‘But wait, Blue – you should use that as the title for the whole show – The Birth of Venus! How camp! I can just see it in lights!’
‘Oh, Valerie, pure sacrilage! The finale will be something like the rape of Botticelli by Salvador Dalí on the way to Studio 54. Genius! God, I have to tell Lewis to suggest that title before Monday’s meeting!’
‘Ahhhh, but do you know how Venus came to be born, my dear?’
‘No, but you’re going to tell me, right?’
‘Basically, Uranus’ son castrated him and threw his cock into the ocean, dear. So the sea was fertilised and then out popped Venus from her giant cockleshell somewhere off the coast of Paphos! That’s Cyprus in case you didn’t know. Of course the shell was a metaphor for the vulva, which would in theory make Tiger’s Fabergé egg glitterball a huge great cu—’
‘Oh Jesus and Mary Chain! Well, I’m certainly not telling the Americans that! Let’s just keep tight lipped about it.’
‘Tight lipped?’
With that, Valerie and Blue dissolved into hysterics.
‘Darling,’ Valerie wheezed, ‘thank god Venus didn’t emerge from a bearded mussel that’s all I can say!’
Blue’s shoulders shuddered with dirty sniggers. ‘All this genitalia talk is usually my job. Get back to your rhinestoning, wench!’
Valerie settled herself back into position in her chair, breathless. ‘Oh my goodness, I’ll never be able to watch the show without giggling now!’
‘For god’s sake don’t tell Tiger we had this conversation,’ said Blue, ‘or she might … clam up or something.’ The pair erupted again.
‘Enough already!’ protested Valerie, soberly taking a deep breath. ‘Now stop, I just can’t keep my eyes on the rhinestones like this.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, maybe I should leave you to it – stop distracting you, huh?’
Valeria looked thoughtful for a second. ‘Oh what the hell,’ she laughed with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘Do you fancy a quick glass of sherry with me before you go?’
‘Now that’s like asking Tiger if she fancies getting her kit off. Of course, where is it?’
‘Over on the bureau there.’
‘Wonderful,’ sighed Blue as he reached for the sherry decanter. ‘God, I’m so easily corrupted. I can see this is turning into the perfect afternoon. Now, back to Uranus …’
Rex grunted and climbed off Sienna. He whipped off his condom, turned to face the wall and began snoring loudly. Sienna often lamented that for all his sexual charisma, Rex was an incredibly selfish lover. She had limited experience where men were concerned, and all of it bad, but for the first time she was relieved that Rex was at least consistent. This was Sienna’s big chance. She rolled out of Rex’s bed and padded through to the sitting room to her handbag. She fished out her mobile by the light of the moon.
Tiger would have to pay somehow. The thought had been playing in her head all day like a stuck record. Tiger would have to pay somehow. All day Sienna’s mind had drawn a blank as to how to wreak her revenge. That is, until Rex had taken her to La Perle Noire in Soho for oysters and champagne. They had bumped into Blue weaving his way back home to Regent’s Park after an apparently boozy afternoon. As Blue and Rex made small talk, Sienna had slipped into one of her daydreams again, finding herself staring at the window display of the Trashy Lingerie sex shop. As she zoned out on the tacky bondage gear in the window, she was suddenly reminded of one night when a tipsy Tiger had confessed to her that she had tried her hand as a dominatrix in New York.
Sienna remembered it so well – how could it have slipped her mind? It had only been a couple of years ago. Their folks had just died and Tiger was eager to spend time with Sienna, cheering her up. There in her parlour, Tiger had lain all stretched out and fluffy in her robe after she had introduced Sienna to Kahlua milkshakes – sisterly bonding she called it – and in this unguarded moment told her a rare story about her early performing days. Tiger had her gorgeous friend Tiffany Crystal staying with her that night, and Tiffany had brought some rancid-looking bird with her called Rosy or Rosemary or something, who Tiffany had befriended, apparently out of sympathy since the ugly old bag’s personality was less than sparkling. Sienna recalled she also had terrible snaggle teeth when she smiled and a hilarious affected posh accent that broke into a Yorkshire burr every five words or so. Apparently the two girls were doing a tour that stopped in London for a couple of nights and Tiffany was taking the ugly one under her wing and coaching her as she was rather hopeless as a dancer. Tiger had thought it a great idea that since Tiffany was in town, she should come to dinner, meet Sienna and brighten the evening up. Probably all part of the sisterly ‘bonding’ thing, no doubt.
