by Alam, Donna
So I read.
Giselle Hampton looks radiant in pink florals as she leaves the RFW Charity ball with an unnamed date.
Giselle looked every inch the soon-to-be millionaire as she left the event at the prestigious Fortnum Club looking pretty in pink Gucci.
The thirty-seven-year-old former model-turned-actress, who recently split from her billionaire textiles magnate husband, Johnno Hampton, is expected to receive a record settlement when the pair head to court later this year.
When asked for the name of her arm candy for the evening, Giselle, who’s rumoured to be starring in the upcoming film about Madonna’s life, just smiled enigmatically.
We don’t know about you, but she doesn’t look like she’s crying into her cocoa to us!
Who’s That Girl? More like who’s that hunk!
Tweet a twit if you know, and you could win yourself fifty quid!
I think I know that blond. I know those cheekbones. And I know that wicked half smile. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, not that I’d be tweeting the newspaper for the chance of a quick fifty quid, but it does look awfully like hot neighbour dude.
Like James.
And I don’t know how I feel about the article. Or maybe I just care not to examine how I feel because to feel anything would be weird, right? I mean, they don’t call it a one-night stand for nothing, do they? So I slept with a man who normally sleeps with women who look like Giselle; five-foot-nine stunners with shiny chestnut hair and legs up to their armpits. Women who move in celebrity circles, swear by juice cleanses, and holiday in St Barts.
Maybe he was slumming it that night.
I halt the thought right there before it spirals. We might not have been hanging out at the Fortnum Club, black tie and canapes, but it’s not like he didn’t enjoy himself in that odd little bedroom that would’ve looked at home in a museum.
You’re so tight. You feel like velvet. Every inch of you.
His hand on my breast and his wicked whispers in my ear.
I might not be Giselle, but I wouldn’t swap that night for anything.
8
James
If I were to arrange a show, using the last week as the central topic, I would entitle it My Life: The Shitshow.
Ordinarily at this time of the year, business slows. The big spenders have their minds on Mustique, Monaco, Morocco, and any number of foreign climates, the artists themselves recovering from their big day, or evening as the case usually is, at the all-important show. There have been months of pre and post parties, exhibitions attended, much schmoozing, and the shaking of many hands. The preceding months can be exhausting time but also very lucrative, but by August, things are supposed to be winding down.
Art dealers will tell you they’re in the business for the love of art. That they want to nurture new talent and allow it to flourish, to help cultivate and develop it. This, in my experience, is bullshit. Art dealers are mere commodities brokers for the super-rich, and the super-rich aren’t interested in the talent of an artist or the aesthetic value of how the piece will look on their office or their dining room wall. They’re interested in the money aspect. The value of art as an investment.
In a lot of ways, what I do is no different to how a financier works, the focus on the deal and providing assurance and estimates for accrued value looking forward.
It’s not about the art. Not these days.
In essence, this is also how I make my money. My gallery may facilitate the transaction between creator and investor—for a heavy commission, of course—but I also invest in art. Buying today what I know I can sell at a considerable markup tomorrow. And why shouldn’t I? I represent new artists. Finance their work. Provide them with studios and support. I court them, talk shop—themes and concepts, the all-important process, composition and oeuvre. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
I appreciate art, both aesthetically and financially, but apparently, I don’t have an artistic soul. Some would argue—particularly those who either don’t want to sell out to the man, the man being me, or who would give a limb to have me represent them but don’t have what it takes—that I don’t have a soul at all.
To those in my cadre, I’m somewhat of a trinity. The god, a benevolent ruler, the father, the nurturer, and the holy fucking ghost that will rain down such terror should you should it be required. But I’m not all bad. I’ve been known to encourage and fund rehab stints. I spend a considerable amount of time talking individual personalities up when they’re feeling down and talking them down when they’re feeling manic, often preventing them from destroying months of work when the monster under the bed—fear—shows its head.
Which is where My Life: The Shitshow kicks in.
