Champagne Secrets

by Amanda Brunker

‘So what’s your next crusade, Ms Valentine, now that you’ve exposed the Brits as fame-hungry junkies? Gonna expose their royals for the Diana murder conspiracy? Or maybe pick a fight with Simon Cowell? Because, let’s be honest, the British people love being slagged off by the Irish, don’t they?’

  Knocked off my moral high ground, I released some stress from my shoulders and fell into Parker’s chest looking for a hug. Putting on a pretend-Quasimodo voice, I snuggled my face up under his, pulled my best girlie smile and growled, ‘Am I a monster?’

  Unable to take me seriously, Parker pushed me aside with a wave of his hand, doing his own little impression of a diva WAG. ‘I can’t be around you.’ He smirked, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Now that you’ve gone to the dark side, I’m not sure I can trust you.’

  Continuing my monster voice, I laughed. ‘It’s true. I’m not sure I can trust myself any more … maw … maw … maw … maw!’

  Twelve hours later, I had just finished my final interview with a Liverpudlian radio station when my phone started to ring again, flashing up another UK phone number. Tempted to let it ring out, since I had completed all the requirements of the deal that day, a pang of guilt hit me and I felt obliged to answer. ‘Hello?’ I croaked, my voice worn out from all the interviews.

  ‘Hello, is that Eva Valentine?’ It was a male voice at the other end. ‘I’m looking for Eva, please, if she’s about.’

  Weary after my long day telling the same story over and over again, I let out a mini-diva moan. ‘Yep, this is she. Whaddya wanna know?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ came the reply, sounding a little taken aback. ‘Well, it’s not something I can go into in too much detail on the phone, really, but I just wanted to touch base with you over a little idea I had.’

  ‘Would this request be of a personal or professional nature?’ Slightly stroppy with the hunger, I walked into my kitchen and started making myself a sandwich.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself properly, I’m such a plonker. My name is Bradley Brady, and I’m a producer for a film and documentary company called Brady Reel Time Films.’

  Stuffing a biscuit into my mouth as I buttered some bread, I managed an ‘Umhum’ to let him know I was still listening.

  ‘I’m working on a little project at the moment, which I unfortunately can’t say too much about, but after listening to several of your interviews today, I really feel that you have the right personality to come on board with us. Have I lost you yet?’

  ‘Ehhh.’ I swallowed to clear my throat. ‘No, I’m still here, but with all due respect, Mr Bradley …’

  ‘It’s just Bradley, though you can call me Mr Brady.’ He laughed. ‘It makes me feel very important sometimes.’ He continued to giggle at his weak joke, and I did something I never do, and hung up the phone. The phone rang a further three times, but I managed to ignore it and went to join Daisy and an extremely drained Parker, who had spent most of the day taking care of her.

  Devoid of the power of speech, I spent the rest of the evening in relative silence, just snuggling with Daisy until it was time for both of us to go to bed. As always Parker had been my rock throughout the day. Although he’d said he’d had work commitments, he’d done his best to divert any guilt I might have had over his babysitting service with a casual, ‘Listen, it was only a lunch thing. George Clooney can wait!’

  The next morning I arrived into the office at YES! and was pounced upon by everyone – even the MD of the magazine, Nigella Hartigan, who never showed her face around the office unless there was an audit or a big advertiser needing a guided tour. Today I was treated to a gruff bear hug that almost left me speechless. ‘I’ve always liked you, Eva,’ Hartigan grinned. ‘This is your time. Continue to search your potential.’

  The rest of the staff prodded me for details and gushed, ‘Oh-my-God! You’re famous. We’re not worthy!’

  After an overly excited morning meeting I was finally able to escape to the local Hughes & Hughes to get myself the papers and to Starbucks for a decent coffee – skinny latte, hazelnut splash – and have a moment’s peace. The office only had a small staff of about five people, but I was exhausted from the constant attention and, feeling like I had jet-lag, I sat on the stone wall of a nearby bank, switched my mobile to silent and watched the world go by. It was only after my bum had started to go a bit numb from the cold cement beneath me and I’d dribbled the last drop of latte out of my paper cup that I had built up the energy to open the bundle of newspapers I had bought.

