The Vanity Game

  I go into the kitchen and spend a good few minutes staring into the fridge. It's fucking annoying because a whole shelf is taken up with creams and make-up – fucking lipstick in the fridge! Just what Krystal used to do. I remember an interview I did years ago with Loaded or FHM where they asked me what most annoyed me about women.

  "Leaving their make-up in the fridge," I said, and it had been a running joke between me and Krystal for months afterwards. That pathetic bitch, Denise, must really have done her research. Despite the jars of night-cream and mascara sticks I manage to find a tub of pasta sauce, some low-fat chicken and some fresh pasta.

  I cook it all up and sit down with the steaming bowl of pasta. It's not that great though. I miss Stella's cooking, how she used to cook up stir-fries and make huge salads, schedule allowing, but now she's gone so I'm stuck with pasta and sauce.

  I should have gone with her. We could be chilling out now on Bondai Beach, just two regular beach bums. But then I think, what I'd really like to be doing is chilling with Krystal, like we did on our first holiday together to Portugal.

  The food tastes rank, and my hunger has suddenly gone, so I only manage to eat half of it. I guess I'll grab some sushi or something whilst I'm out. I'm loading up the dishwater when I hear a noise coming from downstairs – the door creaking open, and then female voices talking loudly. Voices, in the plural. I shudder, she's obviously brought some fellow witches back and they sound pissed.

  We collide on the landing. I'm rushing out of the lounge, heading for the stairs to the bedroom, and they're heading for the lounge. There's three of them; her and two brunettes, one of whom is kind of hot but completely unfanciable in the circumstances. They're obviously drunk, you can smell it on them. Are they dykes too? There was a time not so long ago when the thought of a lesbian threesome in my own house would have turned me on so much it hurt, but now I'm repulsed.

  "Aw, Beaumont," she cackles sarcastically, "not going out are you?"

  They stand in front of me, blocking my path so I'm forced to confront them. The brunettes look a little star struck, but are trying to act all cool, so I make an effort to make eye contact with them. They might like pussy but they do men too, I can see it in their eyes: they'd both jump into bed with me, blatantly.

  "Yeah, I was actually. But what's it to you, Denise?" I emphasise her name but the friends don't flinch.

  "We're just gonna have a bit of party. Such a shame you can't join us," she says.

  I look right at her, trying to stare her out.

  "Yeah, shame, but got my own party to attend. Have fun."

  Then I flash what I hope is a sarcastic smile and push past them.

  "Oh we will do, we will do," she screams after me.

  I slam the bedroom door behind me. They've put on some horrid, loud trance music but thankfully it's just reduced to a quiet thudding up here. If this is the worst she can do – get her mates round for a raucous party – then screw her. Maybe what I'll do is get a few mates out, score some drugs and some girls and bring them all back here for a bit of a gang-bang. Maybe Denise's hot friends will want to join in at that point. Finally I can feel my cock getting hard at the thought, but then into my head comes Monique's tragic, doe-like eyes. Fuck, I'll kill that bitch if I can't ever get a hard-on again.

  I try Jon first, but he doesn't pick up, so I leave a message. Then I try Mattaus.

  "Ah, sorry mate, I can't. Got this gig at the Biscuit Factory, it's the ten year anniversary of the joint, you should come down mate."

  "Yeah maybe," I tell him, but that's not really the kind of thing I'm looking for – all sweaty, E'd up clubbers and no decent VIP section. Whilst I'm on the phone to Mattaus though, Jon has texted:

  "Sorry mate – in wiv the missus tonight, no can do."

  Great, so fucking Jon has suddenly become middle-aged with his quiet nights in with Kelly.

  There's a few other guys from the team who I sometimes hang out with, but after trying Jose and getting no luck I can't be bothered to call the rest. This is great. My little plan for a little coke-fuelled orgy ain't going well.

  I scroll through the list of numbers again to see if there was anyone I've missed. But no, fuck all. None of those fake, boring bastards are worth it anyway. I go back through and stop at CJ's number. I could just head into town, score a few drugs and see who else is out.

  CJ picks up and the first thing he does is remind me that I still owe him that ten grand. It's only after I promise to deposit it with him tomorrow that he says he's got some good stuff and so we arrange to meet in a bar in Soho in a few hours.

