Million Dollar Mates

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘Can we see one?’ I asked.

  ‘No. There might still be people working in them,’ said Dad as he pulled a key from his pocket. ‘But I can show you one that hasn’t been sold yet. I have the keys to number thirty. Maybe I can sneak you in to see one that’s been refurbished later.’

  ‘How much do they cost?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ Dad replied. ‘The ones at the lower end start with a two and a five.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand?’ I said. ‘That’s pretty good for this area.’

  Dad shook his head.

  ‘Two million five hundred?’ Charlie suggested. ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ said Dad, and he made a gesture with his hand to say that we should up our price. ‘Twenty-five million. And that’s just for starters. One of the penthouses just sold for ninety-four million.’

  ‘What!?’ Charlie and I chorused.

  ‘No way,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Let’s deffo have a look then,’ I said. I tried to work out how many tops I could buy for that kind of money. Only about a billion trillion squillion.

  ‘Why so much?’ asked Charlie. ‘This place is pretty cool but for that amount of dosh, it doesn’t look so special.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dad. ‘Wait until you see inside. One of our residents is spending eight million on their apartment interior alone, plus this is the most prestigious postcode in London. Harrods and Harvey Nichols are a mere stone’s throw away . . .’

  I laughed. ‘Cool. We can tell our mates at school that our corner shop is Harrods: “Just popping out for a pint of milk, Monty dahling.”’

  Dad laughed too and some of the tension I’d been feeling since we’d got here dissipated.

  ‘And Sloane Street isn’t far,’ I added. ‘Yummy scrum shops there.’

  ‘And downstairs, there are plenty of car parking spaces,’ continued Dad. ‘Which is unusual, given that a single parking place round here can cost up to three hundred thousand pounds to buy.’

  Charlie let out a low whistle. ‘Mega bucks.’

  Dad pointed at the floor. ‘We have four hundred of them underneath here in the car park.’

  ‘Aunt Maddie would have a heart attack,’ I said.

  ‘The main thing about this place, though, is that it’s serviced. There are lots of apartment blocks all over the city but only a handful of them are serviced.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘It means it works like a hotel, which is probably why you thought it felt like one. We have our own staff here, but also work in tandem with those at the Imperial Lotus hotel next door. So we can use their kitchens and chefs, if, for example, a resident wants a banquet at midnight, or even something as simple as a sandwich. We can also use their laundry service twenty-four/seven if we need to.’

  ‘Oh Jeeves, have my undies washed, pressed, sprayed with French perfume and brought up to my room,’ I said in a posh voice.

  Dad ignored me. ‘All the apartments have their own kitchens and some residents travel with their own cooks,’ he went on. ‘My job is to ensure that whatever the residents want on top of what their own staff do, it’s provided.’

  ‘How much does that cost a year?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘The service charge? Around fifty thousand pounds,’ said Dad. ‘But sometimes it’s not that much, as residents have so many of their own staff as well. One’s taken four apartments, two of which are just for his staff. He has thirty-five people in all, some of whom will live in, and others who’ll live out in apartments nearby.’

  ‘Thirty-five staff?’ I asked. ‘To do what?’

  ‘Chef, laundry maid, PA, masseur, hairdresser, nanny, chauffeur, pilot . . . that sort of thing. Oh, and of course, bodyguards: there’ll be quite a few of them around the place.’

  ‘Quite right. I’ll be bringing my own personal slaves with me, too,’ I said.

  ‘Is that right?’ said Dad, as he put the key in a door. ‘That’s me and Charlie covered, then. Still want to take a look?’

  I nodded. ‘Duh,’ I said.

  ‘Here we are.’ He beckoned us in. ‘After you, Madam, Sir. And before you say that this is still like a hotel, Jess, you have to remember that what you’re seeing is just the base. Most of the residents will rip out what’s been installed by the developers and put in decor to suit their own taste.’

  We followed Dad into a wide circular hallway done in marble, smoked glass and blonde wood. A short corridor led into a vast open-plan space that almost took my breath away.

