by Riley Banks
He allowed himself an uneasy breath. ‘That’s not her.’
Mitzi shrugged. ‘You asked.’
A light flicked on in her dull eyes. ‘Hey, coupla fellas from DoCS came by, not too long ago. They were asking after a girl. Maybe you guys got your lines crossed. Maybe you’re looking for the same girl.’
Alarm bells rang.
‘And which girl were they looking for?’
Her eyes dropped expectantly to his wallet.
He peeled off another two bills.
‘Vikki Baker.’
His voice became urgent, almost pleading. ‘What did you tell them?’
Again, she looked at his wallet, and again, he peeled off a couple of shiny new notes.
‘Told ‘em she lived here. Husband had a thing for that one too, though she liked to play hard to get.’
Another muscle twitch. ‘Where is Victoria now?’
The words were delivered in staccato fashion, given up with great difficulty. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he forced himself to swallow.
‘How the hell should I know? Took off one day after I found Craig coming out of her bedroom. Bad apple that one.’
It was all he could do not to reach out and strangle her with his bare hands.
‘Where is she now?’
‘I dunno. Moved in with that friend of hers.’
‘What friend?’
More notes exchanged hands.
‘Jo something or other.’
‘You know where this friend lives?’
She gave one up for free. ‘Hey, like I told those other fellas, I know where she used to live. How would I know if she’s still there or not? Not my concern now, is it?’
‘Address?’
She disappeared back through the door, returning a minute later with an address scrawled on the back of an old envelope.
‘There. That’s all I know.’
‘One last question.’ He handed her a fifty this time. ‘When did these other men come around?’
Mitzi took the wad of cash and stuffed it inside her bra.
‘Ten days ago.’
Charlotte stared at the clothes on the bed, still uncomfortable with the idea of somebody else choosing what she was going to wear.
But what choice did she have?
The press brief described the cocktail party as a black tie event.
Highgrove had given her just five minutes to pack before the car arrived to take her to the airport.
Enough time to throw a handful of clean clothes into a battered old suitcase and a couple of pairs of shoes.
Nothing in her suitcase even came close to being considered black tie.
Even more disconcerting than someone handpicking her clothes was knowing they had got her size just right.
It was creepy.
As if someone had secretly measured her up without her even knowing it.
Right down to the shoes in size 38.
To make matters worse, Charlotte had given in to her natural curiosity and searched the price of her outfit on Net-A-Porter.com
The strapless crimson silk gown by Zac Posen cost almost £5000 and the matching 6.5 inch Christian Louboutin pumps added another £500.
With accessories and jewellery, her entire outfit was worth over £10,000 – more than everything Charlotte owned combined.
She eyed the clock.
9pm.
The party started an hour ago.
‘Can’t procrastinate any longer – unless I just miss the party all together.’
But she’d promised Miranda she’d be there. She couldn’t bail on her now.
Isabelle de la Barre packed two Canon camera bodies inside a black Lowepro bag; one with a wide-angle lens attached, the other sporting a long-range telephoto lens.
The latter was normally reserved for wildlife photography. While she may not be snapping animals tonight, it was still a safari of sorts.
Next she packed in a powerful digital flash and a lightweight but strong tripod, slipping a smaller point and shoot camera into her clutch purse as back up.
She spritzed hairspray onto her jet-black chignon and was just clasping her necklace in place when someone knocked on the door.
‘Entrez.’
The door opened and her assistant for the night, Isaac Jacobs, poked his balding head around the corner.
Seeing she was already dressed – as if she would have invited him in if she weren’t – he entered the room.
‘You almost ready? Shit’s already happening up there.’ He pointed in the general direction of the roof, indicating the cocktail party two floors above them in the penthouse suite.
‘Oui.’
‘You know the plan then? You take the photos. I’ll collect your… um, whatsycallit, every half hour.’
‘Memory card. Why do they want these photos?’
‘Ours it not to reason why, ours is but to do and die.’
‘What does this mean?’
‘We do as we’re told, Love. And we get paid handsomely for it. Take that diamond necklace you’re wearing. Bill Harvey give that to you?’
Bill’s son BJ had bought the necklace. He had bought the matching teardrop earrings too. And the gold halter neck Chloé gown and her black and gold Manalo Blahnik stilettos.
She was a long way from the poverty stricken village in Tunis, where she had grown up.
But Isabelle had given more than enough in return, submitting to BJ’s every whim and desire, no matter how depraved.
Her private life, however, was none of Jacob’s concern. She wasn’t about to give the conniving man any more ammunition.
Now BJ wanted photographs.
At face value, that wasn’t an issue.
Isabelle was a photographer.
What she took umbrage at was the kind of photographs he had requested.
She had attended BJ’s parties before.
With drugs being passed out like Halloween candy, they often evolved into full blown orgies.
Not once had she seen a photographer in attendance.
Quite the opposite.
Photographers were forbidden, as were any recording devices that could put the famous guests at risk of being exposed.
And while BJ might not be in attendance tonight, many of his friends and acquaintances would be.
So why had she been asked to photograph the event?
Not just photograph but catch all of the intimate moments on film.
