Champagne Secrets

by Amanda Brunker

  Trying to talk myself off a ledge – a ledge of excitement at the thought of getting my documentary finished – I started to bounce around in my seat to the music of Beyoncé, and began singing along to my own version of the lyrics, ‘Well, if you liked it then you shoulda stuck your finger up it …’ Despite hating the idea of socializing with a mere mortal, even the snottiest of models cracked pretty soon, and before the song had itself finished, the entire limo were singing along to my new version.

  We pulled up outside an old three-storey Victorian house that resembled a derelict-looking squat rather than a party palace fit for professional mannequins. Clearly a regular haunt for this crowd, it seemed that I was the only one to think the place looked like a shithole. Navigating my way around old sofas and piles of full black bin-liners as I walked up the garden path, I had to suppress screams of horror when I thought I saw a rat run out from behind a bush. The inside of the house offered a completely different set-up. Superbly finished, it was a tastefully decorated and elegantly restored building, absolutely in keeping with the period. Grand paintings loomed large on the walls, giant grandfather clocks ticked, and antique coat- and umbrella-stands stood proudly in the hall, as if waiting for the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

  Full of questions, I held my tongue as all the girls filed into one of the back rooms, where some nondescript dance music was promptly put on and everyone began lighting up cigarettes. Not quite comfortable in my surroundings, I tried to blend in by asking, ‘What do you have to do around here to score a drink?’

  An animated Ed Black replied, ‘Scoring me is always a good start!’

  That rippled in a collective slagging from the models, who teased, ‘Ah, you’re all right, we’re not that thirsty!’

  I found the side of a leather sofa to drape myself across, and did my best to look content with my own company. Soon enough Joshua arrived holding a basin of bottles, which included everything from vodka and champagne to some dodgy-looking cans of cider. As another girl arrived with armfuls of glasses, I cheekily offered my professional services to open the champagne, and teased that if I drank enough I just might manage to open it without the use of my hands. Claiming that he had seen that done before on a trip to Bangkok, Ed ordered that I start drinking immediately, and was just in the middle of telling Joshua the details when a stressed-looking Jake Lewis burst through the door. ‘You’re some bastards,’ he declared. ‘You lot are about as subtle as a puff at Gay Pride!’

  ‘Shut up and get your arse in here,’ snapped one of the models. ‘I need me some baggies.’

  ‘That’s no problem, Janice.’ Jake smiled. ‘You just need to show me some readies. There’s no more credit for you. I’ve told you before, and now I’ll tell you again: I’m not carrying you any more. I’m doing a spring clean through all my old tabs, and you, my lovely, are top of my list.’

  The room fell quiet as everyone assessed the stand-off between Janice and Jake. There were calls of ‘woooo’ that cut the tension, and one model, thinking she was hilarious, chanted, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight—’

  Ed Black interrupted, ‘Easy does it, guys,’ and ushered Jake back outside the door. Then he asked softly, ‘How much are we talking here, chief ? Maybe I can fix you up.’ After a few short words outside there was a loud screech from Ed: ‘How much?’ Followed by, ‘She can fuck off. No way, man.’ Back in the room, Ed screamed over at the model who’d reached her credit limit. ‘What the fuck do you do with it, Janice? Sprinkle the stuff on your cornflakes?’

  Visibly embarrassed, Janice picked up her bag and ran out of the room past both Jake and Ed, cursing them both as she went by. Showing no loyalty at all, the rest of the group sniggered with laughter at her humiliation and proceeded to make their own deals with Jake. As Ed settled himself on the chair next to me, I overheard him whisper to the girl across from him, ‘Fifteen K.’ And to whoops of laughter he added, ‘She can go fuck herself with that sort of bad debt. She’d be a decrepit old woman before she’d worked it off. And her ole saggy ass would be no good to me then, that’s for sure.’

