by Lotte Daley
‘She’s spent, like, oh, too long,’ Frenella concurred in unison. ‘Too long, Hanna,’ she gave her a solemn pat on the arm.
‘Building up Poets Field PR to what it is today, a thriving, successful, shiny, smart business, with me at the forefront, how can one fail? Waiter,’ she snapped her fingers and one came running. ‘More drinks.’ She didn’t say please.
This is all a little too much information for me to digest right now. Must get rid of the gruesome twosome.
‘I’m off to powder my nose,’ I smile brightly.
‘Oooh, goodie, I’ll join,’ Frenella says linking arms with me.
‘If you must, I’d prefer you to go to the VIP section, darling.’ Hanna wafts her hands towards a scary-looking bouncer. She clicks her fingers. Seriously, the woman clicked her fingers. As if any self-respecting man would come running to a …
‘Katie, this is Gabe.’ She gestured to a seven-foot Hispanic giant.
‘Hello,’ I smiled sweetly and held out one of my perfect-looking, manicured hands. It was all I could do to stop myself going ‘Oooh’ every time I saw them, such was the novelty. I decided then and there I would never go back to my old nails, which were chewed with chipped, pink splodges hanging around on them.
‘This way, Madame,’ Gabe said, as he walked a pace or two ahead of Frenella and me. When I turned back to question what Hanna was going to do with herself, I noticed Danny Divine approach and thought better of it.
‘Quick, run!’ I hissed to Frenella.
‘What? In these heels? Are you insane?’
Clearly, I thought to myself, if I want to spend any amount of my free-ish time here with Little Miss Plastic. I carried on following Gabe with Frenella by my side to a dark stairway, lit only by incense cones and pillar candles scattered with wild purple flowerheads. As we neared the top of the stairs, a long cloaked purple velvety curtain hung heavily in front of us. Gabe grunted and all of a sudden, the curtain was drawn back and, inside, I could see beautiful people swaying in time to the music. I noticed several actors from EastEnders and got all mega excited. Must not drool over anyone famous, I am after all, almost famous myself, listen to the wisdom of Tom Theodore, what was it? Listen to your heart? I smiled at anyone and everyone in one of those cool facial expressions that you kinda have to learn fast, which I learned from Ziggy Wang. He nailed the smile, all right. Tom Theodore’s smile looked as though he’d met the Wizard of Oz, Hanna Frost looked angry, Aubrey looked constipated or surprised, depending on how much Botox he’d had. Too much in the wrong place resulted either in a permanent frown or looking as though he’d stepped into a room full of naked Chippendales. Frenella giggled too much and God, there were no words for Danny Divine. Mmm, yes, my smile was from a mixture of an ‘I know I’m cool as fuck’ Ziggy Wang and an ‘I’m hot as hell and you want me’ Sam Bailey.
‘Katie, are you OK?’ Frenella nudges me.
‘Hmm, yes, why do you ask?’
‘Your face … you look a little startled.’
‘I guess, I am, uh, excited,’ I murmur as we turn a dimly-lit corner and find ourselves placed neatly between two hot male models. They sat there smouldering by candlelight in their open-topped shirts, tanned, toned, muscle peeked from beneath the fabric. Note to self, if it doesn’t work out with Bailey, who clearly prefers skinny models … God, he is just like Richard, I thought. A modelizer. Only dates models. Just like that episode from Sex and the City. And they say that was all fictitious!
Well, anyway, my whole point was that there appeared to be about fifty Bailey/Richard/Jack Hunter-type men in here and the law of averages suggests that if I were to drunkenly hit upon them all, one by one, after I’ve finished this lovely bottle of vintage champagne that’s just been placed on my table, one of them is bound to say yes.
‘Katie Lewis, right?’ A tall blonde hunk in a ripped t-shirt appeared in front of me and sat down uninvited in the chair opposite. ‘I’m Brad, I’m a model,’ he grinned. He looked especially pleased with himself.
‘So,’ he drawled. ‘Do you come here often?’ I looked at him as I took in the words just spoken. Do I come here often? Is he serious? I look around the room, half expecting Jeremy Beadle to jump out and ’fess up to setting me up with a himbo who’s swallowed a copy of the Little Book of Cheesy Chat-up Lines.
‘Um …’ I say, trying to think of a reply. Must not lie, look at what happened the last time I tried to pretend to be something I wasn’t. Hmm? Refresh your memory here, let’s see … The Dorchester, yep, go there aaaall the time, fillet of badger is my favourite. I really wanted to say that I frequented film premieres, in particular, this swanky VIP room five nights out of seven, but the truth was …
‘No,’ I said, still smiling. Must not look insecure. ‘I don’t come here often.’
