by Nigel May
Not that Hatton had been his name back in Bulgaria. The boxer was born Zlaten, but Fidge had misheard him at their first chance meeting, thought he’d said Hatton. Zlaten had liked the sound of it, thinking ‘Hatton’ had a more universal appeal and was easier for his new mentor and friend to say. Five years on, Hatton Eden was the biggest boxing star on earth. He had transformed from a poor Bulgarian unknown called Zlaten into a multi-billion-dollar brand called Hatton Eden. The Main Man indeed.
Hatton spent his time training between his base in London and the huge rustic estate he now owned back in Bulgaria. Fidge was always by his side, pushing him towards his next goal. He loved how Fidge made him feel. Invincible. Self-believing. Fierce. A man who could conquer all.
Fidge spoke, a smile creasing its way across his face. ‘I’ll make sure Hatton comes home victorious. And that everyone from here to Tahiti sees that bald eagle in action. Impressive work by the way, Adam, I might have to book myself back in for an inking soon. I’ve been thinking about a couple of seahorses across my back and I reckon you’re the man to do it.’
Hatton smiled across at his manager, liking the idea. ‘You’re in good hands with Adam, you know that.’
Fidge was already heavily tattooed, not that he had been when he’d first met Hatton. Now thirty-four, he was ten years Hatton’s senior, but his muscled frame had been a blank canvas when he first met the nineteen-year-old Bulgarian back in the Slavic country. He’d been impressed by Hatton’s already growing collection of flesh artwork and before he knew it had booked himself in alongside his new protégé at his next inking session. A dozen visits later and Fidge now had a full sleeve, tribal markings across his chest and a series of oriental symbols spelling their way across his upper leg.
Fidge had spent the last few hours filling Hatton in about preparations for the Belter in the Swelter fight in Barbados in three months as he watched the boxer getting inked by Adam.
‘We’ll train for the month beforehand in Barbados itself as that will mean you can become accustomed to the temperatures out there. It will be blistering in July so it’s best to get used to the local heat as soon as we can, even though we’ll be inside and air-conned. The Velvet hotel will be giving you one of the penthouses and you’ll have a full staff at your disposal, but naturally I’ll be looking after all of that. All you need to do is relax, train and then relax some more to make sure you’re at the peak of your fitness regime, which of course I’ll be guaranteeing.’
Hatton listened to what he was being told as Adam continued his work with one of the multi-pronged magnum tattoo needles used for block colour on his designs. He nodded his understanding and let Fidge continue.
‘There will be some major press opportunities in the run-up to the event as well. Every TV show going wants you but I’m being selective about what you do. In the UK we’ll get you on Graham Norton and the newspaper exclusive can come through Nush Silvers. In the States we’ll go with James Corden and a cover for Celebrity Heat. Plus, there will be the clothing campaign with Nike seeing your image twenty-foot high in every one of their stores globally. By the time the fight comes along, the whole world will be rooting for you.’
Hatton smiled, afraid to move too much as Adam picked up a shader needle to cope with some of the finer hues of the bald eagle design.
‘And finally… I know you’re going to love this. The president of Bulgaria has requested a one-to-one with you. You’ve become a national hero over the last few years, as well you know, and apparently they want to do something fabulous for you. I’m not sure what as yet, but I’ll let you know more details as soon as I do. It’s probably to give you the keys to the city of Sofia or naming some new leisure complex after you. Who knows? But it’ll mean a few days back home and a huge amount of praise so we’re doing it.’
‘Meeting the president? That is freaking awesome, Fidge! My parents would have been so proud.’ Hatton shifted in his chair, his excitement clear. But his pleasure was not shared by Adam.
‘Woah, boxer man! Not so fast. Can you try to keep still while I’m working the shader, please?’ The tattooist was not a fan of a fidgety client, even if that client was one of the biggest sport stars on earth, someone he would never dare to criticise if he wasn’t sitting in his inking chair. ‘Unless you want this bald eagle looking like a manic Uncle Sam from The Muppets then I suggest you lie as still as you can, otherwise me and my handgrip needle tube are not going to be very happy!’
