He froze, his head still protruding from the mink coat but aware that now he couldn’t pull it back, in case the movement alerted her. Awkwardly stuck at that angle, he waited, holding his breath, as Zhivana walked right to the back of the closet, her thin calves, in sheer pale silk stockings, almost next to him.
Please let her not bend down to get some boots! he pleaded to everything he’d ever held sacred. Cher, Madonna, Kylie, I beg you – you’re the patron saints of gay men – please let her not want to get some boots from where we’re lying—
Whichever deity heard him and answered his prayers, he couldn’t know. But what Zhivana did next was totally unexpected. As if her legs had been kicked away from her, she collapsed in a heap, her light, fragile body landing almost soundlessly on the thick carpet, her furs puffing out around her. Her head was ducked down, the nape of her neck just showing, slender as a stalk; it had barely any more colour to it than the white furs she was wearing. Her arms were folded around herself. On her hands were suede gloves of the most delicate pale pink, immaculate, gloves that had never touched a surface that hadn’t been cleaned minutes before by an invisible army of servants.
Andy stared at her helplessly, not knowing what to do. Has she had too much to drink? he wondered. She’s such a tiny little thing, she could get hammered on one glass of champagne.
He could hear Wayne breathing behind him, feel Wayne’s hot breath on his cock. In the silence, it seemed incredibly loud. Andy himself was only daring to take tiny little sips of breath, and that was difficult enough, because his heart was still racing with the excitement of his orgasm, his cock still throbbing.
And then he heard something else. It was Zhivana. Still curled in the ball into which she had sunk, still with her arms wrapped round her waist, she was whispering to herself. He couldn’t make out the words, and was pretty sure they were Russian anyway. They were soft and sibilant, like an incantation. Or a prayer.
Clearly, she assumed she was completely alone. Andy was horribly embarrassed to be spying on her, even inadvertently. He didn’t move a muscle, terrified of making his presence known, getting caught with Wayne Burns, fucking in their host’s fur closet; but also of disturbing this very odd girl – Grigor’s fiancée – in the middle of some intensely private ritual. It’s like she’s casting a spell, he thought. And if it doesn’t go exactly right – if she realises me and Wayne are here – she’ll blame us, turn us both into pigs or something...
It was crazy to even think like this, of course. But there was something about Zhivana Fyodorova that was eerie and unreal enough to make you think of fairies, spells, otherworldly creatures. When her arms loosened their grip around her waist, when her head, crowned with the wide, snowy fur hat, lifted again, Andy half-expected to see her face different somehow. Transformed, he thought wildly. God, I have to stop watching all those teen witch and vampire series...
Because Zhivana, of course, looked just as she had before, the small features as composed as ever. She stood up with the swift, graceful movement of a very young woman, and paused for a moment in front of a dangling display of fox masks, hanging in a line from a cedar rail; reaching out one slender, pale-pink hand, she stroked one of the foxes, running her finger down its nose, as if she were caressing a live animal. There was something hugely poignant in the gesture.
And then, retracting her hand, she turned and walked very quickly towards the door, her heels barely audible on the lush carpet. She didn’t try to drag open the heavy door herself; instead, she tapped on it, as lightly as a fairy knock, and instantly a bodyguard on the other side swung it open for her. Without a word, she tripped through with a last rustle of her chinchilla skirts.
The door swung shut again. Andy and Wayne collapsed in a tangled heap, puppets who had had their strings cut all at once.
‘I thought—’ Wayne hissed.
‘I know!’ Andy hissed back.
‘We should get going, they’ll be wondering where I am—’
Wayne dragged up his trousers.
‘Yeah, of course, me too,’ Andy said, not to be outdone in the rush to cover up and run away from the intimacy of sex.
He pulled up his elf trousers and stood up, smoothing down his tunic, reaching a hand to Wayne to help him up. He was feeling the cold again, after the heat rush of orgasm and fear; he shivered, and Wayne did too as he stood. They pushed their way through the coats and towards the door.
‘Give it a bit,’ Wayne said. ‘In case she’s hanging around in the corridor and wonders where we were when we pop on out.’