He had the most delicious blue eyes … long eyelashes … such a beautiful man.
‘I didn’t think I’d seen you in here before,’ he said, one eye half closed, sizing me up. ‘But I have definitely seen you someplace before, your face looks awful familiar to me …’ he said in his American twang. He sighed as he pondered where he’d seen me. He’d seen my arse over Richard’s shoulder and, probably, he’d seen awful pictures of me half opening my door, gawping at the paparazzi outside my house from last week, after all, the gorgeous pictures of me weren’t released until tomorrow, the day that Sizzle Stars hit the shops. But I wasn’t about to admit to that because then I’d have to admit that my boyfriend left me for Jessica Hilson and God, no one wants to start talking about their ex-boyfriend and his philandering ways twenty seconds into a potential hook-up with a male model from across the pond, now do they? Huh? Do they? No, of course they don’t.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said, sweetly. Aw shucks, he wants to buy me a drink. I wasn’t entirely convinced that I fancied him. For one, he was blond and blonds don’t really do it for me.
‘You can buy me a drink, yes, uh,’ What was his name? What was his name again? ‘Brett!’
‘Brad.’
‘Sorry. Brad. I would like … a Singapore Sling, please.’ This was the only posh cocktail I could remember from one of the only times Jack Hunter took me out in public.
‘Nice,’ he said, winking and then he made his way to the bar. I topped up my champagne glass. Well, no harm in warming oneself up on free booze, is there? I’d have the hangover from hell at this rate anyway and besides, I doubt I could tell the difference between a shit hangover and a really shit hangover. Sod it, I thought as Brad returned with one Singapore Sling for me and a tall frosted dark-looking drink for him. It was ultra posh in this gaff. No umbrellas in the glass here! Brad waffled on about his life, which consisted of parties, parties and more parties. He modelled for some fashion house I’d never heard of and got to fly to tons of exotic locations.
I was trying really hard to be interested in everything he was saying, but was totally unsuccessful. I couldn’t get Bailey out of my head, my thoughts were whizzing around and around in my poor boozey brain, and as I was an excellent multitasker, I managed to thank God for this, silently. I made the appropriate verbal nods and facial gestures so Brad felt as though I was hanging off his every word. Brad was one of the beautiful people. Beautiful people, I’ve noticed, don’t have to develop much of their personality beyond having the basics that one needs to get by in a variety of social situations. For example, Brad didn’t have a clue that I wasn’t really listening. Brad hadn’t asked me anything about myself, how I felt this evening, where my dress was from, even, who I was beyond my name, meaning, who was Katie Lewis when she was at home? Not literally at home because, oh God, can you imagine if Oh Yay! magazine did a shoot with me in my rubbish boring old house in Bethnal Green? They’d get the dusty wooden floors, the ripped James Dean posters curling from the kitchen walls, CDs splattered around the ghetto blaster – yep, I still had one of them and no, I don’t want to upgrade – Bob Dylan, The Cure, Joy Division smiled up at me from the sleeves of the music cases. There w
ere bizarre antique photo frames that stood on curled wooden tables next to my two big old browny-beige couches that were littered with cigarette burns and red wine stains from many a silly evening with Danielle, moaning about men, specifically Stewart-small-penis and, of course, the day that my life had seemingly changed forever, the morning of THAT TEXT. Like an ultra famous person dying a hideous death or a natural disaster, there was clearly a shift in polarity the day that Jack Hunter left me. The world had changed and nothing in it was ever going to be the same again, least of all me.
Beautiful people didn’t pick up on subtle tones of voice, turns of phrase or subliminal body language, because they never had to decode potential partners. Everybody wanted to shag them. End of. They didn’t have to make half as much effort as I did in my normal life, even just getting ready for a night out took an entire day. I wished my life was as easy as it must be for a person like Brad, a beautiful person. They just look pretty and everyone panders to them, because beautiful people are positive people and everybody needs a bit of sunshine in their lives, right?
Suddenly, Frenella plonked herself down next to me, wild eyes and talking ten to the dozen. Thank the Lord, I thought, as now Brett/Brad/whatever his name is, was now being backed into a conversational corner by the increasingly hyper Frenella. What on earth had she had to drink in the past half an hour? I wondered.