  Despite seeing her photograph on the front page of the Sun back in the newsagent, I had ignored the headline ‘Issey Loses Her Knickers’, a story explaining how she’d lost some lucrative lingerie contract after being exposed as a brawler. The Mirror was running a story on Tanya and how she had gone into hiding yet was suspected of checking into rehab, while the Mail and the Star claimed that both Tanya and Issey were fighting over John Mayer after an insider claimed that they had both separately been spotted in London nightclubs hanging off him. I tried to enjoy a daydream inspired by John where he described me as his ‘sexual napalm’, and thought about how I wouldn’t mind getting up close and personal with him myself – but my bum had reached its limit of numbness.

  The rest of the day I struggled to write up my German holiday weekend feature while trying to resist the urge to punctuate it with silly references such as, ‘Great for sight-seeing, but try Baden-Baden for WAG violence.’

  By 5.29 p.m. I was home at my none-too-salubrious Park Avenue flat, just in time to relieve my amazing new child-minder, Alice. She had only been with us since the end of November and had been recommended to me by Down’s Syndrome Ireland, but even though it hadn’t yet been a full two months I could already see a huge improvement in Daisy’s alertness and development. Lumping Daisy on my hip and showering her with kisses as I headed for the kitchen to grab myself some food, I hit the flashing voicemail button on the landline and busied myself with dinner.

  ‘You have six new messages,’ sounded my automated American female friend. Off the top of my head I couldn’t think of six people I knew with my home number, but I was hungry, and nothing made sense to me when I was without food in my belly.

  ‘Beep … It’s Parker. Clooney wants to know if you could set up a date for him with the WAGs as he’s not getting any publicity for his new movie, and they’re hogging all the column inches. Oh, and he says if you ever cancel one of my lunches with him again he’ll hunt you down and talk politics at you all evening. OK, call me.’

  ‘Beep … It’s your mum here.’ Her voice sounded despairing as she let out a long sigh. ‘Well, Eva, another scandal for the neighbours to talk about. I’m not happy. I don’t know when your father will be able to mow the front garden again. It’ll be weeks before this dies down and we can leave the house. You can’t ignore me for ever. I’ll be expecting your call.’

  ‘Beep … Hi, it’s Lisa. I fucking love it. Rehab, love trysts, sounds like my kinda weekend. Call me, I want ALL the gories.’

  ‘Beep … Eva, it’s Bradley Brady here. I’m not sure what happened last night, but I’d like to talk with you about a really exciting opportunity I have and, well, I’m not very good talking into these things, can you call me? My number should have registered on your phone. Emm, please call me when you get a chance.’

  ‘Beep … OK, it’s Bradley Brady here again.’ This time his voice had a more urgent tone. ‘I’m not a stalker, but I need you to ring me. I’ve got a job offer for you. I’m going out on a limb here because I reckon you think I’m mad. But I want to offer you a job as an undercover reporter. I think you’re made for it. It’s highly secretive, so I need you to keep this tight, but it’s a genuine offer, and you’d be handsomely paid. Emm, OK, so call me, if we can get you on board, we’d need you in London by the end of next week to get things started. Thanks, talk soon.’

  Gobsmacked, I just stood in the kitchen staring at the microwave as Daisy tugged at my blouse and slobbered all ove
r my shoulder. Undercover reporter, was he mental? London? Not in a million years could I consider it.

  ‘Beep …’ Not wanting to hear another message, I was just about to switch on the microwave – which contained a depressed-looking low-fat quiche – when I heard Bradley’s voice again. ‘Hi, Eva, I know my last couple of messages might have sounded a little nutty, but it’s all above board. I’d been pulling my hair out trying to find the right guy to do this project, and then I heard you on the radio yesterday and it just clicked. We need a woman’s touch. Call me and let’s make this happen. Bye for now.’

  Doing my best to stay calm, I went through my routine of eating, playing with Daisy, bathing her, and singing her favourite bedtime song several times over until she dozed off to sleep with her bottle tucked up under her arm. I had become slightly calmer since becoming a mother. Being flighty had previously been the norm for me, but when Daisy came into my life I had learned to control my emotions and show restraint. Well, some restraint – the second she had drifted off into the land of soft pink bunnies I was generally straight on the phone to Parker with a glass of Pinot Grigio in hand.