Tiger and Tiffany had settled in for the night to tell Sienna their funny stories about the smell of the greasepaint; the ugly one had already drunk too much and after trying to show off by attempting a cringe-inducing splits in the middle of the parlour, now thankfully appeared to have passed out on the chaise longue. Tiger then regaled Sienna and Tiffany with a very interesting little tale about her early days. How she was auditioning in London everywhere. Every day. Burlesque didn’t pay the bills back then. Acting bit parts came and went, chorus-line work put a bit of bread on the table and extras work beckoned; although she drew the line at podium dancing in naff clubs. Tiger just couldn’t seem to find a balance. Then a friend of a friend of someone’s girlfriend reckoned Tiger could earn a pretty packet as a dominatrix. You didn’t have to have sex with the guys or even strip, and you got to dress up, hone your acting skills, and get your boots licked and toilet cleaned in the process, so the girl had said.
Well, Tiger thought it sounded great as a money spinning stop-gap until the perfect West End part came along; better than temping in an office any day. She even figured out a name straight away. It was suggested by the friend of a friend of someone’s girlfriend that a dominatrix’s name should always start with ‘Lady’. Then an ‘a’ should be tagged to the end of her first name, followed by the words ‘mistress of the …’ then add the name of the most expensive power tool in her tool box.
Tiger settled on ‘Lady Tigra, Mistress of the Cheese Grater’. Since she didn’t have a toolbox, or even a power sander, she figured her cutlery drawer would have to make do for inspiration. Of course, she decided if she was going to do something, she would do it properly; and that meant going to New York to be Lady Tigra, where she had heard all the best whip crackers worked. After all, if you want to be the best, you have to learn from the best. She could earn a packet and return home with her spoils. Besides, she didn’t want to run the risk of having a client come in for a spanking or to be bottle fed who she recognised … her doctor or local MP, or something. So off Tiger went to the Big Apple – open minded, open hearted, and brimming with possibilities of what to spend her new stream of income on. Decent lodgings, for a start. And some beautiful new dance costumes. And maybe even some nice new books; she was quite the bookworm when she had the chance to curl up on her own.
Lady Tigra lasted all of three days. As she rolled around on the floor one lunch time in virginal white Chantilly lace underwear, wrestling with a sweaty Hasidic Jew in lime green Y-fronts, Tiger knew she would never be cut out for the job. She had just about managed to make enough to cover her flight back to London.
As Sienna now punched Bob Bell’s number into her mobile she hoped she had rehearsed her own ‘Hollywood’ version of Tiger’s story in her mind enough to make it seedy, shocking and absolutely sensational. A spoonful of ‘sex for money shocker’, a dash of ‘auto erotic asphyxiation’, a liberal sprinkling of ‘sick, drug-fuelled orgies’ with the distinctive flavour of ‘brutal mistress’ should do the trick, thought Sienna, rather pleased with herself. The line on the other end picked up and a gruff voice answered. Sienna’s stage was laid out for her performance. She nervously cleared her throat, heaved a deep breath and took the plunge.
‘Mr Bell? I’m so sorry to be calling at this late hou
r. We’ve never met but I have something I think you’re going to be very, very interested in. I hope you have a large cheque book.’
Chapter 13
Blank canvas, blank canvas, blank canvas, blank canvas, blank canvas, Tiger chanted in her head as she selected a charcoal-coloured eyeshadow from her make-up caddy. This was her mantra before any kind of performance. Tiger had been told by one of the first directors she worked with that when Liza Minnelli had a show, she would focus the entire day around that night’s performance from the very second she woke up. Tiger had considered this to be excellent advice, and adhered to it strictly in her own way. Starting with her own blank canvas – a clear face, and a clear mind – and slowly building towards her grand presentation was a delicious ritual for Tiger.
Blue popped his head in the door.
