It is two weeks before Christmas.

“She’s late again!”

“She’s always late. We used to tease her: ‘Zazie, darling, you’ll be late for your own funeral!”

All is white. A radiant, heavenly white. Six elegantly-dressed women are languidly seated or stretched over six chaise lounges chairs, all upholstered in heavily-brocaded cream silk, decorated with fine gold threads. Perched on the topmost arms of several of the chairs are small clusters of winged cherubs, some of whom are feeding grapes to the women. Others play together like kittens.

The floor is formed of dazzlingly-bright white marble slabs side-lit by shafts of golden sunshine. In the centre is a carved marble fountain bubbling with sparkling wine. High above (in place of a fixed ceiling), white silk drapes are suspended from golden chains which seem to extend up into the clouds. Strains of the Lacrimosa from Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ waft through the space.

A pair of long gilded doors are swung open revealing, beyond, a slow-moving gold escalator rising from a lower level. Instead of black rubber, its handrails are covered with white ermine. No-one is riding on the moving staircase. A sign above the doorway – guarded by two bewigged flunkies - simply states: HALL OF THE SCREEN GODDESSES.

Mary Lynne gets up and saunters across to the fountain, holding her crystal goblet under its stream to be re-filled with champagne. She gives an irritable glance towards the empty escalator. “You’d think at her age – ninety-nine and she’s had nine Goddam husbands – she’d know when it was time to bring down the curtain.”

“Don’t you believe it, sweetheart,” growls Monika Dientroch. “Stay on the stage for as long as you can.”

Half-choking on her champagne, Jill Millar splutters: “Well, you should know!”

“Now then, ladies, less bitching and more decorum if you please,” admonishes Anita Grosvenor, as a cherub, seated on her shoulder, slides another grape between her ruby red lips. She sensuously strokes the little cherub’s thigh. “Thank you, baby”, she whispers. Smiling, the little angel flutters down to sit in her lap. He lifts his legs and opens them provocatively to expose his genitals to her. She smiles and slowly strokes his tiny penis. “Don’t you just love their little winkles?” the actress asks the other stars.

“Far too small by the standards I was used to in Tinsel Town,” opines Mary Lynne in a slightly slurred voice. Miss Grosvenor deftly peels back the cherub’s foreskin. “I do so like a long hood. How about you, Jill?”

The 1940s wartime chanteuse shrugs. “Never bothered me to tell you the truth. Cut, un-cut. So long as they could go the distance. Carl Gombrich was one of the best.”

Loretta Ball sniffs derisorily. “Gombrich the Groper – the Harvey Weinstein of the 1950s.”

“At least he used the casting couch in his office!”

“I always used to say girth is more important than length,” offers sultry Delia del Rio with a wicked grin, adjusting her décolletage to reveal slightly more of her legendary bosoms. “Howard was extremely well hung in that department, I recall”

“And rich with it,” adds Mary Lynne.

“Rich as Croesus and mean as Scrooge.”

The Screen Goddesses seem collectively shocked by this revelation.

“Hey, get real gals! A recluse who’s so fuckin’ mean that he saves money buying slippers by walking around the apartment in empty Kleenex boxes!”

“You shoulda seen Frank’s,” says Miss Grosvenor wistfully. “First time he took it out I just didn’t believe it. We were filming on location in Africa at the time.”

“Big?” the wide-eyed actresses ask in unison. Anita closes her eyes, rapturously recalling the moment. “Big ain’t the word for it, ladies. It was simply huge!”

All eyes are directed towards demure Judy Gale, who until now has remained silent. She blushes, knees touching as she gazes down at her signature red patent leather shoes before speaking. “Vincent’s was nice and big around the middle, I seem to remember. Only trouble was, I was sharing him with our chauffeur!”

Anita Grosvenor pets her cherub as he lies adoringly in her lap. She hands him her goblet and he flutters naked through the air to the wine fountain, before returning to his mistress. The cherub hovers in front of her face and they kiss.

“Only two weeks to Christmas,” says Mary Lynne cheerily.”

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” snarls the German cabaret artist.

“What does it mean?” asks little Judy. “I wasn’t here last year.”

“It means, sweetie,” Anita chips in, “that we all have to file into that gilded Basilica over the way for Midnight Mass, attended by all the deceased popes.”

“What all of them?”

“Every fuckin’ one, back to the year dot. Last year there were more than 250 and most of ‘em - apart from the faggots - couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. We were the only women in the congregation. Jeez was I sore afterwards!”

“Why don’t they admit other women into the service?” Miss Gale asks innocently.

“For the simple reason, angel, that there’s never been a woman pope. Queen Elizabeth I, as head of the English church, was the nearest thing to a woman pope the authorities could come up with, after Marie Antoinette refused to show up because they wouldn’t conduct the service in French. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be seeing any women popes up here this side of the next millennium. So it looks like we’re just gonna have to put up with a whole lot of pussy-stroking, titty-groping and ass-fingering from the perverts in the pews behind. You guys happy with that?”

“Natürlich,” purrs Monika, lovingly stroking the polished ivory dildo she is nursing in her lap. “I’ve never been averse to anal.”

“As half the German High Command will confirm,” snorts Loretta Ball.

“Still can’t understand what’s keeping Zazie,” murmurs Mary Lynne sulkily, tottering to the champagne fountain for a top-up. If looks could turn anyone into a pillar of salt, Miss Grosvenor’s glare at the pneumatic blonde is text book biblical stuff. “Don’t worry, she’ll be coming up soon,” the Heavenly Shop Steward calmly assures everyone.

Suddenly the celestial escalator makes a grinding noise as it judders to a halt, with thin plumes of papal white smoke escaping from between its gold-plated stair treads. And there, resplendently sheathed in a figure-hugging diamond-encrusted sarong, with a large oval ruby choker and arms extended, is La Gabriella herself.

“What kept you?” hisses Fräulein Dientroch.

“Had to bury another husband. Forget which one. An Austrian count.” She shrugs her insouciance. “How many husbands have I had? You mean apart from my own? Darlings, I lost count years ago.”

Still wearing her famous semi-transparent sequinned ball gown, Mary Lynne staggers uneasily to the champagne fountain for a further top-up.

“Don’t you ever take that thing off?” Jill Millar snaps irritably.

Mary gives a giggle and a wiggle. “Only if they want to fuck me.”