On a Tuesday. The Monday-est Tuesday ever where I’d spent much of the evening reasoning with a high-strung twentysomething from Iceland who, if he possessed no talent, wouldn’t be preparing for an exhibition in London in a few short months. That I had every confidence in him—confidence enough for us both. So imagine my surprise the following week when I found he’d defected to one of my rivals.
The fucking ingrate.
Worse, I can’t seem to bring myself to become truly angry about it. Am I losing my edge? I don’t think so. I may be losing my mind, however. Losing my mind over a girl with messy blonde hair and long pale legs. A girl called Miranda.
My concentration is entirely shot, my mind on those decidedly un-fucking brief Batman briefs and the girl wearing them, my thoughts occupied by snapshots of that evening and what could have been if I hadn’t returned home to care for an elderly mutt, then been roped into a call to remind a client in Tokyo that there were consequences for reneging on a deal. A multi-million-pound deal.
Because when I went back to the house later that morning and she wasn’t there, the effect was like a bucket of cold water to the head. And crotch. I fully intended on watching the house for her return when Marjorie reappeared later the same day.
As a consequence, I’ve been a bastard to deal with since, and at a time my staff should be breathing a sigh of relief and looking forward to a break in the madness. So far this week, I’ve bawled out my exhibition manager for failing to elicit the whereabouts of a crate coming in from New York, misplaced by the staff of Heathrow Airport—if it is indeed lost, heads will roll as the artist is already suffering pangs of regret for commercialising his form of street art. I may have also implied the gallery receptionist is a halfwit for not preparing a set of customs declarations in time and also reduced one of the gallery assistants to tears for splashing a little coffee on the floor. Anyone who insists on being referred to as Minty deserves a good bollocking now and again. She’s not a mouthwash, for fuck’s sake, not that Araminta is much of an improvement.
‘Trust fund babies,’ I find myself muttering as I hammer away on my laptop, then hit send. I spread my fingers out on the smooth surface of my Jugendstil desk following the grain in the wood, almost as though the action might ground me as my mind begins to drift again.
The muscles in my abs tense with the memory of her fingers sliding down my chest. Her soft moan plays on a loop in my memory, along with the hitch of her breath as I’d spread her legs. And my God, the taste of her. The way she’d rocked against me. The sound of her fevered cries. It drove me wild, and the fact that I can’t work out how to see her again is making me a nightmare to be around.
Like I care what other people think.
If they have an issue, they can call Maryam in HR.
But there’s an idea, I decide as I pick up my phone. I’m not calling Maryam. I can’t think how she’d help my predicament.
‘Hey, Dad. How are you?’
‘Just the same as I was when you called me at the weekend,’ my father replies mildly.
‘Calling twice in one week is once too much.’ I recite this into the phone slowly as though I’m noting it in my diary. ‘Right. Got it. Good to know.’
‘Ha. Very good,’ he blusters. ‘Anymore and I’ll think I’m head
ing for God’s waiting room. I have no intentions to pop my clogs just yet—I’ve too much to do.’
‘You know Rufus will just eat you when you go.’
‘Nonsense. He doesn’t have enough teeth. What do you want, son? The Chase is about to come on.’ My father, former brigadier general. A leader of men. A commander or the masses. A devotee of quiz shows and daytime TV.
‘I was just wondering—’
‘Ho, ho.’ He huffs out a laugh. ‘I haven’t heard that tone in a long time. What are you after, hmm?’
‘Just the usual. Money. Power. Domination of my corner of the Brit art world. Dominion over the next crop of wildly successful YBAs.’
‘What’s that?’ he asks a little louder. ‘Speak up, would you?’
‘Young British Artists,’ I repeat. ‘Power. Success. The usual.’
‘You don’t need my help for that, my boy,’ he answers quite cheerily. ‘And to think I was against you going into art.’
For fear I’d become effete, as I recall. But I won’t remind him.