  ‘Wow,’ Charlie and I chorused.

  Natural light poured through the double height floor-to-ceiling glass walls, giving a panoramic view over Hyde Park. The empty room felt like it was suspended in space.

  ‘As I said,’ said Dad. ‘A blank canvas.’

  ‘This room is the size of a tennis court,’ said Charlie, as he crossed the highly-polished floor to look out at the view of the park spread below us.

  ‘I’d love to see what whoever buys it does with it,’ I said as I went to join him. ‘This is like looking out over the world. It’s amazing. Like the entire park is your back garden.’

  We gazed out over the trees and the loops of the River Thames winding away into the distance.

  ‘You’d never think you were in a city,’ said Charlie, ‘it’d be great to sit out here and just watch it all.’

  ‘And it must be magical at night,’ I said as Dad opened the doors out onto the terrace that ran the length of the apartment.

  Dad nodded. ‘Particularly on the side which looks out over the city. The glass is light-sensitive. It darkens at night so that although you can see out, no-one can see in.’

  The view was even better out on the terrace, where steps led up to a decked area with a small pool.

  ‘Hot tub for watching the stars,’ said Dad. ‘One of the penthouse suites even has its own infinity pool up on the roof.’

  ‘Heaven. When can I move in?’ I asked.

  Dad smiled and beckoned us back inside. ‘Look in the bedroom.’

  We followed him into a vast bedroom on the other side of the apartment where we saw the familiar view of Harrods in the distance and Harvey Nichols to the left.

  ‘Awesome,’ I said. ‘Town and country depending which way you’re looking, though I guess the apartments on the lower floors don’t have such great views.’

  ‘It’s amazing the cutting-edge technology these apartments have – walk-through, heat-activated lights, surround-sound,’ Dad continued in his role as tour guide. ‘You can choose the music when you come in and have it follow you around from room to room, and many of the residents will have their own private cinemas.’

  ‘Wowza,’ called Charlie from behind us. ‘Check out this bathroom, Jess.’

  I went to join him and gasped. The bathroom was bigger than Gran’s living room. A single sheet of pale rose marble covered the floor, a darker marble – the colour of blue ink – was on the wall and two floor-to-ceiling mirrors made the room look as if it went on forever. It felt surreal as I looked at repeat images of myself receding into the distance.

  Dad tapped his foot on the floor. ‘They used the finest marble. Rose aurora from Portugal. Costs a fortune.’

  ‘And you say some people will actually rip this out?’ I asked.

  Dad shrugged. ‘If it’s not to their taste.’

  ‘So if a resident’s redecorating, it’d be a good day to look in the skips around here,’ Charlie commented.

  ‘It would,’ said Dad. ‘Only their decorators don’t do skips.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What sort of people are going to live here?’ I asked.

  ‘All sorts. It’ll be international – Germans, Russians, Americans, Arabs, Japanese, Italians, Indians, you name it . . .’

  ‘Martians?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Maybe a few of those, too,’ said Dad. ‘If they can afford it.’

  ‘Rich folk,’ said Charlie.
/>   ‘Very rich folk,’ agreed Dad. ‘Some of the richest in the world.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see in some of the apartments that have been done,’ I said.

  ‘They are out of this world but you have to remember that most of the residents have bought here for privacy, so I can’t really show you around.’

  ‘Oh please, Dad. Please. Just a peek.’

  Dad laughed and shook his head. ‘The security system here was created by the SAS. It’s presidential standard – panic rooms, bullet-proof windows . . .’

  Charlie whistled. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘It’s virtually impossible to get into – and you want me to let you have a nose around?’ Dad continued.

  I nodded. ‘Yep.’

  For a brief second, Dad looked like a naughty boy. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Maybe once. Just once. Now. Where else? On the fifth floor is a hospitality suite with a bar and an outside terrace for when any of the residents wish to entertain outside of their home, but the decorators have been in there today and the walls and doors are probably still wet. So – how about the spa?’

  ‘There’s a spa? Cool,’ I said.

