by Mike Hockney
‘I bet you’re a fabulous fuck,’ it said.
Appalled, I twisted round. Leddington was sitting behind me, wearing a ridiculous white suit like some sort of pimp, and wraparound black shades. I scowled at him with as much distaste as I could muster, but he didn’t move a muscle.
I faced forward again, fuming. I figured it must be half term at Oxford: the inmates had been allowed out of the asylum.
‘The bid on the phone is six and a half million,’ the auctioneer said. ‘Do I see seven?’
I heard a gasp behind me, and looked round once more. Leddington was just bringing his numbered card down, to the obvious excitement of a middle-aged woman with a prominent pearl necklace sitting two along from him. I couldn’t believe it. Was he here on Zara’s behalf?
The auctioneer gave the phone bidder a fresh opportunity to raise the stakes.
Again, something nudged my feet – another auction programme, another obscene note from Leddington. ‘Do you give good head?’ it said. ‘I bet you’re a screamer in bed. Want to see my joystick?’
‘Seven and a half million on the phone,’ the auctioneer said.
At that, Leddington got up and walked out. I stalked out after him, catching up with him in the hall outside.
‘How dare you say those things to me,’ I yelled.
He smiled slyly. ‘You really are very attractive, you know.’ He licked his lips in a disgusting way.
‘Get away from me. I can’t stand you.’ I stared at those ridiculous shades of his, futilely trying to see his eyes.
‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a Sotheby’s groupie,’ he said. ‘I suppose you were one of those kids with a weird interest in the Antiques Roadshow.’
Well, he was right about that, but I ignored his comment. ‘How could you afford to bid on a Boucher? Were you taking the piss, or is Zara bankrolling you? Besides, isn’t Boucher a bit too chocolate box for someone with your morbid tastes?’
‘You think I’m a fraud, huh? Are you the expert these days? You’re the FakeFinder General, right? It must come from all that experience you have of looking into the mirror. Will the real Sophie York please stand up?’
‘Go screw yourself,’ I spat and stormed off towards the exit.
‘Don’t you love me anymore?’ he shouted after me. His voice sent a shudder through me. I confess I found him quite good looking, but he was utterly repellent in every other way. I carried on walking.
‘You’re not in the same league as your sister,’ he said as I reached the door.
I stopped dead. ‘What?’
‘Zara told me she met your sister once. Ophelia, wasn’t it? She was a real quality act by all accounts. Such a shame class doesn’t run in a family.’
I ran.
Outside, it was raining hard, and people were sheltering in doorways and fiddling with umbrellas. I found myself in the teeth of the downpour.
My head throbbed. Was it really true – had Zara known my sister? The thought repulsed me. I fumbled in my handbag for my purse, grabbed it then dropped it again. The purse had a photo of my sister in its back compartment. I always kept it close, and every day I longed to look at it, but it was just too painful. I’d never once managed to open that rear compartment.
Ophelia. She was three years older than me, and the Headgirl at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. She was in a school mini-bus returning from a trip and there was a head-on collision with a truck. They said afterwards that the truck driver was three times over the drink-drive limit, and taking medication for depression. He walked away without a scratch. The mini-bus driver and my sister were killed instantly. Five other girls were injured. The truck driver got a three-month jail sentence. Causing death by careless driving whilst under the influence of drink, the newspapers said.
My parents practically worshipped my sister’s memory. She was little short of a saint in their eyes. They were convinced she had been destined for greatness. In fact they’d sent me to a different school so that I couldn’t cause her any embarrassment. Effortlessly brilliant academically, she was eagerly accepted by Oxford. She was so beautiful. People said she could have been a model. Stylish, funny, charming, with loads of friends. Everyone who met her loved her. The girl who had it all. And me? I could never do anything right. Always in her shadow, always suffering by comparison. I was the stupid one, ungainly, the one without the natural grace and razor-sharp mind. The big letdown.
I couldn’t help wondering what Ophelia would have made of Zara. Would they have been best friends? Would Ophelia have regarded Zara as a much better sister than I was?
I dabbed my eyes. Even if Zara did know my sister, so what? It wasn’t as if our paths were ever likely to cross again. Thank God.
Chapter 31: Most Likely to Succeed
On a frosty morning in late October, I was having a mocha coffee in Starbucks. I enjoyed chilling out on my own, sipping my drink. I’d taken to reading a quality newspaper rather than a tabloid. I guess I was trying to educate myself. Life was back to normal, even slightly dull. I didn’t mind. I’d had my share of excitement for quite a while.
It was the same Starbucks where, two months ago, I’d met Francis Hamlin, the HR Director of Sotheby’s. He recognised me from my trips to the auction house and we got chatting over our cappuccinos. I was able to throw in all the stuff I’d learned from the Top Table. I must have impressed him because he said he’d be happy to offer me a job as a trainee auctioneer since they were always looking for people with the right qualities. That meant the right look, the right accent, a friendly personality, an interest in art and an ability to mix easily with wealthy people. It was a glamorous job, quite well paid and the working environment was superb. I’d get regular trips abroad to take part in foreign auctions and they’d pay for me to a take a part-time degree in Art History.