Brad’s flimsy attention was turned to Frenella, the compact blonde in the tiny dress. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. Hmm. I know what that means. I read it in a magazine, that when someone’s pupils dilate, it means they are insanely attracted to the person they’re talking to. I checked Brad’s eyes. Hmm. They weren’t so big. Oh well, I thought to myself, as Brad and Frenella started talking LA and chemical peels. I allowed my eyes to wander around the room, taking in the beauty of the faces, the sleek and sexy bodies and the clothes that adorned them. All of a sudden, I locked eyes with a tall, dark, familiar Italian – Fabio Matravers. He winked at me. Urgh, must not fall for his slimy tricks of pretending to fancy me when really all he wants is to piss off Jessica Hilson. Already had enough humiliation to last an entire lifetime. I looked away. Before I could formulate anything of any great sense to say to him, he stood beside me, his shadow falling down the length of me. I looked up and glared at him. I pouted my lips and huffed.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Kate?’ Fabio purred. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I think you know very well what the matter is,’ I replied.
‘Darling … let me buy you a drink and let’s talk, why not?’
‘I already have a drink, um, Brett bought me one.’ I smiled smugly.
‘Uh … it’s Brad,’ he interjected.
‘Whatever,’ I said. Brad and Fabio looked a bit perturbed but were soon distracted by Frenella, who was singing along with the music.
‘Hey, do you think anyone actually really landed on the moon?’ she said randomly.
‘Dunno, why?’ Brad shrugged, before turning himself to face her.
‘Listen, darling, that drink is empty, let’s leave them to it, I have a table over there, you can order a drink, anything you want, please?’
I looked at my options. Himbo and the Brainiac sitting there discussing conspiracy theories, albeit in some crazy, childlike, thicko kind of way. Hanna, thankfully, nowhere to be seen, safe for now. Bailey was probably humping Carolina Fernando against a wall or partaking in some kind of beautiful-people sex orgy. Danny Divine, oh God, who knows, let’s keep it that way. And here I was, with the only half-decent, extremely attractive option standing in front of me, wearing what I now know, thanks to many a gay fashionista’s teaching, is a made-to-measure Manning & Manning Savile Row suit. Nice.
‘OK, you win,’ I said, standing up and flattening down my gorgeous gown.
‘Katie, there is no game,’ he said, looking directly into my eyes.
‘You sure about that?’ I snorted.
‘Quite sure,’ he replied. He looked slightly confused and a lot concerned.
‘Come,’ he said, as he rested his hand gently on the small of my back and drew me closer to him. We almost floated towards his table. His touch was that of a gentleman and not that of a pervert, like Danny Divine and his octopus hands. Unlike Danny, Fabio didn’t squeeze my backside. Although what with the fuzzy, confident, happy feelings the Singapore Sling had given me, I was not really all that opposed to a bit of bottom groping. I steered my hands towards my clutch bag and twirled strands of my hair over and above my perfect fingers.
A suave, silent man arrived at the table.
Fabio muttered something exotic and the waiter nodded and turned on his heels.
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked for a surprise for the lady … and for me.’
‘Well, I don’t like Amaretto, just so you know,’ I said haughtily.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called you, Katie, I assume that this is what your antagonistic mood is for?’ He looked into the middle distance and sighed.
‘No, I mean, yes, there is that …’
‘You see, Katie, I had to go back to Italy to see my sick mother.’
‘Oh, really,’ I said. What planet was this creep on? Sick mother? I’d bought that line too many times from Jack to fall for it again.
‘Pull the other one,’ I said, smirking at him. I shrugged my shoulders and stuck my nose in the air.
‘Pull the other what?’ Fabio looked rather taken aback.
‘Leg!’ I said, nudging my head to prompt him into the famous saying.
‘I understand not?’
‘Leg! Pull the other leg!’
‘Why?’
‘It has bells on it!’ Fabio wasn’t going to get the better of me!
‘I am unclear?’
‘You and me both. Listen, forget it, it was a joke, doesn’t matter.’
‘Mr Matravers,’ the waiter appeared and laid two crystal frost-rimmed glasses on the table in front of us. He coughed nervously before turning to Fabio and saying, ‘I am so sorry to hear about your recent loss, please accept the drinks on the house.’
The two men exchanged respectful nods. I felt really stupid. Again.
‘Fabio …’ I began apologetically.
‘No matter,’ he said, gently taking my hand in his and gazing longingly into my eyes. ‘Now, tell me?’
‘Well …’ I began, unsure as to which bits I should tell him about and which bits I should exclude from the conversation. After all, I didn’t want to go upsetting Hanna and who knows whether Fabio was trustworthy or not?