‘Sorry to interrupt, babes, what time shall I send Cherry and Brandy in to dress you?’
‘Oh, give it forty minutes. I’ve only just started putting my face on.’
‘No worries. Lewis and the Luxuriana mob will be here soon. Can’t wait to see it.’
‘Hmm. Well, it’ll be interesting. First time with the props.’
‘They know that, don’t worry about it.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I’ll be back in forty, babes. Oh, and I have a little surprise for you.’
‘Oh? Don’t tell me Valerie finished the corset already?’
‘You just get back to your eyelashes. All I’ll say is that you’ll be feeling a million dollars when I’m finished with you.’
‘Huh. That’s only five hundred grand these days.’
‘Damn inflation. Make it a billion.’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘See you in forty.’
‘See you. Love you.’
Tiger turned back to her mirror and tightened her silk dressing gown about her waist. She felt weird putting on a performance in the daytime for a scathing panel of suits armed with notepads. Still, this was the acid test for the Vegas finale routine. There was no way Dianne Castrelli would sign off millions of dollars of the promoter’s budget for an epic water feature if she thought the act wouldn’t work. Lewis had arranged for today’s demonstration to be installed in the Hippodrome. Formerly ‘The Talk Of The Town’, it was one of the few venues with a hydraulic stage lift, and flies high enough from which to work Tiger’s huge glitterball prop. The Hippodrome also happened to be most fitting, in that it was a beautiful old, faded venue which used to house circus shows, followed by music hall entertainment a hundred years back. An observant eye would be able to spot the huge iron hooks set into the walls that were used to chain up the elephants.
Of course, when Tiger had excitedly discovered that in the Hippodrome’s circus days elephants would slide down an enormous waterfall the height of the proscenium arch into a huge water tank, Lewis had been extremely quick off the mark to stress that under no circumstances was he asking Dianne Castrelli for a troupe of elephants. Tiger knew that it was always a battle between the artist and the producer to strike a happy medium that satisfied both creative vision – and budget – a battle that Lewis was forever stuck in the middle of. She also knew that if she wanted elephants, she would bloody well find a way of having them. As it happened, she thought diving tigers would be much more appropriate. Hell, if they were good enough for Siegfried and Roy, then they were the obvious choice for Tiger Starr. After all, this was for Vegas, baby. First base was getting Di Castrelli to agree to her water feature.
Blank canvas, blank canvas, blank canvas, chanted Tiger inwardly as she expertly blended her eyeshadow. She worked her brushes like an artist used gouache, blending, daubing, blending some more, then methodically working thick mascara into her false lashes layer by layer. She hummed as she worked, gaining energy as the layers went on. Rapidly she sculpted her cheekbones with highlighter and contouring powder. Razor sharp, she thought to herself, pulling back from the mirror and sucking her cheeks in for a second while she admired her handiwork. Her breathing deepened as she drew in her lip line with a steady hand, before filling in her lips with glossy red. She sprang up to apply a final dusting of diamond powder to her cheeks and eyelids with a flourish. She smiled to herself and shut her eyes as she soaked up the first familiar tingle of butterflies. Great, we’re on the ride now, she thought to herself as she bent over to shake out and fluff up her pink curls.
‘Now that’s what I call a view!’ came a familiar voice.
Tiger squealed in surprise, and immediately straightened herself, flinging her hair back violently and swinging round to face the intruder with a vicious glare.
‘Rex! Who let you into …’
Tiger felt a surge of butterflies. Her heart pounded. She didn’t know whether it was the nerves, or seeing Rex unexpectedly like this. He looked stunning in an immaculate tan Italian suit, with a delicious shading of stubble on his jaw. Damn, he even smelled good; Aqua di Parma, thought Tiger as an intoxicating waft of fresh bergamot and lemon filled her dressing room.
‘Hey, kiddo.’
‘You know I hate that,’ said Tiger tetchily, ‘anyway, what are you doing in here?’
‘Listen doll—’ a beat ‘—I’ll cut to the chase – we have to talk.’
‘Not now, Rex, not before the presentation,’ dismissed Tiger.
‘But this is really urgent.’
‘Well, why didn’t you just call?’