Andy nodded. He knew he was being a fool, but he was wondering what would happen now. Nothing, he told himself firmly. Nothing at all. It’s over, it’s done. You know how this works, Andy.
‘Hey,’ he said, wanting to lighten how he was feeling, because he had a sudden, stupidly sentimental lump in his throat. He reached down to pick up his elf ears and slid the headband back on. ‘You ever sucked off an elf before?’ To Andy’s absolutely delight,
Wayne, whose colour had returned to its normal pasty state, instantly went pink all over again, and even emitted a little giggle. Andy leaned forward and planted a kiss on Wayne’s lips; he meant it as a farewell, but Wayne kissed him back so fiercely that he smushed Andy’s lips against his teeth.
‘It was ace,’ he whispered, pulling back. ‘Fucking ace.’ Andy stroked Wayne’s cheek for the last time, drew in a deep breath and dragged open the heavy, insulated door. ‘It was, mate,’ he said tenderly, looking back for a final glance at Wayne’s deliciously pink cheeks. ‘It really was.’
And then he cleared his throat, flipped a switch in his head, and raised his voice to the enthusiastic, professional tones of a concierge giving a VIP a special guided tour.
‘Amazing, but just a little on the chilly side!’ he said, for the benefit of anyone who might be outside, holding the door for
Wayne to pass through. ‘The walk-in red wine fridge in the kitchen maintains a constant temperature of fifteen degrees – that at least would be a bit warmer.’
But no one was paying the least bit of attention to them.
Further down the hallway, rather like a properly organised
ship evacuation, the women and children were leaving first, in a stream of kisses and farewells to their menfolk, the children overstimulated on sugar and gifts, screaming and red-faced in their nannies’ arms, the wives flushed with champagne and carrying the blinged-out Jimmy Choo gifts which Andy had carefully selected for them. The men were already returning to the great room, practically rubbing their hands with anticipation after having said a cursory goodbye; Wayne went over to kiss Chantelle, a careful peck on either cheek that barely touched her skin, and helped her chivalrously on with her padded, fur-trimmed, pink coat that made her look like a giant version of the Barbies all the little girls were clutching.
‘Get home safe, love,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m crashing with Corinne tonight,’ Chantelle said, looking at Corinne and winking. ‘You don’t mind, do you? You won’t even notice I’m gone!’
‘Nah, you girls have fun,’ Wayne said.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that!’ Corinne trilled. ‘Laters!’ Andy stayed in the hallway, ostensibly to help everyone out, make sure nothing was forgotten, but really to be able to give
Grigor the signal, when he returned to the huge reception room, that the coast was clear.
‘Now the party begins!’ Grigor bellowed, throwing his arms wide.
It was the cue everyone had been waiting for. ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ blared out at full blast over the sound system, bodyguards and waiters stationed strategically around the room fired big plastic guns into the air that shot fake snow right up to the high ceiling, and a stream of beautiful girls in underwear ran squealing with excitement into the living room from Grigor’s study, where they had been waiting to make their entrance. White snow and glittering tiny silver snowflakes descended in a glorious cascade over their bodies, and they all
had handfuls of glitter which they threw up into the air as they ran.
Andy couldn’t help thinking that the escorts hired by Grigor were, in general, much prettier and better-dressed than the actual wives and girlfriends of the football players. Yes, they were in skimpy underwear, negligees and basques, but it was all very elegant and beautifully made – much better taste than some of those tacky dresses the WAGs were wearing, frankly. One Chinese-looking girl with long black hair and a burgundy silk corset set that showed off her miniature waist was the spitting image of Gong Li, a Chinese actress whom Andy considered one of the most beautiful women in the world; the girl could have been a model if she’d only been a few inches taller. And not a glamour model, like those tarty types who were here all afternoon – a real fashion model.
‘You like the girls, yes?’ Grigor clapped Andy heavily on the back. ‘I see you looking at them!’
‘They’re very pretty,’ Andy commented, looking at a black girl with legs up to her armpits, who was already draping herself over Patrice. She was wearing a white 1950s-style two-piece bra and knicker set which looked superb against her dark skin, the knickers fastened on one hip with an oversized white silk bow. If I were her, that’s exactly what I would wear, he thought approvingly. She looks stunning.
