‘Are you here with anyone special?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘I don’t really know Amber at all,’ Belsey clarified. ‘I was in her house under false pretences and I just tagged along. I shouldn’t really be here.’
‘Ha. What were you doing at her house?’
‘I was trying to save her from a stalker.’
There was another moment of uncertainty. He sensed a lot of thought going on behind those eyes. She was trying to find something out. Maybe just where he was coming from. Maybe whether he was good stock, or something. Pumped with cognac, Belsey took the ID out.
‘This is the guy I was looking for.’
Chloe took the card. She stared at it. It was a moment before she said: ‘This is the guy stalking Amber?’
‘That’s right.’
Her expression had grown dark. It occurred to Belsey that there may well be other people on the scene who’d had run-ins with Mark Doughty. There was nothing to say this young woman wasn’t also on Mark’s walls.
‘Who exactly are you?’ she asked, looking up at Belsey now.
‘Nick,’ he was saying, when another woman arrived with drinks and saw the student card in Chloe’s hand. ‘Are you IDing him?’ she laughed. She was six foot something in a silver top and leather hot pants, Russian or Eastern European, with genes like a violent blessing. Definite model. ‘I think he’s old enough, Chloe.’ She turned to Belsey. ‘No offence.’
‘This is Tatiana,’ Chloe said, returning the ID with a shiver, as if shaking off a bad dream. A different, more bubbly personality emerged. ‘Tatiana, this is Nick.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Tatiana said.
‘Nick’s offering protection,’ Chloe said. ‘Against stalkers.’
‘That’s very heroic.’
‘I’m guessing you guys are famous,’ Belsey said. Both girls laughed.
‘Why?’ Chloe asked.
‘Did you ever see a programme called Fortune’s Heirs?’ Tatiana asked.
‘I haven’t had a TV for a while.’
‘You didn’t miss anything,’ Chloe said. ‘I was in it. It sucked. Tatiana’s a model; she’s staying with me while she’s in London.’
‘And you?’ Belsey said. ‘Do you model?’
‘No.’
‘She’s a princess,’ Tatiana laughed. ‘She’s technically royalty.’
‘Half the people here are technically royalty,’ Chloe said. ‘I work for Beluggi. We’re the ones throwing the party.’
They chatted about this, about fashion and what a great place Loulou’s was. Belsey gave them his last two business cards, and after a few minutes Tatiana sensed what was going on and left them alone. They smoked a cigarette together. He was focused enough to ask for Chloe’s number, intrigued by her restlessness. She gave it to him.
‘Do you dance?’ she asked.
They joined the dance floor. Belsey wondered vaguely where Amber was. Another round of drinks appeared. At one point he was trying to say something to Chloe over the music and it became a clumsy kiss. She tasted sweet, of whatever was in the cocktails, peach or apricot. When he went to get more drinks he promised he’d be back; he got the feeling she wanted to stay close to him. Then he got in a debate with the bartender about the best way to fix a Manhattan and never saw her again.
People were dancing on tables now, coked-up blondes letting their dresses ride, men in Armani kissing their legs. At some point he got tight with a crew who had cigars and said they were over from LA. They were in black tie, bow ties loose around their necks.
Are you a whisky man? A man who knows his malts? Want to play a game?
He won the game. Talk turned to ambitions. They were Hollywood people.
‘Just fly me out there,’ Belsey said. ‘Set me loose.’ He was serious. Hollywood lay seven hours’ drive from Mexico. He could see to his own career progression, down to the border, fast.
Someone wanted to play poker. Someone wanted to charter a flight to Lake Como.
We’d be there for sunrise.
Then Amber Knight was beside him, hand on his arm. She had her jacket and bag. She looked wired.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she said.
‘All over. Have you been having fun?’
‘Can we go?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK. Let’s do this.’
Belsey took a second to digest this, grinding gears as he switched from one improbable scenario to another. He even found the clarity of mind to worry about paparazzi. He’d only been intimate with fame for a couple of hours but he knew the difference between arriving together and leaving together.