  I change my shirt, do my hair and spray myself with scent. I look good. Beaumont Alexander still has it, the Sleek Panther out for the kill again, and if I have to hunt alone, so be it.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The car, a big black Land Rover, arrives five minutes early. It's a new driver, one I don't recognise. They don't usually send new guys.

  "Evening sir," he says as he opens the door for me.

  "You new on here?"

  He smiles at me as I climb into the back of the car, "I've been working on the politicians' fleet, sir."

  And then he shuts the door.

  It's too early to meet CJ yet so I get the driver to stop at the first off-license we come to and I send him in to get me a bottle of Remy Martin. He doesn't even flinch. I guess those politicians he usually drives round have him doing all sorts of errands anyway.

  I take a few swigs of the brandy, neat from the bottle, letting it warm my chest, and then take a chilled glass from the car's built-in fridge, add a few ice cubes and have one on the rocks. Sweet.

  We reach London quickly but I'm enjoying just sitting here, getting slowly drunk on the brandy.

  "Hey driver," I say, leaning forward into the man's shoulder, "let's take a little tour, yeah, it's still early."

  "Sure, sir."

  I sink back into the chair. We're driving through suburbs, boring, blank houses lining either side of the road. The homes of the not too rich and not too poor, the worst of the lot, completely mundane. But then it changes to a more run-down part of town – the tower blocks looming above us, hooded teenagers hanging out on the pavements. We pass ethnic restaurants with bright neon lighting and late-night grocery stores throwing tired yellow light from their doorways, and dodgy-looking pubs with the dodgy-looking punters huddling outside smoking.

  I can see a Tube station coming up ahead – Bethnal Green. The sight of this brings on my urge for some good drugs. When I used to do it a lot more I sometimes came up to Bethnal Green to meet another dealer here, if CJ hadn't got a good supply. Tony Goldfingers, that was the guy. A pretty scary black guy with a lot of gold rings who lived in a penthouse in some neat flats close to the Tube.

  We drive right through the city, past the huge glass offices of the financial district, past the deserted arches of Smithfield market and then down to the river, where I look out across the Thames at the huge mass of concrete, glass and lights on the other side. A laser scans the sky amongst the buildings and nearest to me disco lights flash on a stationary party cruise-liner and if I concentrate I can even see blurred figures moving about on board, dancing. It makes me feel lonely… I need people and I need a line of coke.

  "Let's just head to the Social now," I tell the driver.

  The bar is up a narrow side street and we have to wait for another car to pass before we can get to the entrance. The driver turns round and faces me.

  "Will you be wanting me to stay with you, sir?" he asks.

  "Nah, it's okay. I'll get a cab home."

  "Are you sure? Cabs aren't easy to get in this part of town."

  "I'll be fine."

  "But you don't want to wander the street looking for one."

  What's it got to do with this bastard, I wonder, starting to get a bit pissed off.

  "I'll get a cab no worries," I say, and climb out of the car, slamming the door shut behind me.

  I've still got the half-full bottle of
Remy in my hand and as the car drives off slowly down the road I throw it against a nearby wall. The loud crack it makes as it hits and shatters releases my anger and I wonder why I was so annoyed by the driver in the first place. There was something funny about him though … ah, fuck it, I'm probably just being paranoid. I should try to keep my wits about me but I just want to get fucked and try to forget it all. I kick the wall and sigh in frustration.

  As I walk to the door of the club I imagine a sleek black panther, pacing up and down in a cage. I'd seen one at the zoo as a child, and I can picture it so clearly now. That's me, a caged, angry beast. I can see myself as a kid, standing there watching the panther as it paced to and fro, scared in case it suddenly jumped forward and broke through the cage. If only I'd known then that I'd end up feeling like that. Maybe I can break through this cage though…

  "Good evening Mr. Alexander," a voice breaks into my thoughts.

  It's The Social's doorman and he's giving me this well wary look. Maybe he'd seen me smashing the bottle, but had I actually done that? It seems like a dream already. Whatever. I just nod at the guy and walk in, up the stairs. The bar's quiet but in the darkness I clock a group of people huddled in one of the booths. I try to have a butchers at their faces without making it obvious and see a couple of soap stars and Sally Simmonds, the pop singer, who's looking really hot. Maybe later I'll have a crack at her. Imagine the look on that bitch's face if I brought her back to the house. That makes me smile. The soap stars and their mates are all secretly eyeing me up and I can tell they're talking about me. I vaguely know one of the girls because she was dating a guy I used to play with for a while and I wonder if I should just go over and introduce myself, but then I think fuck it, at least I should get a drink in first.

