my type but she's an important cog in the wheel."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind, Debbie. Don't ask so many stupid questions." They watch tv in silence together for a while. Debbie chews on her lower lip. She has more to say.

"I don't get it you know, you and Daddy, the way you are," she blurts out.

Veronica sighs dramatically and downs her drink. "Listen baby, love expresses itself in many ways, your Daddy and I do what we want, we believe in freedom, but we absolutely worship each other. That's what makes our marriage strong." She gets up and pours herself another scotch on ice from the bar.

"I find it all... distracting, and a little upsetting from where I stand."

"Is that so, Judgey Judy. I don't recall asking your opinion."

"It's just that you don't seem that happy, I guess that's why you drink all the time."

"No, I drink because I enjoy drinking!"

"You know what I think, I think you'd be happier if you had him all to yourself and didn't have to share him with anyone else."

"Well, you're wrong."

"I think you're afraid he doesn't worship you, like he worships her." Veronica turns beet-red with anger then throws her drink in Debbie's face.

"What the fuck Mom!" Debbie screams. Veronica charges at her and grasps a handful of hair at the side of Debbie's head. She steers her to the full-length painting on the living room wall of a semi-nude Veronica that Damien had commissioned last year.

"You wanna know what worship is! He worships me, he did this – for me!"

Debbie wrenches free from her mother and stands behind the couch. "You're a fucking psycho!"

"And you're a smart-mouthed little bitch!" Veronica grabs a bottle of scotch from the bar and hurls it at Debbie narrowly missing her head.

Damien appears in the doorway. "What's going on? Veronica!"

"Daddy she's out of control!"

"Debbie, just go to your room, I'll handle this."

"But Daddy..."

"Just go!" he yells at her. Debbie races off, tears streaming down her face.

Veronica is writhing on the shagpile carpet wailing and crying. Damien picks her up and carries her to the couch, holding her as she sobs, the mascara streaks down her face making her look like a damaged Pierette.

"She constantly tries me, Damien. Constantly!" Damien makes comforting noises until she eventually settles and nestles into his shoulder. They watch the evening news together. There is a report from the LAPD about one of the missing girls that has been found, Lorraine Jaxon. She was dehydrated and in a critical mental condition and was taken to the Los Angeles Mental Health Centre for further psychiatric evaluation.

Veronica lifts her head. "Oh look, isn't that one of your little experiments."

"It appears so," muses Damien. "Perhaps it's time to get rid of all the loose ends." He looks down at his wife tenderly as she gazes up at him. Veronica's hand travels across his chest and down his body again, but this time he allows it. Damien closes his eyes and lets his head drop back on the sofa as she goes to work.