by Bella Mackie
I knew this because I’d followed the Bentley on several nights around town. It was the easiest way to do research on Lee. He wasn’t on social media, apart from a scarcely used Facebook account which seemed to peter out sometime in 2010 but which gave me some early amusement with his penchant for doing quizzes about which animal he’d be and what superhero power he’d most likely have (meerkat, laser eyes). He rarely left the townhouse until about 3 p.m. for a workout, and then he’d invariably grab a coffee in Knightsbridge where he met other men in Gucci loafers for a catch-up at a café which served drinks in gold-plated cups. They would all keep their phones on the table, as if they were running the country and might have to leave any minute. I’d sat next to their table once or twice, and listened to them talk about the stocks they should invest in, the next Vegas trip they could take, all while they occasionally threw in some casual misogyny just to keep the conversation light. Men of state they were not.
But night-time was the best time to find my wayward uncle. The more I saw of his twilight world, the more I wondered if he ever made Andrew accompany him on one of these jaunts. It would explain a lot about why my cousin fled for the frogs. After a few nights following the car but never actually going into the establishments that Lee frequented, I took the plunge. I never attempted to get into the VIP sections of the clubs he visited, it seemed too degrading to tart myself up and try to beguile a bouncer. But the bars were easier, and the Chinatown dives a breeze. I could end up nursing a drink right next to his posse, watching, listening.
The main object was just to be seen, as far as I could tell. Champagne was bought by the bottle, air kisses were showered on young women, men grabbed each other in wrist-wrapping handshakes, jewelled watches throwing patterns on the ceiling. Thirty minutes later, with new people picked up and others discarded, Lee and his crew would head out and on to the next venue. By about 12 a.m., trips to the bathroom would become more frequent, and Lee would start to get lively, insisting loudly that people ‘party’, and trapping his burly mates in headlocks. By the time it hit 3 a.m., I was deathly bored and drinking water. None of them noticed me, I wasn’t a girl that would turn their heads. Not young enough. Not displaying the goods. I would always wear a black trouser suit and a T-shirt, some red lipstick for effort and a pair of heels. The heels were my only concession. If you tried to wear sensible flats to bars like the ones Lee frequented, they’d assume you were some kind of undercover police officer and view you with suspicion.
I spoke to Uncle Lee on my third scouting mission. I hadn’t planned to – nothing rested on getting to know him better – but I figured it would be more fun than watching him down shots and try to dance badly enough that one young model type actually winced and shrugged his arm off her shoulder.
Lee and his posse had gone to a private members club off Berkeley Square in Mayfair, and I headed to the bar opposite, knowing not to try and blag my way into an establishment with red ropes around the door and an old man in a top hat standing guard. I sat at the window nursing a glass of rosé, waiting for the moment the Bentley was brought round, which would signal the next move. The club must have been quiet that night, because the car pulled up outside at 1 a.m. I hurried out of the bar and flagged down a cab, telling the driver to follow my friends who were travelling ahead. The explanation sounded weak, and I cringed internally, but he didn’t bat an eyelid. As expected, we went straight for Chinatown, pulling up outside a venue I’d not seen before. In fairness, it wasn’t obviously a bar. It wasn’t obviously anything. It was a tiny door with no sign or menu, squished between two dim sum restaurants, a place you’d walk past a million times and never notice. I watched Lee and two burly mates buzz on an intercom and push the old door open. Just before the door slammed shut, I got my foot over the threshold and slid behind it. I let their footsteps recede before I followed them, not wanting to bump straight into them on the narrow stairs. The place was dingy, with dark red wallpaper and faded carpet. Everything about it screamed brothel to me, except for the loud house music I could hear coming from above. That gave me the confidence to at least try to gain access. Silence and I would’ve left immediately.
I waited a couple of minutes on the stairwell and then made my way up. The door that met me was a big black fire door, and I pushed it open tentatively. Behind it was a small room, presumably the old reception area for an office, with black lace blinds over the window. Two attractive women of about my age sat on raised stools behind a table upon which were champagne glasses and a bowl of condoms. The women were smiling at me.
‘Hi there,’ said the one with a blunt bob and eyeliner winged up to her brows. ‘Welcome to the Pleasure Parade. Do you have your invitation?’
I have always been able to think fast, without stammering or avoiding eye contact. The trick is to smile and not over explain. This was clearly a sex party. I’d never been to one, but I’ve read enough articles in women’s magazines about the rise of private parties where beautiful people meet up and shag to recognise what was happening here. Vogue had endorsed these gatherings. Why be bashful?
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, putting my hand on the table, ‘I’ve been out in Soho and remembered that this was happening tonight, but stupidly forgot to bring it. I hope it doesn’t matter – Flick said it would be OK.’
The other woman, wearing a headband made of green silk and large gold hoop earrings, looked me up and down and flashed a glance at bob girl.
‘Well, as you know, these events rely on exclusivity and … discretion,’ she put a finger to her lips. ‘But if Flick vouched for you then it should be fine. Can you just sign the form here and put your phone in this box?’