‘It’s sensitive. I need to discuss this with you face to face and since you’ve been avoiding me lately …’
‘I don’t know what you mean. We work together. I’m on the phone to you five times a day. I don’t need to see you.’
‘Look. This is urgent,’ Rex repeated insistently.
‘I’m sure whatever it is can wait until this evening. I’ll meet you around six?’
‘No can do, the thing is—’
‘Oh wait, don’t tell me, it might interrupt a date you have planned with my own sister.’
‘Well, well, well, I didn’t think you were the jealous type. In fact I thought blowing hot and cold was more your style … in every sense.’
‘That’s disgusting. I have a really important performance to do right now. Lay off with the mudslinging in my private space.’
‘For chrissake, Tiger, we need to talk. There’s a story breaking with the News of the World.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It could damage you.’
‘The ‘News of the Screws’? Oh pull the other one. I’ve done nothing.’
‘We really need to talk through your options. And you do have options, so long as we act fast.’
‘I’ve been straight with you from the start, along with Lewis. Someone always reckons they have a story on me, and you know it’s always been some false alarm.’
‘Well, someone bears you a grudge—’
‘Rex, shall I remove you from this dressing room myself? Let’s discuss this later. Don’t ever dump shit on me before a show, and certainly never in my dressing room.’
‘You got it, lady. I don’t need your help to leave, don’t worry. You call me when you’re done. But speaking as your paid advisor, be warned. This won’t wait.’
‘Fine. I hear you. Loud and clear.’
‘Oh, and some girl gave me this to give to you as I was on my way from the stage door.’
Rex held out a pink envelope. Tiger blanched.
‘Aren’t you gonna take it?’ Rex asked, pushing the envelope under her nose.
‘Thanks, I’ll open it later,’ said Tiger, forcing a smile. ‘It’ll be a fan or something.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘Oh, Rex?’
‘Yep.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl who gave you the envelope?’
‘Oh, I dunno, she kind of ran past. I think she works here, looked like she was wearing a staff t-shirt. Red hair, bit of an old boiler.’
‘Oh. Okay, cool, t
hanks.’
Rex left the room. Bastard, thought Tiger, invading her dressing room like that. And looking so handsome. Her heart ached. Shit, now her head was all over the place. Anxiety. Longing. Fear. Desire. Guilt. Confusion. Lust. Panic. And who the fuck was dishing out these stupid anonymous letters? Surely it was a wind up. Tiger paced, still holding the pink envelope in her hand. What was Rex on about, anyway? A story in the tabloids? About what? She hadn’t done anything really newsworthy lately – at least not in a scandal sense. No drugs, all that was well behind her. There had been no married men, no secret gastric band, no sex tapes, no covert boob job. Maybe it’s some elaborate kiss ’n’ tell, wondered Tiger. Probably some guy from years ago who was stony broke and fancied making a cool ten grand from a fabricated encounter. Yes, of course that was it. Oh let them, thought Tiger, calming herself. As long as they give a good report on my technique, she thought, smiling to herself naughtily. If that’s the only way they can earn money then she just had to feel sorry for them.
Looking down at the envelope she wondered whether or not to open it. Oh what the hell, it’s not like things could get much worse this afternoon. She ripped the paper open.
‘I. Know. Your. Secret.’ Tiger froze. The four little words on the pink paper burned into Tiger’s retinas like a branding iron. Her mouth went dry. Her mind raced. What secret? Most people had secrets – parts of their past they’d rather not be publicly revealed. Who sent this? The same person who was selling a story to the newspapers? Tiger told herself it was simply a shot in the dark. Oh lord, maybe someone had discovered about her liaison with Libertina. Tiger panicked. Libertina was firmly in the closet, convinced it would damage her career if the Hollywood mafia knew she was batting for her own side. But Tiger wondered, did anyone really think that was scandal any more? Newsworthy perhaps. But surely it had to be more. Could the letter writer really know about Tiger’s real secrets? Tiger shuddered before making a sign of the cross and hastily mumbling a Hail Mary. How on earth was she going to get through her performance with a mammoth stab of fear now lodged in her heart?
Tease Page 13