Hatton apologised, easing himself back into the chair and lying still. This was one time when he would have to submit. He couldn’t stop grinning though. Firstly because the thought of meeting the president filled his chest full of patriotism. But secondly because he loved Uncle Sam on The Muppets. He had always been one of his favourite characters to watch when he had tuned into the TV show while growing up in Bulgaria.
Hatton was still grinning as he left the tattoo studio an hour or so later, his bald eagle looking as impressive as required despite his movements. A couple of paparazzi, obviously tipped off as to the boxer’s whereabouts, most likely by one of Adam’s team, clicked into action as Hatton and Fidge made their way to their waiting Mercedes. A rapid fire of questions came from one of them but Fidge made it clear that this was not the time for answers.
‘Are you confident you can regain your title?’ The reporter shoved a microphone in Hatton’s face.
‘We have no comment,’ replied Fidge.
‘What do you say to people who suggest Orlando Vince is a much stronger and cleverer fighter than you?’ The reporter was not giving up.
‘Again, no comment.’
‘Hatton, do you think your parents would have been proud of the violence you dish out in the boxing ring?’ The man was now standing squarely in Hatton’s way, trying to block his path.
Just for a moment, Hatton was about to reply, but as he went to do so the reporter, attempting to walk backwards as he spoke, tripped over the kerb and fell awkwardly onto the road behind their Mercedes.
Hatton and Fidge said or did nothing as they climbed into the car and sped off down the road. Hatton turned to look out of the window as the man in the street stood back up.
‘What a stupid question.’
‘Yep,’ said Fidge. ‘And you answering it would have been even stupider. He just wanted to provoke a reaction.’
‘Well nobody talks about my parents, nobody! He deserved to fall. Good job he did, otherwise I would have pushed him down myself.’
‘Well, thank Christ you didn’t, otherwise it wouldn’t have just been your new tattoo that risked looking like a muppet,’ said Fidge.
He wasn’t sure that Hatton understood his comparison.
6
‘Your father knows I’m in London for a few days, Nikki. I’m just contemplating a touch-up on my skin and then I might jet over to Crete to join him and Heather. But I’m not sure as yet. I’ll see what gives over here first with Jona. If anyone needs me they can reach me on my cell. And you look after yourself, girl, okay?’
Sutton Rivers snapped shut her diamond-encrusted, special edition cell phone and popped it inside her bag, circling her hand around to locate her compact. Having found it, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, allowing the grey-tinged daylight that streamed through her Bentley window as she sped towards London’s Harley Street to highlight her face as best as the rainy British weather would allow. As usual, she didn’t like what she saw.
‘Another frown line. That’s what I get for talking to my sneaky daughter on the phone. She always makes me worry.’ Sutton was talking to the driver of the car without actually wanting to engage him in conversation. Why would she tell the hired help about her woes? She was merely saying out loud what she had been internalising for a while: she was worried about Nikki.
Something was pricking at her mother’s intuition, telling her that her normally ballsy eldest daughter was worrying about something. And it wasn’t something trivial. If it had been Heather who was acting all sheepi
sh then she could have understood. Heather would stress about a spider being sucked up the vacuum by the maid, or a hummingbird not having enough sugared water in its feeder, but Nikki was different. She was normally so much stronger and forceful. What was her problem at the moment?
Sutton had first noticed it when she’d taken her daughter out for a meal a few weeks earlier. They had dined at Nishi in Holetown, Barbados, one of their favourite sushi restaurants. It felt good for Sutton to spend some time with her daughter away from the umbrella of the Velvet hotels, and if anything could make for a great evening it would be the Nishitini speciality cocktails and a plate of soft-shell crab with spicy tuna and shrimp tempura. But as it transpired not even some of the finest fish in the Caribbean and a dose of blueberry vodka could hide the ominous feeling that Sutton felt creep over her as the evening passed. By the time she and her daughter were attempting to enjoy the delights of a dessert, Sutton could feel her appetite shrinking fast with worry: Nikki was definitely hiding something.
