Stella is beginning to stir next to me.
"What time is it?" she asks, her thick northern accent shocking me for a second. I tell her and she groans, closes her eyes again, puts her arm over her forehead. I look at her again, lying like this. She looks nothing like Krystal, or does she? Christ, I can't even remember what Krystal looked like now. But fuck all this mind-screwing, I've got to get up.
I was expecting to find Serge still sprawled out on the sofa but the lounge is empty. Yellow daylight is streaming through the huge windows and only the empty whisky bottle and glasses on the table in the centre of the room suggest anything of last night. I look up at the huge canvas above the fireplace and the artistic impression of myself stares back at me. That definitely has to go. Not only is it a blatant reminder of what I've done, but it's also looking decidedly passé. The hairstyles, the poses, the heavy use of black and grey, it's all so two years ago, and I guess it won't suit Stella much having her predecessor eye-balling her every time she walks into the room.
In the kitchen, I pause to look at the floor by the Aga where Dean fell. I feel nothing. No panic, no fear, in fact I can feel the corners of my mouth turning up into a smile. He deserved to die.
I turn the coffee machine on, and as it whirs into action I notice a piece of paper on the breakfast bar. It's a note from Serge:
"Had to leave early. Catch up on Monday. Serge."
What the hell did the lazy fucker have to get up for? He ain't got any other clients. But I'm relieved he's not still here, making pointless hung-over conversation and demanding coffee and painkillers.
A pang of hunger groans in my stomach and it gives me the at-this-moment-guaranteed best idea ever. The fridge is still full of Dean's crap. I pull the door open, scan the contents and – bingo, baby! – there on the second shelf is just what I want right now: a packet of bacon. I go over to the bread bin and sure enough there's a loaf of cheap, thick sliced white bread in there, which is a total result. A bacon sarnie, it's the cardinal sin of all foods – but fuck it and fuck the multi-vit shake. I feel a weird sense of pleasure at the thought of eating Dean's food. 'I've killed you, bitch, and now I'll eat your fucking bacon'. And as I'm standing there breathing in the heavenly smell of grilling pig flesh and slathering ketchup (also courtesy of the Lanky Wanker) onto the bread, trying to remember the last time I did this, I'm thinking this is fucking paradise.
Stella must have smelt the scent of it as well because she appears at the doorway soon after I get it started.
"Aw, you couldn't do us one as well, could you?" she asks. I grin and give her a nod. There's something to be admired in a girl that ain't afraid of the calories and cholesterol in a classic bacon sarnie. Krystal would never had touched one in a million years, well not since she got into all that weird diet stuff. Back in the day she did love her junk food, it's got to be said.
Anyway, me and Stella sit down together and tuck into the grub.
"I can't believe Dean's gone," Stella says between mouthfuls. She's wearing no make-up, and now I think that maybe she does look just like Krystal.
"Nah, me neither, babe."
She gives me this look, like I'm her fucking hero.
"Looks like Brand Beaumont and Krystal is back on track, eh?" I say, winking at her, just to make her swoon a little bit more.
I even make it to training on time, though it's got to be said that I'm feeling a little bit sick from that bacon sandwich. Still it's a pretty easy going session, and everyone is in a good mood, feeling pretty psyched about the game away to Liverpool at the weekend.
When I get home we don't put a movie on but we talk some more about our lives so far – my rise to stardom, how she dreamed of being a famous actress as a child. But we don't mention what happened last night. In fact, that night is never talked about again.
TWENTY-SIX
At the weekend, though we draw, I score an absolute screamer and find myself dedicating it in my head to Krystal, or at least Krystal's image, which maybe is Stella, though I'm not too sure.
Serge calls on Monday to talk about a new sponsorship deal and various other aspects of my brand. I wouldn't say Stella is my girlfriend at this point, although for business purposes she is Krystal, who is my girlfriend. But we're sharing a bed most nights and as time goes on, it kind of gets to the point where we're fuck buddies who live together and, it has to be said, it's not long before I guess I am thinking of her as my girlfriend. So, it's pretty much like before, I guess.