I couldn’t see myself studying at university. Nor did I think the pay could sustain me in my current lifestyle, but Francis had left it as an open offer, which I appreciated. He hadn’t come in that day, so I concentrated on my newspaper. The front page was devoted to a murder trial at the Old Bailey. Nothing so unusual about that, but when I flicked over, my mouth fell open. At the top of page three was a headline that made my hands tremble. ‘Millionaires’ Death Club?’ it asked. I read the article in amazement…
Following the tragic suicides of two Oxford undergraduates in the summer, another of their classmates has now been found dead in his rooms in Balliol College.
Marcus Gorman was the only son of Steven and Hayley Gorman, owners of a successful London publishing company. Neighbours reported that Marcus’s parents were too distraught to comment.
Police confirmed that a cleaner discovered Marcus’s body lying in a black coffin with two unopened bottles of rare champagne clutched in his hands. He was surrounded by fake gold coins and had an astronomical photograph of a dying sun over his heart. Cause of death was reported to be atropine poisoning. This was also the cause of death in the cases of Lawrence Maybury and Chloe Sanford. A spokesperson for the college issued a statement saying that Marcus had struggled to cope with the loss of his two friends and had been depressed for some time.
A suicide note was found that ended with the last words attributed to the French comic writer Rabelais: ‘Bring down the curtain, the farce is over.’
In a bizarre twist, police said that a stack of cards was found near the body, bearing the message: ‘Congratulations, you have been selected by the Millionaires’ Death Club’. It appears that Mr Gorman himself had designed these cards. The template was found on his computer together with an essay about his favourite book: The Suicide Club by Robert Louis Stevenson. Police revealed a previously undisclosed fact that cards of this type were also found on the bodies of Lawrence Maybury and Chloe Sanford.
It has been speculated that the three had a morbid fascination with death and created a secret club to pursue their interest.
My eyes filled with tears. Of all the Top Table’s weirdos, Marcus was the only one I’d
got close to.
The article contained a final revelation. An incomplete poem was found on Marcus’s computer. It was called simply You, and said:
The enchantment of summer soon fades
You told me
Dreaming of death we die of dreams
You told me
I love you
I never told you
I think of you and thinking of you I dream
Of summers fading and sunlit dreams dying
You are my summer dreaming
You are my death in the sun
You are…
I silently filled in the missing final word: Zara. Did he plan to show it to her one day? It’s never healthy to fly too near the sun. Coming so close had fatally scorched him. It could have happened to Sam too if he hadn’t recovered his senses.
So, the mystery of the Millionaires’ Death Club had finally been solved, it seemed. But what about the card Sam received in the lap-dancing club, and the reminder he got at Royal Ascot? The Elvis look-alike had planted those cards, not Marcus, Lawrence or Chloe.
The article went on to discuss if suicide was now fashionable. Apparently, online suicide clubs were springing up in alarming numbers. In Japan, police had been forced to restrict access to certain beauty spots because so many youngsters were killing themselves there. In Germany, a man arranged his suicide by agreeing to be eaten by a man with a cannibalism fetish. Suicide by cop – where people contrived to be shot dead by armed police – was a growing phenomenon all over the world. There was even a website called mysuicidespace.com which morbidly listed all of the MySpace users who had committed suicide. There were thousands of entries.
The article then speculated about whether a suicide epidemic amongst Oxbridge students was likely, if suicide was contagious.
There was a reference to a satirical novel called Zuleika Dobson: An Oxford Love Story, written in 1911 by someone called Max Beerbohm, which told the story of the entire lovelorn male student population of Oxford drowning themselves during the collegiate boat races. As they dived into the rain-lashed water, each of them shouted, ‘Zuleika!’ She was a femme fatale with whom they’d all fallen hopelessly in love, and her other claim to fame was that she was an expert at conjuring. It all sounded worryingly like Zara. The most memorable line from the book was, apparently, ‘Death cancels all engagements.’ It was exactly the sort of thing Zara would say.
The article said that philosophy students might be particularly susceptible to suicide given that Albert Camus wrote: There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.
Further on, the article reported that counsellors had been provided to all the students who’d shared classes with the three suicide victims. I found it hard to imagine Zara seeing a shrink. Whether I liked it or not, she’d been on my mind every day. I guess everyone wants to know how life turns out for someone like that.
A few days later, I got the phone call that threatened to drag me back into her world.
‘Guess what,’ Harry Mencken said, ‘the biggest, baddest whales are back in town. Grab your harpoon and get your ass over to the Sargasso.’
As soon as I heard his voice, I was once more in that extraordinary, overheated atmosphere of the summer. My old worries flooded back. I was sure Mencken would quiz me about NexS and I’d still have no answers and even fewer clues. In any case, I knew what happened to Captain Ahab when he went chasing Moby Dick. Obsessive quests aren’t good for your health. At least I’d see Sam again. I’d missed him so much. In fact I hadn’t had sex since that glorious Royal Ascot day.
I hurried over to the hotel, but I found only one familiar face in the foyer.
‘Where are Sam and Mencken?’ I asked Jez, trying to hide my disappointment.
