His clothes were still dry and clean, abandoned by the side of the humid pool where they had started their night of excess; booze, sex and now drugs. Emit clothed himself in his Star Wars T-Shirt and loose shorts, and he had to hunt for his trainers. He didn't like leaving Claire alone but she had just tried to injure him and she was out of control. He walked gingerly towards the lounge, looking around the door to see if she was still conscious.
She was slumped on the ground. Her bare legs were visible from behind the table. “Claire, I'm going home now.”
There was no response.
“Claire, don't fuck around. I'm going home now.”
Still, she never responded.
“Claire!”
He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time; it was 4am.
“I'm off.” He stepped over the broken glass and strode across the mess in the lounge, expecting to see her curled on the floor, but she was flat out on her back. His eyes darted to the orange pills; he could see only one left. Did she really have that many?
Her body looked white and pale. She was still. Motionless. There was a silence in the air; an eerie vacuum of life and activity. She was more than just a drunk who had collapsed on the floor of her lounge.
He crouched down beside her; her skin felt cold. Her eyes closed and her chest stationary.
He swore. She was barely breathing. He put his ear to her chest and panicked as he fumbled with his phone to frantically dial the emergency services.
The expensive electronics were clammy to the touch and his body was quivering through fear; his fingers fumbled the device as they answered.
“Ambulance!” He cried and shouted the address of Claire's mansion. “She's not breathing. Drink, drugs, big binge. A cocktail.”
The responder promised to dispatch assistance and talked Emit into putting Claire into the recovery position. He dropped his phone as he did so and it ended the call, opening the Camera application.
In a moment, he did something and he didn't know why. He took photos. Photos of Claire comatose. Photos of Claire naked and surrounded by drink and drug paraphernalia. The products of her excesses. Proof, to friends, that he had been there when Claire Baynes died.
He was certain she was dead. He said so when he opened the gate to the paramedics, shaking and blubbering as the ambulance swept into the driveway and ran into the house.
He followed. Watching from a distance as the medical professionals in green uniforms descended upon the unconscious woman.
A police car followed another ambulance's worth of paramedics. They surveyed the scene, talking to each other in a conversation Emit couldn’t hear from the kitchen. He saw them load Claire onto a stretcher as they connected her to oxygen apparatus and a drip.
One police officer had noticed the Cocaine. “Name?” His tone to Emit was sharp and unfriendly.
“Emit Roberts.”
“Address?”
“Er … why is this?”
“Did you supply the drugs here?”
“No!” Emit cried, panicking. “It was Claire. We had a few drinks but she brought out the drugs.”
“Where did she get them from?”
“Ummm … her dealer. Dino, I guess. She said the name Dino before!”
“Dino?”
“I don't know,” he bawled. “I just came, had a bit to drink and then she collapsed.”
“You don't sound like you've had lots to drink!”
He held up his cup of coffee. “And when you come back from the shower and see your friend dead, it fucking sobers you up.” The Police officer grunted, scrawling in his notepad as Emit spoke.
“She’s not dead,” he gruffly snapped.
“She looked it,” Emit replied. “How is she?”
The paramedic interrupted the conversation. “We're taking her to the hospital. Are you her next of kin?”
“I'll come.” He said, not answering the paramedic's question, and picked up Claire's bag from the floor, containing her purse and mobile phone, partly so he could slip away from the officer of the law eager to ask him awkward questions.
They shouldn't have been awkward. But Emit felt guilty; she had taken the drugs in full view of him and he hadn't batted an eyelid. He had just watched her take them and the greatest guitarist he had ever seen was about to pay for his inaction.
“How is she?” His voice crackled as the ambulance started moving. “Is she going to die?”
“No. But she gave it a pretty good go.” The young male paramedic held onto the trolley as the vehicle turned into the narrow country lane and sped towards the major city hospital.
“Gave it a good go?”
“Yeah. Well I'm guessing this was a suicide bid?” Emit's eyes dropped to the immobile woman and he wiped his face.