‘What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.’ He’s also a fan of quoting Sun Tzu and The Art of War. ‘That passage is you. And you get that from your mother, not me. An iron fist in a velvet glove, that woman.’ There’s a pause where he doesn’t need to say how much he misses her. We both do. ‘If she’d been in the Cabinet right now, there’d be none of this Brexit rubbish going on. She’d have ’em sorted. Pull them out of Parliament by the ear. Bloody politicians. What is it you wanted, anyway?’
Conversations with my father are often circuitous.
‘I noticed while you were away, Marjorie next door was on holiday.’
‘Away when?’
‘June, no, early July. When I looked after the mutt. Come on, it was only a few weeks ago.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he answers entirely innocently. ‘Yes, of course. She was on holiday, too. She mentioned it to me a while ago.’
‘Go anywhere nice, did she?’
‘No idea. Not a walking holiday in the Fells, I can tell you.’ I suppose I can’t see her donning walking boots and trudging around the Lake District with my father. ‘Probably Spain or somewhere sunny, I should imagine, but you’re not calling for holiday recommendations, are you?’
‘No. Another kind or recommendation. I saw she had someone living there to look after her cats.’
‘Bloody ugly things. They look like the last chickens left on the shelf in Waitrose. What do you want to know?’ he adds brusquely.
‘One of the staff needs the name of a reputable cat-sitter.’ One of the staff being me, though I’m quite keen for this particular cat-sitter to behave entirely disreputably. ‘I thought you could ask her for the name of the company for me. If you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll catch her in the morning. I’ll call you back tomorrow. My program is about to start.’
And with that, he hangs up.
I lean back in my chair as I contemplate my ridiculous plan. I wonder if I can call and book a sitter by name? Maybe I can persuade one of the gallery assistants to call to make the enquiry on my behalf. It might sound a little less suspect.
I must be mad. Even if I get that far, I can’t imagine the lovely Miranda would appreciate her services being reserved, only to turn up at the address to find it isn’t a cat or a dog looking forward to a little petting and a few strokes.
I wonder what the offence would read on any possible charge sheet. Soliciting or stalking? You know, once she’d called the police. I can almost see the headlines.
Belgravia Art Dealer Holds Young Girl Hostage.
Man Protests He Only Wanted A Belly Rub.
‘Fuck it,’ I mutter, pushing back from the desk. I need to ponder this some more.
9
Miranda
‘This place isn’t exactly subtle, is it?’
I follow Olivia’s gaze as she watches as one of the bar staff pass, unsure quite what she means. The theme? I mean, sure, the men are dressed like they’ve stepped off the set of Peaky Blinders and the women are sort of old-world glam, but this is way better than some of the places we’d looked at. Dayglo nylon, experimental cocktails served in a bar like a high school chemistry lab, and even a ’70s themed place in Hampstead that was cheesier than the square of cheddar served on a cocktail stick along with a lump of pineapple.
‘I like it.’ This is my jam. It’s also my night. It might be Olivia’s company, but I’ve been planning this event for weeks; sourcing possible venues and chasing publicity. ‘And you liked it when we came here for dinner last week.’
‘I know. It’s just.’ One hand on her hip, she presses the other against her forehead.
‘It’s cool. Sort of intimate.’ It’s got a naughty, sensual vibe with velvet-lined booths, wingback chairs, and a wall filled with old photographs. The bar is huge and richly polished, an aged mirror behind it reflecting the glamour of the room. And the cocktail menu, while kind of kitsch, is also extensive, offering liquor-laced cordials and tinctures. Some are even served in old-fashioned apothecary bottles.
‘I’m not sure,’ she replies with a frown. ‘I’m not sure it’s the right place.’
Too late now, not that it would help to point that out.
‘It doesn’t look like a knocking shop if that’s what you mean. Besides, you chose the place. And we’ve hung out here twice since.’
‘Tell me I’m panicking over nothing,’ she says, swinging to face me as she exhales a long, nervous breath.