  I order a Mojito, and whilst the barman makes it I casually scan round the bar again, looking for CJ, but I don't see him. There's another guy sitting at the bar alone and I realise there's something familiar about him.

  The barman comes back with my drink, and as I take the first sip, it hits me. I swear my heart stops dead for a second: it's Taylor Jones. The guy looks like Taylor fucking Jones, no lie. Can it really be him, though? Back from the dead? Or is it his replacement who'd been forced to disappear when the real Taylor Jones topped himself? I can't even think straight. Had Taylor Jones actually died or was it his replacement that killed himself? I can't figure it out. But here's this guy, living proof!

  I have to say something. I down the Mojito and move towards the guy. I want to see his face. I touch his arm and he looks up, kind of startled, but yes, there is a definite likeness.

  "Taylor?" I say.

  "Erm, I'm sorry?" the guy replies.

  American. Was Taylor American? I can't remember now, but it's the replacement anyway, not the real guy… I think.

  "Taylor Jones? It's okay, I know. They're onto me as well."

  The guy's staring back, open-mouthed, probably with the shock of being approached by me, Beaumont Alexander, and me calling him Taylor.

  "I don't think I understand," he says slowly.

  "Yeah, mate, I know everything – about you, what happened, and all that," I say, and then leaning in close, "I know who they are."

  The guy smiles, a nervous smile.

  "I'm sorry I think you've got me confused with someone else. I'm Chris, Chris Zapalowsky, the film director?"

  So they've got him playing someone else now, unbelievable.

  "Yeah, yeah, sure you are. But you were Taylor Jones?"

  He laughs, "Taylor Jones? What the dead rock star kid? No, I've never had the pleasure of inhabiting Taylor Jones' body, dead or alive."

  He turns back to his drink.

  So the guy is denying it all. This was to be expected.

  "Okay, so you're not Taylor now, but you were…it's okay. I know. It's not just you. They're fucking everywhere. You see Sally Simmonds over there? That probably isn't even the real Sally Simmonds."

  The Taylor guy slowly turns round to look at the posse in the corner and then shakes his head.

  "I'm afraid I don't really know who she is, my friend."

  I'm starting to get proper annoyed now. Why can't the fucker just admit that he has at some point been Taylor Jones? I've told him I know, that I'm in on the thing.

  "Please, just admit it. You know my girlfriend? She's one of them! Like you were!"

  Again, he smiles. "Er, I'm sorry if you're having girlfriend trouble, but I really can't help … barman? Can I get another one of these please?"

  "For fuck's sake!" I slam my fist down on the bar, "All I want to know is what happened to you, so I can stop it happening to me."

  The guy's now looking startled again, leaning back on the stool against the bar. He's raised his hands in front of himself. He thinks I'm going to hit him and that's just what I feel like doing.

  But I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round. To my surprise, it's Jon.

  "Beaumont, man, what are you doing?"

  "I thought you were in with Kelly?"

  "Yeah…"

  He says something about Kelly having an early start tomorrow, but I'm so wasted I can't really understand.

  "So who was that guy?"

  "Who, this guy…?"

  I turn round to look at the guy, but the bar stool is empty. I look back to Jon and shrug.

  "Listen, Mattaus is DJ-ing at the Biscuit Factory tonight, why don't we head over there?"

  He puts his arm round my neck and tries to guide me away from the bar.

  "No, I've got to meet CJ." I pull away from him and fall back into a bar stool.

  "I don't think that's a good idea," he says, helping me up.

  "Yeah maybe."

  Fuck it, I'll just go to the Biscuit Factory. I let him put his arm around me again.

  "You are Jon, aren't you?"

  He laughs, "Of course I am."

  "We shared a room together at the 2002 World Cup."

  "Yeah."

  I don't even know why I'm asking him this, but I can't help myself.

  "What was the hotel called?"

  He seems to look into the distance, then looks back at me and laughs.