  Doing my best to smooth over the friction, I resumed my expert champagne-opening skills, and in a bid to entertain Ed pretended to aim the cork at each of the models’ heads, as if I was going to let it go like a shotgun. As Jake started to dole out little clear plastic bags of cocaine, I did my best not to stare, continuing to crack jokes with Ed and the comatose model sitting beside him. Clearly anxious after seeing what had happened to Janice, all the girls riffled through their tiny handbags and offered up £80 for each of their packages. And then, with the same ease that I’m sure they felt stepping out on to a catwalk half-naked, they immediately emptied rolled-up notes out of their purses and used Visa cards to chop up the ‘good white’.

  Ed made it so clear he hated the stuff that the pressure to dabble was off me, and I could save face. In typical Irish self-deprecating fashion I joked, ‘I’d like to hang on to the few remaining brain cells that I have, thanks. Unfortunately I was lumbered with more fat cells than brain cells, so I have to protect them as best I can …’

  Ed kindly jumped to my defence and whispered, ‘You’re more woman than any of these bitches, honey, so don’t feel the need to put yourself down.’

  Unsure if he was making a move on me, I played the mate game rather than being flirty, and although I knew I now had all the evidence I needed to end the documentary, I decided to hang around a little longer and let myself have a little fun. As loud me-conversations began over what fashion campaigns or shoots each of the models had coming up, I watched as the madness in the room increased and their eyes widened in a crazy, unhappy way. It was then that I felt strangely comforted. As I looked around the room I thought to myself that while I might not be a size four, if this was what these so-called beautiful people called happiness, they were more than welcome to keep it. Feeling like a voyeur at some reality-TV experiment, I started to enjoy watching the addicted. While they wiped their noses on the hems of their skirts, their sleeves or – as one poor unfortunate did – on a curtain, I wished that Parker and Lisa were with me to witness the drama, and that they’d brought some popcorn and cheesy nachos with them!

  Although I was having fun, not even the free champagne and the ringside seat could fight off the tiredness. Finally unable to ignore my exhaustion, I finished off my drink and, trying to be as subtle as possible, picked up my coat and bag and edged away from the sordid party without telling anyone I was about to leave. Just as I approached the front door the doorbell rang, bringing both Ed and Joshua into the hallway.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Ed, leaning against the living-room door. ‘The conversation in here is getting pretty dull, I know. But if you go I might just have to attack myself with a blunt instrument and give myself a lobotomy to put up with this crowd. Please don’t go.’

  Flattered by his request, I laughed back, ‘Ah, I’m sure you’ll survive,’ before pointing towards the door and suggesting, ‘Maybe this could be your saviour now?’ Not wanting to open the door to any more drug-dealers, I stepped back and allowed the man of the house to greet his new callers. Preparing to slip out inconspicuously once the coast was clear, I was surprised to see both of the sexy barmen, Blue and Harry, from Wednesday night at Sir Charlie’s. They were accompanied by some other equally hunky guys.

  I had to think twice about my decision when they came out with, ‘Don’t go now, darlin’, we’ve just brought the party with us.’

  Against all my better judgement I buckled, gushing, ‘I suppose I could stay another half hour.’

  Easily another hour or so later, I was back in the living room dancing on the furniture and playing a nonsensical game of Who Can Gyrate Their Hips the Most? with Harry. It was all juvenile and fun until a couple of the girls got into a debate over who had the most sticky-out nipples, and decided to expose their breasts to prove their point. Although I was no Pamela Anderson myself, I had to struggle to stop myself shouting, ‘Turn around, we can’t
tell who’s pointier by looking at your back!’

  I was saved from the embarrassment when one of the guys loudly joked, ‘Which one of you two girls gets the best reception for BBC 1? Maybe I should give them a tweak and see?’

  As the room laughed, a few of the lads playfully jostled as if to form an orderly queue to take turns tweaking the buttons. The jokes turned to gags like, ‘I’d been searching for the perfect place to hang my coat,’ and, ‘They certainly look like my kind of ear plugs!’

  Calming my inner diva, and returning to sitting rather than standing on the couch, I found myself cushioned into Harry’s shoulder without realizing how I had gotten there. Knowing that I shouldn’t be in such a compromising situation because I was now dating Rory, I drunkenly reasoned that my roving cameraman was far too nice to be believed, and that after I told him the truth about me, he’d be running out the door anyway before I got a chance to explain myself. With those stupid thoughts in my head, and the memory of being painfully dumped in the past, I decided that I would pucker up to the gorgeous Harry when he lunged, and even whispered the words carpe diem! just before we kissed.