“I didn't think so,” he muttered and pulled Claire's phone from her bag.
She didn't use a PIN lock; Emit searched the contacts until he found PAIGE and dialled her number, forgetting the time of the day.
“Paige,” he yelled as a sleepy voice answered the phone. “Paige. Claire's going to hospital. Drink and drugs. Might be suicide.”
“What the fuck?”
“Sorry forgot it was 4am. It’s Emit. Claire’s going to London City Hospital as she’s just overdosed on drink and drugs and they think it might be suicide.”
Chapter XXXVII
Ricky
“Ya looked damn fine out there.” His fingers traced the hem of the young dancer's skirt and tugged at the flimsy fabric. “So fine. I was chattin’ to Gavin and we thinkin’ we may bring ya up front.”
The girl giggled. Her wavy blonde hair tumbled as she wrapped the locks around her finger and then released it. “Really?”
“Yeah, lookin’ at the VT and shit girl, you were spot on with t’ose moves. And t’ose hips, shakin’ t’ose hips was like watchin’ a damn pro!” He licked his lips as he stood over her, sliding his finger over her thigh. “I wan’ to see all of ya t’ough.”
“Well Mr Tempest.” She giggled again, putting her hand over his finger and looking him in the eye. “If only we had somewhere private I could show you.”
“I ‘ave my dressin’ room.”
“But alas, your manager may disturb us. I am a shy girl, I couldn't possibly be seen by anyone else.”
“Perhaps you ain’t t’ bomb t’en. I ain’t havin’ no shy bitch as m’ lead dancer.”
“Or maybe I am only shy when I am not on stage.” She cooed and then ran her fingers across his bare hand and over his hairy arms. “If only we had a private space we could go to. That would be fine. Something like a hotel room.” She let the comment hang between them and seductively made eye contact with her prey. Her comment had a not-so-subtle subtext; they both knew it. “But we don't. Now I better get something to eat Mr Tempest. I've not had anything to eat for eight hours as I'm starting to feel quite feint!”
“That'll be m’ presence.” She smiled at his egotism. “I’ll take ya to dinner tonight, and then we go upstairs and ya show m’ ya moves, babe!”
“My moves?”
“All of ya moves. And all of ya fuckin’ talents. I know you’s look mighty fine out of t’at bright blue dress.” She said nothing. A couple of Ricky's other dancers shot the temptress sly looks as she manipulated their boss. She ignored their jealous disdain, pushed her body across him and kissed the multi-millionaire gently on the lips.
“Ten minutes,” she whispered and slipped away from his clutches to remove her performance clothes and attire herself in her own garments.
Ricky was brash. He squeezed her bottom as he held the car door open for her, and kissed her on the back seat of his chauffeur-driven car that meandered through the back streets of New York.
His hands swept underneath her skirt. Her fingers pawed at his top. “Ya ever fucked in a limo?”
She giggled. “Have you?”
“Hell ya!” His hands pulled at her top.
“Let’s get something to eat,” she finished
for him, noticing that the car had stopped adjacent to the five star hotel he was staying at. “And you can eat me later.”
Ricky snorted. “I ain't lickin' no pussy. I ain't a sissy boy!” She re-adjusted her top, forcing a giggle for Ricky's ego.
The chauffeur opened the door to the limousine, and they walked across the road to the Italian restaurant. The proprietor greeted the singer with a warm smile, and a secluded table.
He taunted her with lewd comments. “Na’aun can see us. Give us ya knickers!” She glanced up as the waitress blushed, waiting to receive their orders. “Aye, and no garlic or onion for you.”
“Well I was torn between the onion and garlic risotto and the lobster and champagne ravioli.”
“Ravioli,” he demanded.
“But it's 55 Euros.”
“I is payin’.”
“For everything?”
“For everyt’in.”
“Then I also see there is Krug Clos du Mesnil from 2000 here, but that's a lot of money.”