  He took us down to the ground floor and through to the back, where a whole area was hidden behind a tall sanded glass partition. Down some steps and through a small reception room was an Olympic-size swimming pool, the bottom of which was made up of different-coloured blue and turquoise mosaic tiles. I couldn’t help but grin.

  ‘You left the best to last,’ I said.

  Dad looked puzzled. ‘Why’s that?’

  I pointed at my chest. ‘Championship swimmer. Remember?’

  Dad hesitated and a look of concern flashed over his face. ‘Of course, er . . . let’s get on, shall we?’ He led us through another door into a large airy gym. It was Charlie’s turn to perk up.

  ‘All the latest equipment. Treatment rooms, a sauna, jacuzzi, steam room,’ Dad continued. ‘At the back there are two all-weather tennis courts and behind that some squash courts.’

  It was too much to take in, but what I did get was that I, Jess Hall, would be living in the tip top topper-most of Poshville. I couldn’t wait to tell Pia all about it.

  By the time Dad dropped me at Pia’s house later that afternoon, my mind was buzzing with possibilities. What colour to do my room. What posters to put on the walls. How to make the bland house we were going to live in more homely. And that gorgeous pool. I could swim every morning without having to get a bus! Bliss and a half.

  Pia lived in an end-of-terrace house with a garden that overlooked cricket grounds at the back. I loved going there. Her mum ran a mini health centre from their home and she really knew how to create a peaceful atmosphere – like no matter what mood you arrived in, part of you went ‘Ahhhh!’ as soon as you walked through their front door. It always smelt divine – from the lavender and rose oils that Pia’s mum burnt in the hall – plus the house had been feng shui-ed, so it had a good vibe and was painted in soft pastel colours that were easy on the eye. Mrs Carlsen had done loads of different courses and could do every type of massage going: from Indian to Swedish to sports. She gave me a head massage once after Mum died and it was pure heaven, even though I did cry my eyes out halfway through. My defence of being tough and coping just crumbled, partly because I suddenly realised that I would never experience the soothing touch of my mum’s hands again and partly because Mrs Carlsen had a knack of getting at whatever’s bothering a person. She’s a force to be reckoned with, is Pia’s mum, and I’m slightly intimidated by her. I’m also scared that somehow she’ll get my biggest secret out of me when my defences are down, the one that I’ve never told anyone, not even Pia. Mrs Carlsen is mega together – the sort of person who makes the most of things, gets stuff done and asks exactly what she wants to know, which can be difficult if you have something to hide and she gets you in her radar. She’d have been a great policewoman getting criminals to confess – but then she’d be good at anything, really, if she set her mind to it.

  Pia says that business hasn’t been good lately, though – people are cutting back and luxuries like being pampered are one of the first things to go. Her mum still has her regular clients, but they visit her once a month now, instead of once a week like they used to.

  Pia’s worried that her mum won’t be able to keep paying the rent and that they might have to move to somewhere cheaper when the lease is up for renewal, and her mum might even have to look for a new career. I was sure that Mrs Carlsen would come up with some plan or other but it made me realise how selfish I’d been, objecting so much to the move away from Gran’s – at least my dad had a job and we’d have a secure home. Uber-secure, I thought, when I remembered that the SAS had created the security system.

  ‘Hey,’ said Pia, as we went through to the kitchen. ‘Mum found an article about that place you’re moving into in one of the supplements today.’

  ‘Really? What did it say?’

  ‘Apparently Jefferson Lewis is moving there.’

  ‘Jefferson Lewis, the actor?’

  ‘Yup. And his family.’

  ‘Really? Dad never told me.’ Jefferson Lewis was a mega Hollywood star, one of the most famous and highly-paid African-American actors in the world. I’d seen all his movies.

  ‘That’s what it said,’ said Pia. ‘Him and his family.’ She rummaged through a pile of papers and found the magazine. ‘Here it is: “Jefferson Lewis will be moving to Number 1, Porchester Park, the new luxury apartment block in Knightsbridge. It will be home to the elite – oil barons, oligarchs, Saudi princes and A-list stars.”’