Not that she would admit it when questioned by her mother.
‘I am perfectly fine, Mother.’
‘Are you ill? Is your father working you too hard?’ Sutton knew that this was unlikely given that jetting from one Velvet hotel to another merely to be seen was hardly stress on a mammoth scale.
‘I am not ill. And no, he’s not.’
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘No. Thank God.’
‘Menopausal?’
‘I’m twenty-seven years old.’
‘In need of surgery? You’re never too young to start, believe you me.’
‘As I said, Mother, I’m twenty-seven and told I look younger, so yes, I am too young to start actually. I’ll leave that to you.’ Nikki was becoming snappier with each answer.
‘So what is it? I’ve been able to read every line on your face, not that you have any, and every thought in your head since the day you popped out of me so don’t tell me that I’m imagining this,’ Sutton had said. ‘I know my own daughter.’
‘Well then, you know me well enough to know that if I was worried about something, which I am not, I would deal with it myself and not burden you with it.’
‘So there is something wrong. Is it a man?’
‘Mother, you’re putting me off my food! Unless you want to be wearing this plateful of delights in some kind of avant-garde fashion statement, can we please stop this?’
Sutton had known that she was beaten, but just hoped Nikki would confide in her before too long, because something was upsetting her daughter, of that she was certain.
As yet she hadn’t said a word, a fact that Sutton was contemplating as her car sped through puddles, past Regent’s Park and into the heart of Marylebone and on to Harley Street. But her contemplation was short-lived as the Bentley pulled up outside the W1 office of Sutton’s preferred UK cosmetic surgeon, Jona Fleet. There were more pressing matters to think about right now as far as Sutton was concerned, and top of the list was the state of her nutmeg skin. She needed Jona to come to her rescue, as he already had on many an occasion.
As usual, Sutton was ushered straight through for her consultation. No one kept Sutton Rivers waiting, not even cosmetic surgery royalty like Jona Fleet.
Jona was obviously surprised to see her. ‘Sutton, you’re looking fabulous, as ever, and back so soon after your last treatment! How long ago was it now?’
Jona turned to his computer screen and scrolled through the notes on his client. They were biblically long. ‘I see you were here six weeks ago. Can’t keep away, eh? So what can I do for you?’ Even to his expert eye it was unclear exactly what Sutton wanted. She had sampled many of his cosmetic delights over the last few years and Jona couldn’t help but feel that maybe she had now reached that stage, as many of his more regular clients did, of not being able to see just how odd she was beginning to look. Not that he would tell her, of course. The customer was always right, even the ones with skin pulled tighter than a tug-of-war rope and eyebrows that were arching like a McDonald’s sign.
Sutton was quick to explain her distress. ‘Isn’t it obvious, Jona? My skin is duller than the weather in this godforsaken country! Isn’t the sun ever in the sky over here? It’s throwing it down out there. I’m thinking of a skin peel and some microdermabrasion. Just to slough off this dead skin.’ She waved her hand across her forehead to emphasise her need. ‘Something to freshen my look up.’
‘But your skin is looking perfect, Sutton. Perfect colour, perfect balance, no major lines.’ Jona placed his hand under her chin and turned her head towards the window for optimum light. As far as he was concerned her skin was in prime condition, a little stretched due to many a nip and tuck, but still in good carriage for a woman approaching fifty. Not that age was ever mentioned under his surgery roof.
‘Don’t give me that black don’t crack shit, Jona! I’ve got a husband who is welcoming women to his hotels who are so young and fresh they were no more than foetuses a few weeks ago and I need to make sure that he still knows the best chocolate in the candy store is sitting right at home in front of him. And as for that perky-titted little PA of his, I know he’s been digging her for years. I can’t stop him but I sure as hell am not going to let my own dignity slide by being anything less than perfection. Besides, who says I shouldn’t look good for all of the men who come to the hotels as well? You know we have that boxing match coming up in Barbados in the summer and I swear that place is going to be teeming with every Hollywood A-lister going and I sure ain’t gonna let my saggy-assed skin be featured on the pages of Us Weekly and OK! Magazine alongside some hot little twinkie.’