We find Stella a new agent to handle the day-to-day things – a posh woman called Georgia who I suspect is a lesbian but who has great connections in the music and fashion industry and is more than happy to maintain and develop Stella's, or rather Krystal's, profile. And fifteen per cent of all Stella's earnings keep going to the mystery account that Dean set up. Whoever the mystery account holder is, they seem happy to let things roll and we soon forget about all that gangster nonsense.
At Christmas we invite my Mum over and she seems to take to Stella's version of Krystal much more than she did to the actual Krystal, remarking to me when we are alone together, "She seems a bit calmer these days." And in the summer we holiday on an exclusive Caribbean island owned by an ageing Hollywood film star who's desperately trying to retain the last grains of his dwindling credibility ("Get her to go topless on the beach," he begs me, "the paps will love that."), and then we spend time on a yacht moored off St Tropez with a party that includes the supermodel, Boadecia Klaus, some Liberal politician dude and a Russian oil magnate. We are Chic! asserts, now moving in circles unchartered by any other football star and former glamour girl.
"Why do they always have to bring up the 'glamour girl' thing? It was years ago," Stella moans one evening, as if she'd lived through the days Krystal had spent gracing Page 3 of The Sun. She's sitting at the breakfast bar wearing four-inch, black Christian Louboutin heels, a hot pink Versace dress and a white cashmere cardigan that Boadecia gave her. It's around one in the morning and we've just returned from a party. We're both sober and I'm clumsily using chop-sticks to shove small chunks of sushi into my mouth.
"Well you know…" I start, but then realise I don't have an answer to this question.
I watch her, flicking through the pages like she's looking for something really specific and it suddenly strikes me how totally weird it is that this ex-call girl from Salford has become Essex's favourite daughter, Krystal McQueen. Maybe, she's even better than the original. Would the real Krystal have been able to stand there so… What's that word the politician used ... demurely, with the great and good of St Tropez? If only they knew the truth. It amazes me what a good tan and tasteful designer beachwear can do. But then who in that town hadn't got where they were through sex or money?
It is kind of crazy when you think how easily she's slipped into the role. In public she's started to soften Krystal's harsh Essex accent to a smoother and blander Home Counties tongue and quite often now she uses this tone at home. She's slowly toned down the blondness of her hair and the brightness of her fake tan, so now the hair is verging on brunette and the tan a more subtle brown. She has, in effect, become what Krystal had longed to be: classy. Now all the magazines like to run features on how much she's changed, occasionally printing pictures of her in the Page 3 days to illustrate how she's transformed herself, and that's the only time I know they're printing pictures of the real Krystal and not Stella.
The Love Palace has been completely re-decorated. Gone are the Alice in Wonderland chess piece sculptures in the entrance hall, and the façade up the staircase, gone is the Ying and Yang theme to the wings, gone is the picture above the fireplace. Now it's all much more demure. Only the chandelier in the atrium, as we've begun to call it, remains. In fact, we've talked about moving house and have already looked at two properties in The Cotswolds.
But come January the club are stalling over my contract, and the papers are full of rumours of a move to Italy. It all gets pretty brutal, with me and Serge meeting the chairman, an
d I'm coming round to the idea of a few seasons abroad. Serge seems to think it's a bad idea though, which I can't understand – the money they're talking about is a wet dream for any agent. But I guess maybe he does have my best interests at heart and thinks I'm not suited to the continental style of the game. Me, I just want to get the thing sorted and I'm secretly pleased when the club finally gives in and offers me the wages I'm demanding. Some of the fans, however, get a bit stroppy about the whole thing, saying I'm greedy and only interested in money. The first game of the season is a total head-fuck, with sections of the home crowd booing me when we go down one nil. The home crowd. I can't believe it and I'm totally wishing I went to Serie A. It gets me thinking and I can't help blaming Serge for it all. It was him who encouraged me, almost demanded, that I hold out for more money from the club. And it was him who started talking to the Italians, stirred up the rumours, then told me it was a bad idea. And he's still funny with Stella, can't bear to hold a proper conversation with her. I don't know what his fucking problem is, after all if she'd not turned up both me and him would probably be doing the best part of twenty years in the fucking clink.