  ‘What’s an oligarch?’ I asked.

  ‘I wondered that. I asked Mum. She said it’s a wealthy businessman who has a lot of political influence and is part of the government. I think she said they’re Russian. Something like that.’

  ‘Oligarch. Sounds like a character out of Lord of the Rings,’ I said, ‘or some weird fairy tale. Like, the fairies live on the top floor, the elves on the fourth floor, third floor is the giants and trolls, second floor, the oligarchs.’

  Pia laughed and flicked through the magazine, then pointed to a photo of Jefferson Lewis with a woman and two teenagers: a boy who looked about seventeen and a girl of about our own age.

  ‘“Jefferson Lewis with his wife Carletta, son Jerome, and daughter Alisha”,’ read Pia. ‘Jerome’s handsome, isn’t he?’

  I glanced at the picture and nodded. ‘He looks cool and Alisha is pretty.’

  Pia continued reading. ‘“Jefferson Lewis is over here working on his new film, Time After Time, but has told the press that he would like a permanent base here in the UK.”’ Pia glanced up at me and grinned. ‘Excellent.’

  I grinned back. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ Hmm, I thought. Maybe life at the new block isn’t going to be quite so boring after all.

  4

  The Price of Fame

  ‘I have to sign on your behalf and I . . . um, I’m sure you don’t, but I have to ask, check, that is, that neither of you have . . . er, a criminal record,’ said Dad. Charlie and me had been back at school a few days and Dad had dropped in on Wednesday evening to go over a few details about the move in just over two weeks’ time.

  Gran burst out laughing.

  ‘What? Like are we international drug dealers or shoplifters?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘No – yes, that sort of thing. Nonsense, I know, but everyone who is going to work or live at Porchester Park has to be checked by the Criminal Records Bureau,’ said Dad. He shifted in his chair and looked embarrassed about having asked us.

  ‘Oh, Michael, you surely know your own kids well enough to know the answer,’ said Gran.

  Dad smiled, but he looked strained. He often did when he was round at Gran’s. I think he was intimidated by her, probably because Gran had always felt that Mum and Dad should have stuck with their marriage. She often said her generation didn’t do divorce.

  I felt for Dad, so decided to try and lighten the situation. ‘What about that ti
me you wore those purple velvet jeans, Charlie?’ I said. ‘I’d call those criminal. Write that down, Dad. I think the residents at the new block need to be warned about Charlie’s dress sense, or rather lack of it.’

  ‘You can talk!’ Charlie replied.

  ‘At least I wear jeans that fit me. The crotch on yours is down by your knees and they’re so low on your hips that most days you can see your underwear. Yeah, Dad, warn the residents. Bum alert. Son of manager is likely to do a moonie at any moment.’

  Dad laughed, then glanced at Gran. ‘Yes, well – although there’s no dress code as such, you must be reasonably smart. Also . . . I’m sure there’s no real need for this but I need to remind you of the responsibility you, we – as a family – will be taking on with this new position. I must insist that you keep and respect the privacy of the residents.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I blurted. Probably a bit too quickly and I hoped that Dad didn’t see me blush. News that I was going to be moving to Poshville had spread round school like a Chinese whisper, getting more and more outrageous as it travelled. Leonardo di Caprio was going to be a resident. Prince Charles. A couple of African princes. Top film directors. Billionaire rock stars . . . Yet, even though those particular people wouldn’t be living there, the rumours weren’t actually that far from the truth. And I was enjoying the attention. I couldn’t help it. The fact that I would be living in close proximity to people with mega bucks was too good not to share. People were well impressed. The move was giving me kudos. I’d even noticed Tom checking me out one morning at break when I was talking to Charlie, although I suppose he might have been looking to see if I was going to go into my Zombie Queen routine again.

  ‘But . . . um, Dad, sometimes people just find out things,’ I continued. ‘Like Pia read about the Lewises in the paper.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dad. ‘And that’s fine. Just don’t go giving people any gossip yourselves, that’s all I’m saying.’