‘Which one do you like most?’ Grigor asked jovially. Sergei, at the gigantic table, was supervising as the staff brought out big bowls of Viagra and Ecstasy; a silver salver, three feet long, contained one huge line of cocaine, which had been piped out from a three-kilo bag; it spiralled out from the centre round and round, following the oval of the salver, finishing in a last enormous loop.
‘The girls or the drugs?’ Andy asked, grinning.
‘Ha! You are so funny, Andy!’ Grigor had been hitting his favourite orange-scented Muscat quite heavily by now, and his eyes were glazed, his breath, close to Andy’s face, smelling pleasantly of sweet dessert wine.
Girls were already pulling men off to the various bedrooms, others straddling their clients on sofas. Patrice, just as Wayne had said, had beckoned over a luscious blonde and installed both her and the black girl on his lap, kissing and fondling each other as, between them, he reached down to unzip his trousers.
‘Mr Khalovsky?’ A particularly pretty girl with ridiculously long eyelashes, wearing a red satin teddy and a pair of huge white butterfly wings, sidled up to him. ‘Shall I start the show now? You know I was saying I’d do a little Christmas show for everyone – like a sexy panto – Jaycie, Val and me have been working on it for ages—’
‘Oh, how nice!’ Grigor beamed on her. ‘But I think in a little while. Right now, the gentlemen are all enjoying themselves now that their ladies have gone. I think we let them have a nice time, and then in a while – at half-time, let’s say – you can put on your show.’
The girl reached up and ran one finger down the front of
Grigor’s Santa costume.
‘What about we go somewhere more private, then?’ she cooed. ‘I love a man in red! I don’t know why, it always really turns me on...’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ Grigor said, ‘but I was just about to put on It’s A Wonderful Life in the screening room. Maybe later.’
‘Ooh! Haven’t seen that in years – I’d love to see it again!’
Andy exclaimed. ‘I’ll join you if you don’t mind, Mr K.’ ‘Excellent!’ Grigor glanced at the table. ‘Do help yourself to anything you want.’
‘I think I’ll skip it,’ Andy said. He was dying for some X, but simply didn’t trust himself on it in this company, let alone with Wayne around; I couldn’t keep my hands off him, he knew.
Grigor had ordered Sergei to sort Andy out with one of the staff bedrooms, so he was crashing in the penthouse that night, and he’d probably watch the film and then go to bed; what am I going to do at a straight orgy?
He allowed himself a short, blissful moment to picture him and Wayne sneaking off to the small staff room where Andy had changed out of his day clothes into the elf outfit. They would strip off, climb onto the single bed, laughing at how narrow it was, how they had to cling onto each other to avoid falling off. Andy would gently turn Wayne over, pull up his broad, muscled buttocks, lick him and tease him about how hairy he was, what a freckled arse he had—
‘Oi, elfy!’ yelled Vince Martin, the goalie, who was leaning against the dining table, sniffing from a line of coke he’d just done, as the beautiful Gong Li lookalike, kneeling between his legs, sucked him off. ‘Like what you see? You’ve got a right old stiffie there! You want her to do you after? She’s got a mouth like a hoover attachment!’
Andy looked down; his cock, hard from imagining a completely naked Wayne, was tenting out the front of his trousers, visible below the pointy hem of his tunic. Raising a hand feebly at Vince, he turned and scampered away, through another, smaller sitting room and into the screening room.
Then he stopped dead. Grigor was ensconced in the front row of custom-made red leather recliners facing the screen, his feet up on the footrest, a waiter refilling his glass with Muscat; but that wasn’t what had made Andy freeze. Beside Grigor was Wayne, sprawled in another lounger, a pint glass of Guinness in his hand, a gigantic container of popcorn wedged between his legs. Exactly where I’d like to be, Andy thought wistfully.
‘Come in! We are just starting! Sit here!’ Grigor smacked the seat of the recliner on his other side. ‘How nice and cosy – two men who love Christmas as much as I do!’