As the weeks pass, and I score one in a crunch game against Man United and two in a Champions League game against Bayern Munich, the fans start to come round and I try to ignore the Serge/ Stella face-off. It's weird how things have turned out, but life is pretty sweet, no lie, and I ain't complaining.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It's a Tuesday lunchtime and I get back from training to find Stella and Georgia sitting at the table in the kitchen. They're discussing a fashion shoot or something while I'm trying to make myself a salad.
"We could do the thing in a day, get you straight on a flight that night from Dubai to Paris and you'd be sitting in the front row of Marc Jacobs by 1pm, what do you think?" Georgia is asking Stella.
"Yeah, I guess so. It'd be nice to have a bit of time off though," Stella replies, blatantly not committed to the gig.
"Oh come on Krystal, you're used to it by now? Besides, I know Marc will be very upset if you're not at his show."
I always find it weird how Georgia calls her Krystal, but then she doesn't know.
"Alright, I'll do it. So long as Billy can as well." Billy, her camp-as-fuck stylist goes everywhere with her.
Georgia seems to think this ain't a bad idea and they wrap the meeting up. After she's shown Georgia out, she comes back into the kitchen and rolls her eyes at me.
"Bloody Dubai, Paris and London in forty-eight bleeding hours, Monty, can you imagine?"
"Yeah, but you've done it before, babe. Remember the LA to Tokyo to Berlin forty-eight-hour marathon?"
She looks at me blankly.
"The MTV Europe awards?" I say, just before I remember that it was before her time.
"You must have gone there with her."
She turns away from me, goes to the table and seems to stand there, staring at the fruit bowl.
"Oh yeah. Wasn't much fun anyway."
Krystal sang ‘Your Song’ to me in a karaoke bar on top of a skyscraper in Japan and we hung out with Robbie Williams in Berlin.
"Listen, you gonna be back in good time for this magazine launch tonight?" Stella asks, turning her head to look at me.
"Yeah, I should be."
The magazine in question is Dsquired, edited by Boadecia Klaus, and it's the hottest party this month.
We sit and eat salad and talk about the party and Stella's schedule but I can't stop thinking about me and Krystal in Berlin. I leave Stella awaiting Billy as I have to head into town to see Serge about my Franco Visconti contract. Fucking waste of time in my opinion, but these things have to be done.
The traffic ain't so bad though and within an hour I'm sinking into the chair opposite Serge. I really don't have the time or the inclination to be here, it's already four o'clock and I've got to get ready for the party. Serge is taking his time shuffling through the papers on his desk trying to find the fucking fax Franco Visconti have sent him. I've been sat here for five minutes already.
"Can't you show me this some other time? Is it really that urgent?" I ask him.
"Yeah it is… They want to thrash out particulars today Beaumont. I'm sorry, I know you wanna go to that B Square party but this..."
"It's Dsquired, d-squire-d," I correct him, even though I know the bastard was being sarcastic anyway.
"Yeah whatever," he replies, "look maybe I left it in the room downstairs. Wait here while I check."
He pulls himself out of his chair and I can't help but notice the way a fold of fat hangs over his trousers and his shirt is stretched tight. Jesus, a fucking jeans contract, like it's the end of the world. Soon as he's left the room I stand up and go over to the window behind the desk. London looks like a building site, everywhere I look there seems to be a crane or scaffolding. Yet somewhere amongst all that chaos caterers will be tea-spooning foie gras onto tiny crackers, bar staff will be cleaning the cocktail glasses and the finest quality cocaine is being scored from dealers. Not that I'm into that shit any more but still, the point is everyone is getting ready for the Dsquired party and I should be too. Yet here I am fucking around at my agent's over a jeans contract. I glance down at his messy desk. There's old newspapers, a filthy coffee mug, a McDonalds bag and piles of papers. Makes me wonder what the bastard does all day.