‘Do you know why they want these photos?’
Jacobs shrugged his shoulders. ‘My guess would be leverage.’
‘Blackmail?’ She shuddered at the connotations.
‘Probably. Not that I care. It’s my pay check I care about. And you should too. Besides, it’s not like kiddie porn. They’re all consenting adults.’
True. So why did she have such a problem with the brief?
Chapter Seven:
Miranda made a beeline for Charlotte, meeting her at the entrance to the penthouse suite. ‘About time you got here.’
She handed Charlotte a glass. ‘It’s Dom Perignon 1945 cuvee,’ she said in her poshest accent.
‘And what is cuvee?’
‘No frigging idea but it tastes divine.’
Miranda giggled. It obviously wasn’t her first glass.
The penthouse suite was enormous, covering two floors and the entire width of the hotel.
The Harveys must have invited everyone they knew because both floors were jam-packed with people.
‘Any celebs you recognise?’
‘Heaps. Posh and Becks, Kate and Robbie, Mick, Madonna, Gwynneth, Saffron, Gaga, Elton, Brad and Angeline, Johnny…’
‘Holy crap, where are they?’
‘Upstairs. We’ll go up there later, if you want. Mostly models and minor celebs down here. See, there’s Naomi and Chanel’s new lead model. And that superhot black dude she’s talking to, he’s Calvin Klein’s underwear model. Gonna try and get me a piece of that ass.’
‘
You’re incorrigible.’
‘Hey, I’m just a healthy girl with very good taste.’
Miranda grabbed another two glasses off a passing tray. ‘Here. It’s all free.’
‘Believe me, Miranda. It’s not free. Somehow or other, we’ll have to pay the piper. Don’t forget, this is a press trip and the Harveys want positive press.’
‘They won my vote. This party is amazing.’ She touched a finger to her nose. ‘Just stay away from the bathroom unless you want to float out of here on a powder cloud, if you know what I mean.’
‘They’ve got drugs?’
‘They’ve got everything.’ Her eyes glittered, leaving Charlotte to wonder if her friend had already been riding the white dragon.
Charlotte made a mental note to avoid the bathrooms. She was no prude but she drew the line at drugs.
Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. She had no intention of returning to that lifestyle.
‘Where are all the other journalists?’
‘Over here. Come on. I’ll introduce you.’
They approached a small gathering of women and Miranda waded right into the middle of the group. ‘Girls, this is Charlotte. She’s from The Telegraph. She’s the one I was telling you about that puked in Damon Harvey’s lap.’
‘Some friend you are.’
The girls all laughed but there was nothing catty or spiteful about it. Just drunken camaraderie.
‘I’m Nancy Robertson. I’m with The Washington Post.’
‘Sofie Herve. Le Parisian.’
‘Courtney Smith, Vogue magazine.’
‘Veronica James, Daily Mail.’
‘Penny Ashgrove, the Mirror.’
‘Fiona Waddington, Hello UK.’
‘Okay, probably won’t remember any of your names in five minutes but great to meet you all. What are we talking about?’
‘You are in Paris and we are all girls? What do you think we are talking about?’ Sofie said.
‘Hot guys?’ Miranda asked, ever hopeful.
‘No silly, we’re talking about clothes. More precisely, these dresses Harvey Incorporated got us,’ said Courtney. ‘They’re gorgeous.’
‘Yours might be. I feel like a hooker in mine.’ Nancy tugged at the plunging neckline of a cobalt halter neck gown.
She did a spin. Her entire back was exposed, along with a good portion of her upper buttocks.
No way was she wearing underwear. Even a thong would have been visible.
‘Guys appreciate you exposing your tits and ass for them. Saves them time unwrapping you later,’ Penny said.
Nancy’s face turned white then red. ‘You’re disgusting.’
Penny smirked.
‘Yeah, well I look like Morticia Adams,’ said Veronica.
‘Don’t complain. They borrowed my dress off a toilet roll doll.’ Miranda did a half curtsey in her pastel pink lace and organza dress. ‘These ruffles make my ass look huge.’
There was nothing huge about Miranda at all. She was so petite; she needed a few ruffles to give her some shape.
‘Poor babies,’ Sofie said, her French accent elongating babies into baybeeze. ‘Some of us had to wear our own clothes.’
‘Fuck me Sof. You mean to say that dress is yours?’ Fiona eyed the 1920s style beaded gown, bright as a garden full of jonquils.
‘Oui.’
They all erupted into fits of laughter, though nobody really knew what they were laughing at.
‘You think we get to keep them?’ Miranda flattened the oversized pink bow under her bust.
‘My dad would kill me if I came home with this dress.’
Sofie put an arm around Nancy’s shoulder. ‘How old are you, cherie?’
‘Twenty two.’
‘Then why does your papa have a say in your dress style?’
‘He… ah… he’s very strict.’
‘Well you are in Paris now, not home with your papa. It is time to let your hair down.’
Nancy lifted her hand to the braid criss-crossing her auburn hair like a zipper.
‘She didn’t mean it literally,’ Charlotte said, loving the woman’s naiveté.