Two poofs running away from a lot of prostitutes, Andy thought ironically. His eyes met Wayne’s, seeing the same wistfulness in them as he was feeling. Honestly, I just want to be on a bed with him with the door locked and all the time in the world...
Oh well, what can we do? He shrugged resignedly. Lucky we’re not sitting next to each other. No way could we keep our hands from going where they’re not supposed to...
‘This is lovely, Mr K,’ Andy said, sinking into the chair Grigor had indicated. ‘Any chance of getting some more popcorn?’
December 27th
Melody
‘Anthony, I’m more than ready!’ Melody said fervently into her phone. ‘I promise! Honestly, I’ll be off the book for the audition! I’m sitting here with a copy of the play, learning lines already.’
‘Oh, Melody, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,’ her agent Anthony said. She could hear his concern as clearly as if he were in the room with her, frowning deeply. ‘You’re running away with this a bit, pinning all your hopes on it—’ ‘
I’ve got nothing else to do but read Much Ado and practise line readings,’ Melody said. ‘Anthony, this is exactly what I need – something to focus on. I feel better than I have in months. I’m starting to work out, I went to the gym already this morning—’
‘Is that okay? You’ve just had surgery!’ Anthony sounded worried now. ‘You don’t want to rip anything, Melody.’ ‘I’m just walking on the treadmill,’ she assured him. ‘The nurse said that was okay. But I feel so much better, honestly.’ ‘And how’s—’ Anthony hesitated. ‘How is everything, um, healing?’
Bless his British tact, Melody thought, smiling. In LA they’d cut right to the chase. My LA agent told me not to get back in touch until I was ‘a hundred per cent pretty’ again.
‘It’s doing well,’ she assured him. ‘Not good enough for film and TV for a while. No one would look at me like this, not till I can go in for an audition without a scrap of make-up. But if I wear lots of foundation, I’m fine for doing a stage audition. They’ll be able to see already that my face is going to be okay by the summer.’
‘Do I need to come over there and have a look at you?’ Anthony asked. ‘Tell me honestly, Melody. I don’t mean to be rude, but last year—’ He paused, choosing his words. He wasn’t in his office over the holidays; Melody had rung him on his mobile, without any notice, giving him no chance to prepare for this awkward conversation. ‘Last year, you went completely off the rails,’ he said at last. ‘No one could say a word to you
. You were so set on going the whole LA starlet road, you had absolute blinkers on. Please don’t be offended, but I would like to be sure, before I start bothering the RSC, that you haven’t done anything else to your face... you know, any more big changes...’
‘Okay, look,’ Melody said swiftly, putting him on speaker, pressing buttons on her phone. ‘I’m going to take a photo right now. Ignore the bruising, I can cover that all up. And most of the swelling’s gone down. You’ll see, my lips are back to normal, the fillers are out of my cheeks – I’ve had my nose and chin put back too, but you won’t see that as much—’
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, daylight streaming in, she held her phone away from her and snapped a photograph of her face. She checked it: even the bruising wasn’t so bad now. Her nose splint had come off yesterday, before the visit to James, which was why Aniela had cleared her for mild exercise. All things considered, she thought this should reassure her agent sufficiently to convince him to put pressure on the Royal Shakespeare Company producer and director.
‘I’m sending it to you now, okay?’ she said. ‘Look at it and tell me what you think.’
‘What, now, while we’re still on the phone?’ Anthony, who was from the older generation and not technologically gifted, sounded genuinely amazed at the thought that this might be possible. ‘Oh God, my phone’s beeping! Is that the photo coming in? I might cut you off if I try to look at it... oh no, hang on, I’ve got an idea...’ His voice became muffled as he turned away from the handset, taking on the higher tones of someone talking to a small child. ‘Romy? Darling, come here and help Daddy, there’s a good girl! Can you show Daddy a photo that a friend just sent him on his phone? Oh, you’re so clever! Thank you, sweetie!’
His voice came back, clear again.
‘Romy’s seven,’ he said gloomily, ‘and she can work my phone so much better than I can – it’s terrifying. Right! I’m looking at it now!’
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