  Forty minutes and two large glasses of vino later and Parker had worked out my interview wardrobe, which he decided must be all-black Prada like his, only with a feline touch and a cape something similar to Halle Berry’s in Catwoman. And that I would need to adopt a Russian accent and say things like ‘KGB’ at random moments to give me a sexy undercover-agent edge.

  I was just in the middle of practising, ‘My name is Valentine … Eva Valentine,’ when Bradley Brady’s number flashed through on my phone. ‘It’s him, I’m gonna take it,’ I said, hanging up before Parker had a chance to stop me. Putting on my best sober voice, I answered in what I thought would be a calm yet sultry tone. ‘Helloooo, Bradley,’ I gushed, no doubt sounding exactly what I was – piddly drunk. ‘How are you this evening?’

  ‘Not as good as you, I gather,’ he chuckled.

  I thought about continuing my smooth telephone voice, and then decided to hell with it. ‘OK, Bradley.’ I sat up on the couch to compose myself and placed my empty glass on the coffee table. ‘Let me put all my cards on the table, so as not to waste anyone’s time.’

  I could hear him take a deep intake of breath before he spoke. ‘OK.’

  ‘All right then, Bradley, I’m a single mother, what do you think of that?’

  ‘That’s not an issue, Eva,’ he answered back smartly. ‘The job will mainly require you to work within office hours, with an occasional few hours in the evening.’

  ‘And what sort of contract are you offering me?’

  ‘Six months, possibly only five, but the fee is a hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ I blurted it out without thinking.

  ‘No, straight up, that’s the fee.’

  ‘What do I have to do for that money, kill someone?’

  I could hear him chuckle at the other end. The frantic tone in his voice had faded away. ‘Not this gig, Eva. Maybe in future projects. But what we need from you are eyes and ears, Eva. Someone on the ground who can blend into the crowd and deliver concise video reports about what they see.’

  Almost too nervous to hear the answer I asked, ‘And what will I be seeing, exactly?’

  ‘Dodgy dealings. Sex. Rock ’n’ roll.’ He paused to get my reaction, but I needed to hear more. ‘You’ll be working in a restaurant, Eva. We’ll get you a job as a hostess or waitress or something, and you will report back what you see.’

  ‘Are you mad? Do you want me to expose the mafia or something?’

  ‘No, not quite, but it’s a corrupt business that needs to be exposed and shut down. This is a documentary for TV4. We have most of the evidence already in place, we just need to put the final nail in the coffin – and that’s you.’

  ‘But you haven’t even seen me, how do you know I’m not some hound that has bad waitressing skills?’

  ‘Well, are you a hound? And do you have bad waitressing skills?’

  ‘Eh, no, I’m top class on both, actually.’

  ‘Well, then,’ declared Bradley, ‘I take it you’re in.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’ I started to get flustered. ‘There’s no way I’m doing it for a hundred thousand.’

  Unfazed he asked, ‘Well, how much then?’

  Getting carried away with myself I barked, ‘Two hundred thousand.’

  ‘No chance,’ came the reply. ‘I can push to a hundred and fifty K all in, no expenses. When can you fly over to London to meet with me?’

  ‘Eh … Saturday?’

  ‘OK, Eva Valentine, I’ll be back in touch with details for your flight later in the week. Don’t let me down. I have faith in you. Make sure you have it in yourself.’

  The following few days in work dragged. I couldn’t concentrate on writing, and everything annoyed me – from the time it took my computer to switch on to the dodgy M button on my keyboard that had been threatening to give up the ghost for over six months now. Every time I hit the M it would wobble. It was weak and flaky, just like my husband Michael had been, and it was a constant reminder of the M tattoo on my ankle that I had picked up on our honeymoon and still hadn’t gotten round to getting lasered off.

  I hated Michael, but hated myself just as much for getting hitched to a man I barely knew enough to trust. For legal reasons we had to be separated for two years before we could get divorced. I would have to remain married to the cheater for a while to come; that sort of foolishness would never happen again. Yes, I wanted to find true love. And there were plenty of nights when I would cry with the loneliness, but friends were for ever, and if I desired male attention, well, non-committal one-night stands always served a purpose.