Ricky tapped the table as he eyed the mischievous look from his date. “A bottle of t’ Krug too.” He glanced at the soubrette. “When she chucks me ‘er pussy protect’rs.”
“Eh?”
“Yer pussy protect'rs. Yer pussy dain't need protectin', love. 'Cept from a mahoosive cock, but'll like t'at!” He smiled at the barmaid and winked. She pulled her order pad closer to her chest. “And I'll ‘ave t’ ravioli too. Mussels t’ start.” He passed the menu to the barmaid, watching her scuttle away out of the corner of his eye. “I liv’ wit’ a naturis’. Her an’ ‘er crazy-ass sister tell us t’at it's natural to live without ya keks.”
“Paige Simmons.”
“Yeah. She's fuckin’ loopy that girl. Desperate t’ough, always flashin’ her poonani at me!” He clicked his fingers at the dancer. “Knickers!”
The girl wryly flirted, lowering them under the table and dropping them into the lap of her date. He put them in his pocket as the waitress served the most expensive champagne on the menu for the exclusive guest.
Ricky paid the bill with a flash of his credit card and his hand rode up the backside of the dancer as they navigated the road to the luxurious hotel. He nodded towards the receptionist, taking the lift to one of the suites and flounced onto the bed as the dancer closed the door.
“Now,” he demanded. “Let's see all of you. Like you promised.”
She laughed, and closed the bathroom door. Ricky shouted into the private room, and a few minutes later, she returned to her date wearing just a pair of black stockings. She placed her clothes and handbag on the antique dresser.
“Will this do?” She asked and pursed her lips as the singer ogled her near-naked body.
She deemed it necessary. After all, Ricky was the boss and if she fell foul of him then she would be kicked off the tour. She needed the money. The highly-educated woman was training to be a doctor and dancing lewdly was the only way she could fund college in September. And those at the front of the show got more money. She needed to be earning the most she could; she needed to be shaking her body within touching distance of Ricky Nicholls.
And as the tour manager, ticketing agency manager, make-up artist and choreographer had done in the previous few weeks, it didn't pay to turn down Ricky's advances if they wanted to retain their place within his team.
The anonymous dancer was just the latest in a long line of hotel room flings that started with dinner and ended up in his bedroom.
Chapter XXXVIII
Paige
The door to the private room burst open with a crash. A doctor, a nurse and Emit turned to face Paige standing in the doorway and advancing towards the bed.
“How is she? What did she do?”
“She's … fine,” Emit replied. “Well she's not fine as she's in hospital. But she's …”
“Shut up!” Paige snapped and looked at the medical professionals. “How is she?”
“Stable. Sorry, you are?” The experienced Asian doctor asked; his brow furrowed as he took in the hastily-dressed woman.
“I'm Paige Simmons.”
“I know,” the excitable young nurse replied.
“And …” The doctor shrugged. “Are you related to Miss Baynes at all.”
“No. We're family. But not sisters, or related. Band-mates and … we're like family.”
“Like family. But not family.” He looked at Emit who simply nodded at the doctor. “She's stable. We expect her to make a full recovery with no lasting side effects. We know she took a cocktail of dangerous drugs with an excessive amount of recreational alcohol that caused her to collapse.”
“Was it suicide?” There was no immediate answer. “Right, I'll kill her.”
“But... if she wanted to die, why would …”
“Emit, shut up!” Paige interrupted and tapped him on the shoulder. “Actually you, piss off.”
“Piss off?”
“Yeah, do one. You don't need to be here.” She sat in the seat next to Claire's bed as the doctor scribbled on the chart. Jack slowly opened the door into the crowded room.
“Hello?” Jack asked as Emit moved towards the door.
“Parked the car OK?”
“Yes, when someone wasn't leaping from a moving vehicle.”
“I'm sorry,” the doctor demanded, rubbing his balding head. Visiting time is not until 10am. We allow one person by the beds at any one time. The rest of you out. This is not Shepherds Bush Market.”