But then something catches my eye: half of a black and white picture peeping out from under a copy of The Sun. I glance at the closed door and quickly pull it out. It's a photocopy of a Polaroid picture, one page of a fax. The other page, the cover page, says it's from someone called Petrov, to Serge, and has scrawny hand-written writing on it. The picture though … my hands shake as I look at it.
At first I think it's a picture of Stella, or Krystal, but looking more closely, it's not, it's just a girl who looks like both of them … a lot like them. She's staring at the camera with no expression, like a mug-shot. Under the photo, on the white border someone has written 'Denise: K. McQueen'. I feel cold all through my body, as if my blood has dropped tens of degrees. What the fuck does it mean?
But then I hear footsteps and shuffling – Serge coming back – so without really thinking what I'm doing I fold the paper up, stuff it into my hoodie pocket and quickly go and sit down.
"Found the bleeding thing," Serge is saying. "You alright? You look as if someone's just walked over your grave."
"What? Oh yeah, Stella just texted me, she's hassling me about this party."
"Right, right. Anyway, the gist of this new contract is that…" he starts going on about the fucking legal shit, "…what do you reckon?"
"Erm," I can't concentrate on what he's saying, all I can think of is that photo and the paper that's burning a hole in my pocket. "Yeah, that sounds fine to me."
"So you agree not to wear any other make of jeans then? Technically this contract is valid for ten years, so that means for the next decade you can only wear one brand of jeans. I'd think about the repercussions of that, Beaumont. So I don't know nothing about fashion, but seems to me like that might be something you'd want to consider."
What the fuck is he on about?
"Yeah, listen Serge," I tell him, " I can't really think about this right now. Can I get back to you later this afternoon?"
He sighs.
"As long as it is this afternoon. Any later and you can kiss that extra gazillion they're offering a year goodbye."
He's waving the Franco Visconti contract around in the air. What's a couple more million a year to me? How much of that will he be getting?
I take a good look around me before I climb into the car but the underground car park is deserted. I can feel my heart beating fast in my chest and I'm sweating. I try to check myself – what is there to be paranoid about? But still, I'm grateful for the Merc's shaded windows. Even if someone is following me, or the CCTV is trained on me, neither would be able to see into the car, I hope. I pull the fax out of my pocket, resting it on my knees, and look at the picture ag
ain. The girl in the photo stares back blankly, with large, dark eyes. Denise.
The writing on the cover page is hard to read, but what I can read is fucking alarming:
"From: 'Petrov'
To: 'Serge'
Pic attached as requested. Had nose job since. Just needs blue contacts. Plans for discreet deletion of current target in place. Meeting still on tomorrow evening – await confirmation of where and when. Will bring more pictures. Pls destroy this. P"
The date on the fax shows it was sent yesterday – the 'meeting' could be taking place right now! 'Deletion of current target'… what the fuck does it mean? I sit there, wondering what to do, but I can't think of anything, just the words of the fax over and over. Who is Petrov? Maybe it's nothing … but no, it says under the picture, 'K. McQueen'. There's only one … blue contacts … and she has blue eyes. Current target … it has to mean Stella. The Substitutors, it has to be.
I have to find out more, follow Serge, but I can't do this myself. Someone else will need to hang around outside the building, but who could do this at such short notice? I take my mobile out of my pocket and scroll through the contacts. 'Maybe' I think as I reach CJ's number and by the time I get to the Z's (Zachariah the tattooist, Zita, florist) I know the only person on my contacts that would get involved in anything as dodgy as this at such short notice is CJ, supplier of the best coke in West London, and this is only if he isn't out in Essex doing a thousand pound deal with some other 'baller or their wife. I've not spoken to CJ for months, I don't even know for sure whether he's still on the streets, or whether he's been busted or retired to Rio. But I take a deep breath and press the 'call' button.
The Vanity Game Page 13