  Although I went with it for a couple of minutes, I soon pretended that his hands were tickling me so I could pull away. Despite being incredibly handsome, even more so than Rory, to be honest, he was without question one of the worst kissers I had ever come across: wet, sloppy, and most annoyingly slow and weak with his tongue movements. I almost felt like I wanted to throw up because an image of kissing someone’s granny kept flashing into my head. I’d kissed a girl (and I really had) with more power and strength in her little toe, never mind her jaw, and I knew the universe was sending me a message. I read it loud and clear: in no way was I meant to be kissing any boy other than Rory – well, definitely not this one, anyway.

  Doing my best to ease him off me with some random jokes, I was doing well until Harry started prodding at my hair with his finger, and questioned what the hell had I stuffed inside my wig? For a split second I allowed him poke about at my hairpiece before quickly remembering that I was still wearing my hidden camera. Unable to push his strong hand away, I first crumpled on to the ground to get away from him, and then scrambled to my feet, claiming I didn’t feel well. Seeing that my coat was stuck under the bums of another courting couple, in a split-second decision I chose to abandon it and just grabbed my handbag and ran out the door before he could assess the situation further. But it was too late – Henry wasn’t drunk enough not to realize he’d spotted something. He ran out after me, shouting, ‘What are you hiding in there? Are you a fucking undercover copper?’

  Knowing that my cover was blown, I unbolted the door and fled out into the dark. I had no idea where I was running, but I was sure I didn’t have time to hang around and work out the best route home. I just avoided the streetlights and prayed that I’d be lost in the darkness. I could hear Harry calling from the garden, but he didn’t seem bothered to come out after me. Maybe he was busy rounding up a search party, who knew? All I knew was that I wasn’t prepared to take any chances. My getaway needed to be fast. And I wasn’t going to make it easy for him to find me if he did come hunting.

  With my heart pumping out of my chest and my throat feeling like it was being cut by the cold air rushing through it, I added to my misery by removing my shoes so I could run faster. Figuring the consequences of being caught by a gang of lads who handled drugs would be a lot worse than any damage that could be done to my feet, I jogged as fast as I could with my shoes and handbag in each hand and chanted to myself, ‘I’m going to be safe. I’m gonna be safe. I just got to keep … running …’

  Several minutes down the road I heard a car approaching fast from behind me, so I quickly ducked behind a garden wall and waited with bated breath. As it slowed down just by where I was hiding, I was sure that I was about to be caught. I didn’t pop my head up to check and see if I recognized anyone in the car and thankfully it moved on, leaving me whispering to my guardian angel, ‘Thank you, thank you, whoever or wherever you are.’

  My body was now shivering and my teeth chattering with the cold, and I knew that I had to keep moving to be in with a fighting chance of getting back to safety. So, after feeling my hair and deciding that my camera was still safe enough to remain there, I cautiously slipped back out on to the road, and started running again like my life depended on it. Fighting the negative thoughts that were racing through my mind, I tried to keep thinking positively, and as the streets remained empty and quiet I joked with myself that the exercise would do me good, and that if it was celebrity-spotting I was after, this was probably the best time to bump into a few of them, because they’d probably be out jogging at this early hour, too.

  As my body neared breaking point, I happened upon a petrol station. Like the North Star, its neon lights shone bright, and gave me the extra energy I needed to keep me going. Of course, once I reached it, I found its glass doors were shut. But after some pleading with the young guy on the other side of the hatch, I eventually got him to open the doors, though he said, ‘If you come in, you’ll have to buy some shit …’

  I limped past the piles of morning newspapers, feeling like a misplaced hooker who’d just escaped from a human-trafficking ring. I knew I looked bloodied and bruised, but kept smiling in a positive way, hoping that it would distract from my dishevelled appearance. Then I asked if he could phone me a cab, and if he served anything hot? He told me I’d have to wait ten to fifteen minutes for the cab, and that hot dogs and coffee were the only HOT things in the place – adding, ‘Apart from me, of course!’ Trust a hormone-filled teenager to find a woman hot even when she’d been almost run into the ground!