“You heard the doctor, out!” Paige snapped at the two men. “And close the door on the way out.”
“Perhaps we should come back at ten.”
Paige nodded. “Sure, you two come back at ten.”
“All of us.”
Paige scoffed at Jack’s suggestion. “Drop Emit off home. Then go home. Tomorrow morning go via Claire's house to bring a spare set of clothes and some nightwear and stuff. Oh, and ring her mum for me before you go to bed. And bring my phone charger in the morning. And Claire's. And …”
“You're impossible.” Jack paused. “You going to be OK here on your own?”
“Yes,” she muttered. “I spent all night with Hazel when she tried to commit suicide. I was at her bedside from ten when we arrived, for 36 hours. I never left.”
“Give me a ring if you need anything.”
Paige watched her partner close the door. She focused on her friend and waited for the doctor and nurse to leave the room, before standing up and looking at her ex-bandmate.
“Why Claire? What the fuck happened to you? You were the normal one of the band. You were once the serious, sensible one who demanded we get an agent and who insisted on doing everything with colour-coordinated rotas. You were once the person who would demand we all wore sunscreen in the Summer and crash helmets in the video.” Claire never moved. A tear fell from Paige's cheeks as she stared at the lifeless figure of her friend, hooked up to a plethora of monitors. Her chart lay by her bed, but Paige couldn't understand the medical hieroglyphics.
Neither could she understand Claire's mad attempt to end her own life, or indulge in something so reckless it made little sense. What had happened to the positive energy that helped hold the band together?
If it wasn't for Claire, then Paige would not have been the powerful name she was in music. She probably wouldn't be with Jack either. Her recent past was intertwined with Claire's.
The stark realisation as she stared at the still woman was how far Claire had drifted; how far she had lost the safety of the support network that she had built and clearly needed.
“Why?” She asked, louder than before at her still, lifeless friend. “Why the fuck did you do this Claire? What the fuck did you think would happen if you mix drugs with fucking crazy amounts of alcohol? You stupid girl.” She smiled slightly. “Our first album had a single called Girls on it. You had the guitar solo that won you that award. It was all about the stupid things that girls do. Washing their hair when their boyfriend was about to take them out and all the sexist shi
t that I hate. I don't fucking remember doing a ridiculous amount of shit until you're nearly dead in hospital making the lyrics.”
Paige slumped in the chair. “You fucking stupid …” But she never finished; the emotion poured from her as Paige held the hand of her friend and cried into it. “Don't you dare fuckin’ leave us. Not yet Claire. Not fucking yet.”
Chapter XXXIX
Andre
“I came as soon as I heard.”
“Which fucker told you?” Paige took the bag of supplies from Jack and glared at the man who was sitting next to her partner. The clunk of cutlery and cups in the hospital café surrounded them and Paige slouched in the chair opposite.
Paige had left the Baynes family alone with their daughter in the private hospital room, and had met a familiar, if somewhat unwelcome, face.
Andre answered. “It was all over the news. They had people down at her house. I wasn't told by anyone.”
“At her house?”
Jack replied. “I locked up. Everything was open. We could do with tidying it before she goes back in. It was a mess, Paige. A real mess.”
“That Deirdre girl and her daughter who help clean our house.”
“You mean the people who do clean our house; I’ve not seen you lift the chamois for months, and I’m not sure you know where the vacuum cleaner is.”
“Not the time or the place,” she growled. “Ask her if she can clean it up. I know Essex is outside her area but she’s good and we can pay for her transport up there.” She turned to Claire's ex-fiancée. “And it ain’t a good idea that you see her either.”
“Why?”
She held up a discarded newspaper in the hospital café with a picture of the man facing her and a headline reading “SEX SHAME OF TOP AGENT.”
“They've really done the nasty on you,” Paige said, barely suppressing her glee. “I can't say it's not deserved ‘cause you’ve been a twat, but you're a double page spread. And the newspaper have the video too. And all those whips and …”
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 16