‘Do we call a cab?’ he said.
Amber checked her phone, said something about the paps knowing her account cars.
They didn’t leave the way they’d come in. Instead, they headed for a door beside the bar. Belsey kept a last guilty lookout for Chloe. No sign. They went up a flight of stairs to an empty restaurant, then back down to a fire door at the rear of the building. Amber pushed the emergency bar.
‘Check the street,’ she said.
He checked. A different Mercedes was waiting, engine running, door open. Nothing else around.
‘Coast’s clear.’
They jumped in.
‘Let’s go,’ Amber said, slamming the door, thrusting her head into Belsey’s crotch. Belsey lowered himself over her body, pressing his nose to her ribcage as they tore off. He wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. In the end he put them over her. By the time he looked up they were making good progress through central London. No paps behind. He eased his arms away from Amber’s body. She sat up.
She fanned herself with her hand. Still in the dark hours of night: 12.55 on the dashboard clock. Whirling joyfully deeper into the absurdity of his situation.
‘I like that place,’ Belsey said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I had fun.’
‘Good.’
They continued north along a cold and empty Baker Street. Amber became more apprehensive the further they travelled from the club, away from her tribe, a fragment of glitz cast alone into the early morning.
‘I can get out whenever,’ Belsey said.
‘See me home.’
‘Sure.’
They crested St John’s Wood in silence. Then Amber said, ‘Stop the car.’ The driver glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. She leaned forward. ‘Drop us here,’ she said.
The car pulled over. They were by Regent’s Park, on a straight, empty avenue with moonlit parkland either side.
‘Is this right, ma’am?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes.’
Amber climbed out. Belsey followed.
‘It’s a short walk from here,’ she said. ‘Do you have money to pay him?’
Belsey peeled thirty quid from his roll. He heard the final ‘Thank you, sir, ma’am.’ Then they were alone in a neatly mown silence.
Amber stretched. Alone against the scenery in her dress and heels; it looked like a fashion shoot. There were no cars. To the south, the peaked nets of London Zoo rose up amongst dark trees.
‘Follow me,’ Amber said.
She led him across a small bridge over Regent’s Canal, then down a muddy track to the waterside. The canal stretched between steep banks, sporadic lamplight giving a dull orange glare to the water. Seclusion. Amber took her shoes off and walked to the edge. Belsey opted for a graffitied bench. He found Mark Doughty’s papers and tobacco. A moment later he heard a splash and looked up to see Amber tossing pebbles into the water like an eight-year-old.
This was her freedom – maybe that was it. Nocturnal. This was where she reclaimed a few minutes of the twenty-four for herself. Still, not a great place to loiter. He checked his phone – dead. He smoked and kept an eye on the path. They were alone.
‘Is this somewhere you come a lot?’
‘No.’
‘It’s peaceful.’
‘I’ve come here twice.’
‘OK.’
&nbs
p; She turned to face him. ‘Did you tell Gabby we were going out tonight?’
‘No.’
She nodded, turned back to the water, skin ghostly white. It must be strange, being so valuable. Too big to fail. With a whole team around you, an industry in your name. He thought about that intervention Gabby had mentioned – their attempt to ‘calm her down’. But about what? Belsey had never been convinced by the concept: the very people you’re drugging yourself to forget, brought together, unexpected and looking at you, like a bad dream. The whole set-up resembled a coup, Gabby and whoever else securing Amber in the way you’d protect an oilfield. Maybe the coup had happened and she was already in exile, wandering by the canal, just herself and one loyal retainer.
‘Last time I was here there was a man sleeping in a sleeping bag. Just there.’ Amber pointed across to the far bank. ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but I thought: that’s a nice place to sleep. To wake up and see the sky. To go to sleep beneath the stars.’
‘Not bad. When it’s dry.’
Another moment passed. For the sake of conversation, and because she was on his mind, Belsey said: ‘Do you know a girl called Chloe? She was at the club, works for Beluggi.’