‘Mencken’s gone out.’
‘So, what brings you here?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’m doing some promotional interviews.’
‘Has filming ended?’
‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
He invited me up to his room. Already, I sensed the sole reason he was in town was that something was up with Sam.
‘What’s this really about?’ I asked once we were alone in his suite.
Jez smiled awkwardly. ‘Sam’s gone awol. There’s only a week left of shooting. Mencken’s furious.’
‘What makes you think he’s in London?’
‘We found these in his trailer.’
Jez handed me two pieces of paper. The first was a printout from an online edition of The Sunday Times. It was an article entitled, ‘The next big things?’ There were profiles of fifty up-and-coming under-25s, Britain’s supposed future movers and shakers. A by-line said, ‘Watch out for these people in ten to twenty years’ time.’ Scanning the list, I saw that at number two was none other than Lady Zara Hamilton. The only person deemed more likely to succeed was – I had to look twice – Charles Leddington. Seemingly, not only did Leddington have a brilliant brain, he was also the star of the Oxford University debating society, the owner of a thriving multi-million pound Internet business and a prospective parliamentary candidate at the next general election. ‘A future prime minister?’ the article asked.
Jesus, no wonder he could bid for the Boucher painting. I flicked to the second piece of paper. It was an e-mail Sam had printed out:
Dia de los Muertos – November 2nd.
Mr Lincoln, you are cordially invited to the Top Table’s most special night of the year.
With much love,
Your devoted admirer, Zara.
‘Bitch,’ I exploded. Yet again, the siren had called and Sam couldn’t shut his ears.
‘So that’s where he’s disappeared to,’ I yelled. ‘She clicks her fingers and he runs to her like a puppy dog.’
‘Mencken wants you to go over to the mansion and bring Sam back,’ Jez said. ‘We need to persuade him to finish the shoot. After that, I don’t think we care what he does. We’ve had just about as much as we can take of Mr Lincoln.’
‘I don’t know what I’ll be able to do. I doubt he’ll listen to me.’
Jez put his hand on my arm. ‘Try anyway? You’ll be well rewarded.’
*****
I knocked on the door of the mansion and a few seconds later Charles Leddington appeared. I felt intimidated, convinced I was looking at a prime minister to be.
Opening the door wide, he extended his hand in a pretentious welcoming gesture. ‘Come in,’ he said in that plummy voice of his then escorted me into the Palm Room, so-called because it had at its centre a magnificent gold sculpture of a full-sized palm tree.
Zara entered moments later, looking as perfect as ever despite wearing army-surplus camouflage combats and an olive green army vest. I got the impression she’d been working out because her face was slightly flushed.
I stared at her and Leddington as they stood side by side. The country’s future? God help us all. What chance would normal people ever have in a society governed by those two? They were the sort who would go for full spectrum dominance, as the Americans liked to say.
‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked sharply.
‘He’s where he wants to be,’ Zara replied.
‘Why are you doing this to him?’
‘Doing what, exactly?’
‘You know what I mean.’ This woman sure knew how to wind me up. She had a gift for it, antennae that detected all the best sore spots. Did I really want to model myself on her?
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is you have in mind I can assure you he’s doing it to himself.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Are you in love with Sam?’ she asked.
I stood there, frozen. Was I? I mean, really. I’d always believed that if you had to think twice about it then you definitely weren’t.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Zara gave me a typically arrogant smile. ‘You sh
ouldn’t feel so bad. After all, there’s precious little difference between love and lies.’
‘I can see how someone like you might keep getting them confused.’
‘You can lie to someone only if you know their thoughts are different from yours. Love is exactly the same. They have the same source.’
‘Yeah, your twisted mind,’ I blurted. ‘But for normal people, love is the antidote to lies. You never lie to the ones you love.’
Zara smiled. ‘You obviously don’t get out enough,’ she sneered. ‘Lovers are the biggest liars of all. They even lie to themselves.’
‘I’m sure they lie to you,’ I grumbled. ‘It would be the only way to put up with you.’
‘Did you know that severe autistics lack the ability to understand that others have different thoughts?’ Zara went on as though she hadn’t heard me, ‘and it’s a proven fact that they can’t tell lies and nor can they fall in love.’ She turned away and looked at herself in a circular wall-mirror. ‘Maybe love is the biggest lie of all.’ She tidied loose strands of hair with her fingertips. ‘The grand deceit amongst all the petty deceptions.’
‘That’s the biggest crap I’ve ever heard.’
Zara spun round. ‘But you love me,’ she sang, ‘and yet you lie to yourself that you don’t.’
My mouth gaped open. I felt blood rushing to my face and I hoped it was anger and nothing else. ‘You’re nuts.’
Zara simply raised an eyebrow.
Leddington smiled. ‘We like you, Sophie. You’re welcome to join us for tonight’s festivities.’
‘We’re celebrating Dia de los Muertos,’ Zara said, making sure she held my gaze. ‘The Day of the Dead.’
My pulse raced. ‘Why don’t you let me talk to Sam?’
‘You seem to think we’re holding him prisoner. He’s not here.’
‘Where is he then?’