  By Friday evening my nerves about my upcoming interview had sent me over the edge, and crabby didn’t come close to describing my mood. So when I dropped Daisy off at my parents’ house, pretending I was heading to a wedding in Kilkenny early the next morning, I didn’t hang around for friendly chit-chat. It was now standard practice that my mother showed more interest in my daughter than me, and today it suited me down to the ground. I always felt she was scrutinizing Daisy for signs of neglect so she could criticize me afterwards, and I wasn’t in the mood to cope. A quick, ‘Thanks, Mum, here’s her bag, talk to you Sunday,’ a kiss and a hug for Daisy, and I was back out the door, no questions asked.

  Once in the car, I cranked up the music, rotated my head a few times and released some stress from my shoulders. With Daisy in safe hands I instantly felt a weight of pressure lift, so I pulled off down the road, warming myself up on a cold January evening by singing along to U2’s ‘Get On Your Boots’. I had just walked back in the door of the flat when a text beeped through from Lisa. ‘Hey, babe, I’m bored, can U get babysitter?’

  Although I had planned my night-before-the-interview evening in detail while sitting in the heavy Friday-evening traffic home – soaking in the bath, ironing my clothes while watching The Late Late Show, and early to bed – all this was immediately dismissed. I texted back right away. ‘Sorted. Any ideas?’ And I made a shallow Cinderella promise to myself to be back in bed by midnight at the latest.

  By 1.30 a.m. I was sitting in the back of a people carrier swigging from the neck of a bottle of champagne, en route to a private party in the Haven Hotel, and trying in vain not to spill alcohol everywhere. All my best intentions had gone out the window after Parker had joined me and Lisa in Krystle nightclub with a couple of young Aussie actors, Blake and Blair, who were in town on a recce for a surf movie. After spending a couple of days riding the waves of Bundoran and Long Strand the guys were crudely keen to ‘get a gutful of piss and hook up with some hotties’, according to Parker.

  Despite the fact that Lisa and myself were probably the wrong side of twenty-five, not to mention thirty, for their preference, it was clear that aside from their crassness they were well-brought-up young men. They remembered their manners by not being ageist, and by getting their tongues s
tuck down both Lisa’s throat and mine. By the time we got back to their hotel suite I had begun to repeat the catch-phrase, ‘Respect your elders,’ which, for some crazy reason, I found hilarious.

  My young friend Blair somehow also found it funny, and kept falling to his knees in spectacular fashion while flailing his well-toned arms in the air and begging, ‘Please can I disrespect you tonight? I promise to respect you in the morning!’ Looking down at this handsome, fit young man begging me for sex, I couldn’t help but give in to temptation. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence any more, and he was making me feel so desirable and sexy.

  ‘I first need to judge your champagne kisses before I sleep with you …’ I pronounced matter-of-factly, as I swung my companion bottle of Moët teasingly in his direction.

  ‘Here she goes again,’ chimed Parker and Lisa together.

  ‘Beg yours?’ asked Blair with a puzzled face.

  ‘It’s her party trick.’ Lisa giggled, before planting another slobbery kiss on Blake’s open mouth and whispering, ‘And this is what is called the Princess kiss.’

  Bemused, Blair continued to look at Parker for advice, obviously in case he thought it involved a risky practice. He might have been a dude, but, thinking about it, I realized he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two.

  Parker, of course, was on hand to reassure his pet project. ‘Don’t worry yourself. It involves nothing illegal. She just wants you to knock back some champagne and then transfer it into her mouth by kissing her.’

  ‘But you’ve gotta do it well.’ I took Blair’s face in my spare hand and shook it around as I spoke. ‘You don’t pass the champagne kisses test, then you don’t get any more Eva lovin’.’

  Back in his comfort zone, Blair took my hand in his and kissed it quickly several times. ‘I’m good with making a splash. That’s what I do.’ And he wasn’t lying either. Not wanting to waste time, he pulled me and my bottle of champagne into the bathroom and began to strip me of my clothes. ‘I’m gonna turn you into a Blair witch and make you scream with pleasure!’ purred my bleached-blond play-thing as he pulled down the zips of my black, knee-length fuck-me boots.