‘Chloe? No, I don’t think so. Why?’
‘She seemed to recognise the ID of your stalker.’
Amber turned. ‘Really?’ She considered this. ‘What do you think he wants?’ she asked, eventually.
‘To be noticed, I imagine. By you.’
‘Well, that’s worked. Is he dangerous, though? Do you think he wants to kill me?’
‘No,’ Belsey lied.
‘Would it be so bad if he did?’
‘I suppose someone could sponsor the funeral.’
She didn’t laugh.
‘Have you ever seen a dead body?’ Amber asked.
‘Only about thirty times.’
‘Really?’
‘I used to be a police officer. People encourage us to see them.’
‘What did you think?’
‘When I saw one? Usually I thought how easy it was to die, how surprising it was that it didn’t happen more often.’
She contemplated this.
‘Do people always look different when they’re dead?’
‘Not always.’
Amber peered at the water’s surface. Belsey wondered about its depth. Say she jumped – would he take his shoes off before going in after her? Remove his phone from his pocket? He thought of the call-outs he’d attended involving potential suicides, the tenth-floor ledge, the locked bathroom, feeling foolish turning up as a representative of the law. Not the people you really need in that situation, him and an array of firefighters and paramedics turned border guards. He’d had the standard training on these scenarios, but never figured out what to say. He looked at her. Amber was twenty-three years old. At twenty-three you think a lot’s over. You’re part right. And yet the fun’s hardly begun. Seen it all, but not seen how it repeats ad infinitum.
What do you think life is for?
‘We should start getting back,’ he said. There was no answer. ‘Things are always better in the morning.’
‘Really?’
‘No. But I’m getting cold.’
‘You’ve got no idea,’ she said. ‘About the situation I’m dealing with right now.’
Belsey sighed. He stood up and went to join her beside the water.
‘Amber, in less than a fortnight I’m going to be charged with misconduct in the course of duty. A few weeks after that I’ll receive a seven- or eight-year custodial sentence. Prison for ex-police officers isn’t a happy place. So we’re both dealing with situations right now. You know what I mean? Don’t underestimate the shit other people deal with.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s life. Maybe that’s what it’s for: fucking up.’ He flicked his cigarette into the canal. Amber felt for his hand. She wove her fingers into his own, let her head roll back. He could feel her pulse throbbing.
‘Can you see that? The whitest one?’
Belsey looked up at the stars. More came into focus every second.
‘I think so. Just.’
‘That’s Venus. Did you know that on Venus it snows metal?’
‘Really?’
‘It’s so hot the metal comes out of the ground like water.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Isn’t it. Do you think I’m crazy?’
‘I think you live a crazy life,’ Belsey said. ‘Maybe you’re not crazy enough for it.’ But what he was thinking about was Mark Doughty’s bedroom. He wanted to bring them together, Amber and Mark, have them chat. Here he was instead. He’d crashed someone’s wet dream.
‘Let’s get you home.’
They walked back to the road. She took her shoes off and carried them as they crossed the empty slopes of Primrose Hill. When they got to her street Belsey went ahead. No photographers. He gave her a thumbs-up. She keyed in the gate code fast. Only when they were inside the house with the door closed did she exhale with relief.
‘We made it,’ Belsey said, wondering what was meant to happen now.
‘I’ve got to go to the bathroom,’ Amber said.
He fixed a drink from a well-stocked cocktail cabinet in the corner of the living room. A moment later he heard crying.
He went upstairs and found Amber on the floor of the bathroom in expensive-looking black underwear, Gillette’s legs of the year folded under her, retching into the toilet. Here was the glamour. Belsey crouched down and got her hair out of the way as she vomited again. Policing London you learned to analyse vomit more than blood splatter or ballistics. Amber’s was yellow. There was a lot of bile. No blood in it, little food. Not a huge amount of alcohol from the smell of it. Make-up had rubbed off her arms and he could see scars, two or three years old, across her wrists.