  "Shit, Monty, it was ages ago, I can't remember."

  He should remember, we both found the translation from Japanese really funny.

  "Come on, let's go and check out Mattaus' gig."

  I let him lead me out of the club. And I think about me and Kelly, the night we had that drunken fumble, and her excuse was 'Jon's changed,' but now I can't remember if that actually happened or if I imagined it.

  I'm so drunk I almost trip down the stairs and he has to steady me. We both laugh about it, like he's as drunk as me, and I know he's not, but I'm too pissed to deal with it.

  FORTY-FIVE

  We're in a cab and colours are spinning around my head and I feel like I might puke. I could just go home right now, but then no, fuck, she'll be there, I can't deal with her. What is the plan again? The Biscuit Factory. Jon is talking about Kelly but I'm not listening. I wonder if they're following me. Where are the paparazzi when it matters? Although no doubt all stories will be fake. This night won't exist. Right now I don't exist. I bet they're listening. I bet they've bugged me, can they read my thoughts though?

  The cab seems to stop really suddenly and when I look out of the window I see the pink neon sign of the Biscuit Factory glowing above me. There's a queue of people, miles long, stretching away from the door, the faceless plebs, all ugly. Jon pays and then we're on the pavement and I hear one of the rabble shout my name but I don't look and instead we walk straight into the club. The bouncers nod at us as we pass, no need to even check the guest-list.

  Inside the music is so loud I can feel my bones vibrating. Shit, I wish I'd just gone home. The clubbers clear a path for us, stopping dead in their dance moves and staring, girls swooning. Yeah, maybe later girls. Right now I want to get to the VIP section and score, pronto.

  We walk past the bouncer and red rope and up the steps
to the VIP section. It's high above the dance-floor, with floor to ceiling windows, like a little observation deck where you can watch the masses below. Good for picking out girls, but then everyone looks too far gone now; there's steam rising from the heaving crowd, the sweaty fuckers.

  I can feel people staring at me and I realise I've lost Jon. But anyway, I'm glad the bar is there to support me as I wait for the barman.

  "A Mojito," I say and he nods blankly.

  "And where can I get some coke?" I ask when he returns with the drink.

  He raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry sir, we don't…" he starts to say.

  "Ah, fuck it. They're all on fucking E down there."

  "I'm sorry sir…"

  I jump with surprise as someone slaps me on the back.

  "Hey Beaumont,"

  It's Mattaus. He looks a bit surprised too when I turn round.

  "I thought you were DJing,"

  "I am ... in fifteen minutes, you just got here in time."

  "Cool. You got any coke mate?"

  He seems a little taken aback by the question and all. What the fuck's wrong with people round here?

  "Ah, Beaumont, they're pretty strict about drugs in here these days, but I could probably sort you out with some pills."

  "Nah, mate, I need coke," I say, turning back to the bar. I'm really fucked off now. Since when did VIP sections get all fussy about cocaine?

  "Are you okay, mate?" Mattaus asks, leaning in close to me.

  "Me? Okay? Ha! Yeah I'm fucking fine," I say loudly, so they will hear. But then I put my arm round Mattaus and whisper to him. "But not really, they're onto me you see."

  "Sorry, who are?" he whispers back, but I suddenly feel exhausted and can't be bothered to explain. He wouldn't understand anyway.

  "Nothing, it don't matter."

  "Okay," says Mattaus, drawing out the 'k' as if he's talking to a nutter. "Listen, I have to go sort out my decks, but I'll catch up with you after the show, okay?" and then he slaps me on the back again.

  Thanks a fucking bunch mate.

  I order another drink and slump over the bar. Still no drugs. Damn, I wish Stella were here now, I've got to say, or do I mean Krystal? Fuck, I don't even know any more. Krystal is dead though. I wonder what Stella is doing right now, on the other side of the world. Fuck, I wish I'd gone with her. When she calls I'm going to tell her I'm coming over too. Hell though, why wait? I can go anywhere at any time – even tonight, I could go home, grab my passport, turn up at the airport. Money though, I'll need to sort that out first. One more drink and I'll go home, early night, get onto it first thing tomorrow. What time is it actually now? I try to focus on my Rolex but the hands seem to quiver in front of me. Fuck. And where the fuck has Jon gone?