‘Oh, God, I love this song,’ Fiona squealed as the music changed. ‘Let’s go dance.’
Sofie sang at the top of her voice, ‘Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.’
Thank God she had style and looks because she couldn’t hold a note.
Miranda placed her glass on the linen covered table. ‘You coming Charlotte?’
‘Nah, count me out. I’m not nearly drunk enough to dance.’
‘Get some food then – and while you’re at it, get me some.’
The food table stretched across one wall. It was weighed down with food from all over Europe.
Charlotte headed straight for the French section.
When in Rome…
She piled foie gras onto a disc of bread along with some mixed fromage, scooped the meat out of an escargot, savouring the rich, buttery sauce, and bit into a wafer-thin slice of saucisson.
Next she selected an éclair and a small wedge of tarte citron from a mini Eiffel Tower of patisseries, relieving a tuxedoed waiter of another glass of Dom before finding a spot within viewing distance of the dance floor.
From her newfound vantage point, she could see all of the guests on the lower floor and a handful of those on the upper level, including Damon Harvey who was directly above the dance floor. He was surrounded by a group of people. Even from this distance, Charlotte could tell he was bored.
His boredom didn’t surprise her.
Over the years, she had interviewed many people in his league – in other words, the rich and elite.
For the most part, they were a bunch of divas that thought their shit didn’t stink.
In their minds, money gave them the right to do and say whatever they wanted.
Charlotte had few memories of life before the foster home.
She vaguely remembered an affluent lifestyle – overseas trips, beach homes, a pony, pretty clothes – but she had no way of telling if the memory was real or just another figment of her overactive imagination.
There were only two memories that were concrete and unmoving. Her father being carted away to prison and her dead mother lying in a pool of vomit.
Being on a Harvey Incorporated press trip had brought those vivid memories to life, reminding her of a past she thought she had buried.
Oh great. Now he’s looking at me.
Damon’s eyes locked onto hers like a heat seeking missile.
The corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.
What a bastard. He’s laughing at me.
It became an old-fashioned staring competition, Charlotte refusing to back down or look away, refusing to let him win.
If he thinks I’m intimidated by him, he’s got another thing coming.
Charlotte had no idea how long they could have kept it up but a hand on her shoulder broke the stalemate.
‘Hey Barf Girl.’
It wasn’t the smoothest introduction but he didn’t know her name yet.
Barf Girl would have to suffice.
Zac’s hand lingered on her bare shoulder.
He kept it there a moment longer than was polite but Zac didn’t care much for manners.
You snooze you lose, Zacky Boy.
He nodded towards her glass, which was almost empty. ‘More champagne?’
‘Um, yeah, sure.’
She seemed preoccupied but that only made him more determined to win her over.
‘You like your bubbly free flowing.’
More a statement than a question.
She answered in kind, with a grin that was more grimace than smile. ‘Don’t mind the bubbly every now and again. Just watch it; I might barf on you too.’
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Charlotte. Charlotte Burke.’
She held out a slender hand. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, Zac Wilson. The Guardian.’
> It was a real pain in the ass having to introduce himself every five minutes. Maybe he should have a badge made up to skip the formalities.
Bending his head over her outstretched hand, he laid his lips lightly on her soft skin.
‘Enchanté.’
A friend put him onto the move – the word, the lips.
Girls went wild when he did it back in London.
He held her hand, admiring her long painted fingernails – bright red like her dress.
He knew exactly what the colour signified.
Wilson scanned her body. Although the hemline of the strapless gown swept the floor, a long split exposed her tanned thighs and showed the briefest glimpse of lace panties.
His eyes came to rest on her tanned cleavage and he wondered if she sunbathed topless.
Wilson thought of his sexual urges as itches, and like everyone knew, itches needed to be scratched.
Imagining her semi-naked on a beach gave him a profound itch.
And boy did it want scratching.
‘What do you do at The Guardian, Zac?
‘Write a bullshit column about London nightlife. Gets me into lots of free parties so can’t complain.’
‘Okay.’ Her eyes roved back to the dance floor.
He knew her friends had gone dancing – it was his cue to come on over.
‘You want to dance?’ The music slowed to a seductive beat – some Latin crap. He didn’t mind getting jiggy on the dance floor to move things along.
‘Huh? Oh, no. I don’t dance.’ Her mind was elsewhere.
‘Me neither. Only wanker poofters dance.’ He put together the few words he remembered from Australian television, trying to recreate her language.
Give her a taste of home, Zacky and she’ll be putty in your hands.
Nothing. No comment, not even a polite laugh.
This chick needs to loosen up. And what’s with her checking out the dance floor. Anyone would think she wanted to shag those girls.
His itch grew stronger as he pictured the eight women in the shower, touching and kissing, as they soaped each other up.
A waiter passed by carrying a tray of spirits.
‘Finally, something other than bloody champagne.’ He grabbed a scotch. ‘And rumble up another glass of bubbles for the lady. Her glass is getting low.’
It was almost full but when the waiter returned with a replacement, she was obliged to finish her first glass, slugging the contents back like a seasoned drinker.