‘You totally are. This place is the bomb. It’s got exactly the look we’re going for. It’s vibey, and the punters are going to love it.’
‘Vibey?’ she repeats, glancing around the place again. ‘Not more of a kind of refined depravity?’
‘Retro chic,’ I maintain. ‘Someplace you’d expect to find gangsters and their molls hanging out. Pinstriped pants and jackets with wide lapels, feather boas, and red-painted fingernails holding thin cigarette holders.’
‘Underworld charm.’
‘It’s a bar, for goodness’ sake. It’s sexy. The exact kind of place you want to be associated with. We’re selling romance here, are we not?’ She smiles at me as I add, ‘Just think of how the photographs will look.’
‘You’re right, I’m just stressing.’
Halleluiah. My God, stressing doesn’t even cover it. The woman could do with a Valium!
‘What do you want me to do with these?’ Heather suddenly appears with a dozen small silver buckets dangling from her hands. I frown at her T-shirt that declares:
Brains are the new tits.
The manifesto is strong in this one.
‘Put one on each table,’ I say. ‘Then put the cards inside each.’
Heather has spent the week printing out fancy prompts that are to go in the buckets, so our guests have somewhere to start. Icebreaker questions, I suppose.
What do you do for fun?
What do you do to relax?
Tell me something fascinating about yourself.
I suppose it might save shy couples from spending four minutes just staring at each other.
‘So, when they come in, I give them one of these little scoring cards, right?’
‘It’s maybe better we don’t call them scoring cards,’ Ols replies, even though that’s what we’ve been calling them in the office all week. ‘This isn’t a game of mini golf.’
Nope, it’s way more painful than that.
‘But we’re giving them each a mini pencil, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, one of the branded ones.’ My idea. God, I hate mini golf, but it’s something they can take away, along with their memories of a fabulous evening. You know what else I hate? Waiting. And I’m currently waiting for a call back from the jewellers. Yesterday, I’d ducked out of the office on the spur of the moment and taken the ring to the nearest jewellers, Joseph & Sons, to ask for a valuation. Apparently, it’ll cost me thirty-five pounds, and I can pick the r
ing up sometime this afternoon, along with a certificate with a value I can insure it for. See, that’s what I told the girl at the counter. No need to tell her the whole sordid story.
I’m not quite sure what I’ll do once I have it. But what I do know is I can’t stay with my parents much longer, not if I’m to maintain my sanity. I really can’t take the explosive anger, muted silences, and bursts of abuse anymore.
‘Let’s call them feedback cards,’ Oliva suggests.
‘So they get a little pencil—’
‘And as much free booze as they need to loosen them up,’ I add with a manic-sounding cackle. Oh, God. I need this call, and then I need this day to be over.
‘No, they get a glass of some drink they’re making in honour of the evening.’ Olivia points at the bar. ‘And there’s some prosecco after that, and a few bottles of wine; red and white. The last thing we need is a bunch of drunk, horny singles on our hands.’
‘That sounds like some of my best work.’ The words are out in the air before I can moderate them, the image of hot neighbour dude’s wicked smile flashing in my head.
‘Heather, it’s your job to collect the scorecards—’
‘Feedback cards,’ she corrects.
‘Yes, those. You collect them at the end of the evening. Then we’ll collate the scores, I mean, the information, and get back to the participants through their membership email.’
‘And then one or two of the couples will see each other again, they’ll have a date at the cinema, then he’ll take her for a nice meal, they’ll date for a couple of weeks, then shag, and fall in love. And then E-Volve gets in the newspapers again. Bish, bosh, bash!’
Both women look at me as though I’m losing my mind. And I think they might be on to something there.
‘Yeah, we’ll see,’ Oliva says stiffly.
‘You still don’t seem very excited about tonight. Come on, chill out.’ I take her elbow in my hand. ‘It’s going to be a grand success. People don’t take speed dating too seriously. It’s just a way to have a laugh and a few drinks, maybe meet some cool people, or get back into the saddle after a breakup.’