‘Have you taken anything?’
‘No.’
‘Any stomach pain?’
‘No. I’m fine. Give me a moment.’
Belsey gave her a moment. When he next went looking for her she was in bed with headphones on. Her clothes lay strewn over the bedroom floor.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
She nodded, very slowly. Breathing steadily, it seemed. She was fine. Relatively speaking.
Belsey returned to the party room and sat down. He plugged his phone in to charge. Amber’s laptop was open on the floor. He didn’t want to pry. But he checked the screen. ‘Become the most attractive version of yourself and be magnetic in personal and business relationships. What’s stopping you living the life you want to lead? Try this simple survey.’
A free personality test. The one he’d seen at Mark’s. And it looked like Amber had tweeted it, beamed it into the radar of another discontented soul. ‘Love this!’ ‘Find professional success and fulfilling relationships by simply knowing yourself better. Discover your true personality. Question 1: What is life for?’
So it was Positively Happy Surveys that had put her in such a philosophical frame of mind this evening. The question looked less overwhelming in this context. You had to grade answers out of five. They included ‘making money’, ‘learning’, ‘family’ and ‘having fun’.
He closed the laptop. Strange life, he thought. In an odd way, Amber’s high-altitude existence resembled his last couple of weeks: a life without the everyday questions that come with normality, just the unanswerable ones. Like it’s always the middle of the night.
He took his drink out to the balcony and looked for Venus. He felt, in the last flickers of well-being, as if he’d circumnavigated the globe and understood it all. The night air was crisp, sky clear. To the north he could see the sullen towers of Mark Doughty’s estate. Belsey raised his drink towards them and knocked it back.
6
VOICES WOKE HIM, SHOUTED INSTRUCTIONS from the floor below. He was on a leather sofa in the party room
, beneath a wall of gold discs. His shirt and jacket had served as a blanket. His shoes and trousers were on the floor beneath the mirror ball.
It sounded like the film crew were back. Belsey assumed the business-like sounds downstairs meant no one had stumbled upon Amber blue and cold. He felt surprisingly OK. He got up, stretched. Interesting evening: an insight into the world of Amber Knight. Ruined, as every other world. Still, in a selfish way, it had been therapeutic and, alongside the usual morning despair, he felt something unsettling. Hope. Hope enflamed by the recent proximity of lucky people. Hope somehow born of seeing Amber Knight vomiting bile.
Belsey found his phone still plugged in. He turned it on. It told him it was quarter to eight and he had five missed calls. Which wasn’t so unusual since he’d been on the run. He didn’t usually check them. But he didn’t usually have one from a number he’d saved as ‘Princess’. That was a teenage kick. He’d forgotten the feeling – a call from someone you wanted to hear from. Someone other than Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary, who never put out. Chloe was a bit of the fairy tale he’d quite like to sustain. He’d give it an hour then try calling her. Then figure out how to effect a transition into his actual life, which didn’t bear thinking about. Invite her back to the abandoned police station: blow her aristocratic mind?
Four other calls: numbers he knew and numbers he didn’t. Three messages.
Belsey listened to a message.
‘Nick. Hope I’m through to your phone. This is Andy Price from AP Total Media. Someone gave me your number. I’d like to buy you a drink and we can talk about where things go from here. I’ve got some very interested people waiting.’
Where things go from here. He checked the next message.
‘Nicky, mate. It’s Gez. Is that really you? What are you up to, you crazy bastard?’
He felt the first ripple of concern and went online. He ran a search on Amber Knight. First hit was the Mail, a story posted two hours ago: ‘Mystery friend escorts Amber as she parties five days before wedding.’ They had a picture from the start of the night, front of Loulou’s. There they were, in that no-man’s-land between Mercedes and red rope. Amber looked good. He looked like the kind of security that had been working in the desert with mujahedin. Beneath their photograph were other ‘couples’ arriving at last night’s ‘star-studded Bulaggi Blanca after-party’.
The House of Fame Page 5