You could take the girl out of the ghetto but you couldn’t always take the ghetto out of the girl.
But it wasn’t a vision of a hot young starlet that filled Sutton’s mind though. It was an image of Hatton Eden’s muscled torso. It had filled her thoughts the moment she mentioned the fight. It was a welcome image, one she had been thinking about a lot lately.
‘You should come to the fight by the way. Bring your woman, Caitlyn, she’d love it,’ added Sutton. ‘And you could get some sun on those pasty Brit faces of yours.’
‘I’m sure Caitlyn would adore an A-list event like that,’ smiled Jona, referencing his girlfriend, the equally surgery-obsessed Caitlyn Rich, a woman who could be just as catty as Sutton given the occasion. The two women had cocktailed together many times. ‘I’ll ask her.’
‘I’ll have Sheridan send some tickets over for you both. Now, about my skin peel… I’m thinking of going to Crete straight from here as Heather and her husband are going to be there, you know the one who flogs all that jazz on the TV, so do I need to be careful in the sunshine?’
‘You know how it works, you’ve done it before. Your face may be a little red for a few days if you want a deep peel, but I really don’t think there is any call for that right now. And yes, avoiding sunshine would be good.’
Sutton’s attention was suddenly drawn away from Jona to the television screen in the corner of the office. The sound was off – Jona always muted it when in consultation – but on the screen were Hatton Eden and Fidge Carter leaving a tattoo shop. The image was a little shaky and ended with a shot of a man lying on the road and the sight of a Mercedes driving off.
‘Oh, and there he is, our little boxer man,’ said Sutton, her attention totally turned to the screen. ‘And what a mighty fine specimen he is.’
Jona didn’t need to be the sharpest scalpel in his cosmetic box to work out that Sutton was obviously rather taken with the sports star. The attempted smile that spread across her face portrayed that perfectly. The surgeon grimaced slightly as he watched her smile and made a mental note not to consider any more surgery around Sutton’s mouth. When a patient was reaching the stage where even stretching their skin into a smile was a little awkward then it was definitely time to calm the procedures. It was only six weeks since he’d last seen Sutton and her suspiciously tight smile was probably not the best advertise
ment for his work.
‘He’s in London right now, training,’ said Jona. ‘I saw that report earlier. Apparently some reporter fell on his backside in the street trying to interview Hatton. It’s quite funny actually, not that the poor guy on his ass thought so. Every channel has been showing it this morning.’
The cogs in Sutton’s brain began to whir into action. ‘So a peel would leave me all blotchy and patchy for a few days, would it? And best to avoid the strong sun, eh?’
‘That’s right, so maybe we should leave it this time, Sutton. You really don’t need anything doing. Maybe we can look at some kind of touch-up if it’s needed, which I am sure it won’t be, after the fight in the summer. If you’re spending the summer in Barbados there may be some sun damage,’ said Jona. He knew it was unlikely given Sutton’s colouring but a regular paying client was a good one and not to be ignored. Harley Street postcodes and a shopaholic girlfriend were not easy to fund, after all.
‘Yes, I’ll leave the skin peel this time. I don’t want to jeopardise going to Crete, do I?’ said Sutton.
But it wasn’t Crete on Sutton’s mind: it was Hatton. If the boxer was in town, then maybe she should try and arrange a meeting. She had Fidge’s number on her cell from the press launch in Barbados. Maybe she would have a few things to discuss with the boxer. Details about the fight, the venue, his needs. Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? Especially over an intimate dinner à deux. Who said champagne couldn’t be part of a balanced training programme?
‘Yes, Jona. Forget the peel.’ She pointed to her forehead again. ‘I’ll just have some Botox up here instead if you don’t mind. Just to iron out a few of these lines. I need to look my best. Now, do run along and fetch your equipment.’ She reached down into her bag and pulled out her purse and plucked a credit card from it. ‘Usual method of payment and a hefty cash tip suit you, Jona?’