  I was just about able to work the coffee machine, so I made myself a cappuccino and left it sitting for a few moments to cool. Unsure what else to do, I went fishing for my mobile in my handbag, almost dropping it on the floor with my misconnecting frozen fingers. The coffee was still too hot to hold, so I put my phone down beside it on the counter and cupped my hands over the steam, relishing the heat. Although it took me a couple of stabs to take my phone off keylock, when I did it read: 1 New Message.

  Like a beacon of hope, RAVISHING RORY flashed up on my phone. Nervously laughing at the ridiculousness of his title – and vowing to change it in the morning, if I ever got out of this nightmare alive – I opened it up to read the words, ‘Hey sexy! R U missing me yet? Just arrived in Rio. Weather too hot. Wish I was back cuddling with you xox.’ I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried not to let my eyes fill up. Until my taxi came, I was still in danger, and I couldn’t afford to let my emotions get the better of me. I needed to remain alert and on my guard. The last thing I wanted was to have any more champagne secrets, and tonight had to spell the end of them.

  The young man working in the station was smiling at me – he found my dishevelled, semi-naked state understandably amusing – and it was an effort to avoid his eye. So I hid myself in behind the coffee machine, warily watching for the taxi and fiddling with my shoes. I tried to get them back on, but I had too many cuts and grazes. I suddenly realized that my tough-girl act might make the petrol-station guy laugh, but I’d pushed the boundaries too far. I had infiltrated a posse of drug addicts and their dealer. Did I really have the nerve to hand over the incriminating evidence I’d collected? Could I live with the worry of shopping them all? What about the guilt if I didn’t? Most of all, what would happen to Daisy if I was caught by Harry – or worse – Jake Lewis?

  Thankfully, I did make it home safe. When I arrived in the door Maura was already up, and looked at me with alarm. Without the energy to explain what had happened, but just enough to let her know I hadn’t been hurt or attacked, I slumped against the kitchen table. Keeping any conversation for a later stage, she ushered me into the front room with supplies of blankets and a hot-water bottle. Ordering me to lock the partition door from the inside, she gave me one of her long motherly hugs and told me to get some sleep.

  ‘We’ll talk when you�
�re ready.’ She smiled, then left me and my body to rest.

  * * *

  By Monday morning and after several soaks in salty baths, I had thawed out enough to feel almost human again. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about my ordeal yet, not even Parker or Maura, but the one person I knew I had to speak to was Bradley. Not wanting to be overheard, I went to the local park on my own, claiming I was just popping out to buy milk and bread. I wasn’t sure how this conversation was going to go. But I sure as hell knew that it would involve a bit of shouting.

  I settled myself on a quiet bench, and it took me several attempts before I actually dialled Bradley’s number. To make sure I forgot none of the facts or details from the weekend, I had jotted out all my thoughts on three pages of notepaper, which I held in my hands as I dialled. Trembling as much as I had when I’d been hiding behind that garden wall the previous morning, I angrily blurted out, ‘You nearly got me killed,’ the second I heard his voice at the other end. Remembering the fear I’d felt the day before and filled with anger, I must have ranted at him for five minutes solid.

  Finally he asked, ‘OK, can I speak now? I never meant to put you in danger. As you know, the drugs side of the documentary was only something that gradually grew in importance, once we started investigating Sir Charlie’s. And you did agree to do the undercover work, didn’t you? You were happy to take all that money …’ He went on like this until I finally calmed down enough to talk without cursing or screaming.

  ‘OK, we need to strike up a deal,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got what you want. But I’m not sure I want to hand it over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘I’ve got Jake Lewis on camera dealing cocaine—’ Before I finished my sentence I could hear Bradley at the other end of the phone whooping with joy. Doing my best to crush his moment of triumph, I continued, ‘But I’m not prepared to just hand it over.’