I turned my head in mock carelessness and clapped eyes on Bailey, who’d clearly just jumped up the stairs to the VIP room two at a time, judging by the slight sheen on his forehead and his startled eyes. When he spied me, the bolt of electricity between us could have blown up the entire room and all of its occupants. He stopped in his tracks like a rabbit in the headlights, looking at me, my face, my eyes, then, down to my hand. Fabulous fingers entwined with Fabio Matravers’. It looked as though I was in a lovers’ embrace with another man. Across the room, Bailey’s face dropped, and he just shook his head slightly and turned to leave. No! I thought and accidently said the word out loud.
‘What is it, Katie? Are you OK?’ Fabio queried, as concern swept across his chiselled features.
‘No, I , I’m sorry, listen, I will be right back, OK? Wait there!’ I leapt up as fast as one can in a floor-length gown, belly full of expensive alcohol and wearing six-inch heels. I clumsily toppled over into the side of the couch and stuck an arm out to steady myself.
‘Whoooo …’ I squealed quietly.
‘Kate.’ The unmistakeable acrid voice of Hanna Frost barked my name, albeit under her breath. I looked up at her and saw double.
‘Have you been taking advantage of the free alcohol?’ she hissed.
‘No!’ I said. In my defence, the champagne was a gift and how could I refuse himbo Brad/Brett’s drink or, indeed, Fabio Matravers’?
Fabio shot daggers through his cavernous dark eyes as Hanna leant into me, hooked her arm beneath me and pulled me up straight.
‘Gorgeous, darling!’ she cooed. ‘You are a real showstopper tonight, darling, real showstopper!’
Gosh, I must be drunk. Is Hanna cooing on me? She totally is. I smiled back. I felt more steady on my feet now and the previous dizzy moment appeared to have washed right over me. The silent waiter appeared and handed me a cool glass of water. I took a big gulp and glanced over to the table where I had left the model with the tiny terror. They were literally eating each other. Both were undistinguishable from one another, their mops of peroxide blonde hair embedding on one another’s faces, lips locked, sucking for dear life. He had one hand on her boob and the other on her thigh, her dress was riding halfway up to netherland. Her eyes firmly shut, head tilted, she had one hand on the scruff of his neck and the other steadying herself on the chair. ‘Thanks,’ I said to the waiter. He nodded and retreated back to the bar.
‘Ms Frost,’ Fabio was on his feet now, extending a hand, to Hanna’s sheer delight. Gosh, he was so polite.
When neither of them was looking, I made my escape. I bent over, pulled my shoes off, held them in my hand and shuffled towards the exit. I looked in my bag for my mobile. Game over, I’d left it at home. Now where could he be? To go faster I lifted the hemline of my dress, the way princesses do in fairy tales and made for the downstairs dance floor. It was flooded with people, in stark contrast to the quiet buzz of the VIP room. Gorgeous people were dancing to funky house, the eclectic beats allowing sylph-like bodies to sway in time to the music. I searched frantically for his face, to let him know it wasn’t me with Fabio, well, it was me, but I didn’t want to be there with him, I wasn’t bothered about him, I was bothered about Bailey, more than anything else in the entire world. I don’t know if it was the combination of the alcohol or the music or my first film premiere, I really didn’t know, but I simply had to find him on pain of death. I crept around the perimeter of the floor, being careful not to tread on any broken glass. People jostled, boobs were thrust up into my face by passing glamour models. On closer inspection, I noticed that there were no more mega famous people swanning around the vicinity, just trashy celebrities from reality television. Or something like that. I couldn’t really tell. Faces were swimming out of focus as the beats of the tunes grew more frenetic. And then all of a sudden, the funky house tune hit a euphoric pitch, with strings and bongo drums and it felt as if people on the dance floor were moving out of the way without me having to ask them, like the parting of the Red Sea but with disco beats. A hazy glow of spotlights criss-crossed the dance floor before right there, all of ten yards away from me, stood a dishevelled Sam Bailey. He was looking right at me, and I at him. I was about to take those steps towards someone you know you’ve fallen in love with, but for one reason or another have not managed to tell them, when Carolina Fernando grabbed him from the side and kissed him square on the mouth. My heart almost died. It almost stopped. My blood ran cold as I looked at him. His face was all squidged with the force of her kiss, yet he twisted round to look at me. His hands leapt up away from her and in a vain effort to appease me, his mouth moved, he said my name, he tried to give chase, to reach me, to get to me. But it was too late, I was already gone.