I thanked God for the magic word. Flick, the posh white-girl name guaranteed to open doors in certain situations. There’s always a Flick – she might be a party PR girl, or a gallerist or just a friend of a friend. Mention her and you’ve signalled that you’re OK, on the inside, that you probably know Floss and India too.
I signed the form, which basically told me that I am not to talk of the Pleasure Parade to others, nor mention the names of any high-profile guests. I am not to take photos or record anything. I must pledge to keep things ‘safe and fun’ at all times, and respect the boundaries of others.
I handed over my phone and headband girl gave me a condom with a wink. ‘Remember that the blue room is for kink play. And if anyone gives you hassle, Marco is in the bar.’
‘Oh sure, I’m all set,’ I said, as I handed her my coat and went through the door behind their perch with more confidence than I felt.
I like sex. I’m not squeamish or repressed about it. It’s a fun stress-busting activity, even when it’s done poorly, which is a lot of the time when you’re shagging men raised on porn who think that women need minimal foreplay and desire a lot of flexible positioning. Orgasms are a wonderful thing, especially when received alone and followed by silence and not the desperate need to get a strange man out of your house immediately. But I’m not enamoured of the rampant sex positivity we get bombarded with. Women who want to tell you all about their sexual journey as if enjoying sex is a character trait. Couples who put up photos of themselves entwined in bed sheets on social media, pretending that their post-coital bragging is art. Terrible essays and amateur poetry about fucking. Do it, don’t go on about it.
Sex parties always seemed to me like a way for boring people to show others that there’s a more interesting side to them. Perhaps there would be if you suddenly kicked off an orgy in a supermarket on the local high street, but a fancy invite-only gathering in the West End where girls wear Alice bands doesn’t scream alternative to me. It’s like a luxury gym where the smoothies cost £9 and the shower gel is designer and everyone there is showing off their bodies in high-end leggings, barely concentrating on the fitness element. It’s all performative.
Entering the party that night did nothing to disabuse me of that preconception. The first room was the bar, where fully clothed people stood around drinking out of
crystal glasses. The lighting was dim, but I could make out a Gucci bag, the flash of a diamond ring, the heady mix of too many Tom Ford perfumes blending together. It was rich and banal, and the fact that bodily fluids were being exchanged in nearby rooms didn’t make it any less so.
The music was cranked up, perhaps to mask the sounds of ecstasy coming from elsewhere, and I made my way over to the bar, trying to spot Lee in the gloom and hoping that he hadn’t already headed into a sex room, mainly because then this would be pointless but also because I desperately didn’t want to catch a glimpse of my uncle naked. I was ambitious in my revenge plans, but I had to draw a line and it turned out that the line was having to watch a relative sweating away over a woman I assumed would be at least twenty years younger than he was. Not where I thought my squeamish level was after killing three people, but there we were.
As the bartender fixed me a Martini (I hate cocktails but I felt like playing a role), I studied the people around me. A good-looking couple in their early thirties – him in a blue shirt and chinos, her in a green silk dress with pink high heels and a slightly apprehensive look – were next to me at the bar. He was holding her hand and looking back at me with a smile. I returned it, but looked away sharpish. I didn’t want to get bogged down in conversation. From her frequent whispers, and his comforting back rubs, it was obvious she was only here to please him. I hoped they didn’t peg me as the ideal choice for their first unhappy threesome.
Towards the other end of the room I could make out two women, both as thin as greyhounds and just as elegantly nervy, sitting together on a plush velvet sofa as a slightly stocky man crouched down at their feet and talked at them. From his gesticulating hands, he was clearly trying hard to be entertaining, but their polite smiles and wandering eyes screamed boredom. It certainly didn’t look as though they were desperate to climb the guy like a tree. In fact, there was very little sexual energy vibrating off anyone around me. The room felt muted and slightly awkward, as though everyone was waiting for someone else to take the lead and kick things off. Perhaps nobody had yet had enough alcohol.
A sharp prod knocked my arm off the bar and took my drink with it. I looked around and saw that one of Lee’s mates had made room for himself at the bar, not troubling to see that the space he now occupied had been taken up by another person just a few seconds before. Men often do that, spreading out their legs on the Tube as though they have an innate need to fill any space that isn’t filled, walking down the middle of a narrow pavement and being almost surprised when they career into you, nudging too close in a coffee shop queue as though you’ll give way. They don’t even notice what they’re doing. They are important, their needs are important. You are not as important. You are not important at all. Unless you’re attractive to them. Then your space will be occupied in other ways. Men will stand in front of you and block your path to get your attention. They will slow their car down so that you feel uncomfortable as you walk down the street. They will hover over you in bars, touching your arm, grabbing your hand. If you’re lucky, it’ll just be your hand.
I did not move another inch. Instead I fixed my eyes on the sweaty man’s profile as he tried to get the barman’s eye. If someone stares at you long enough, you eventually have to return the gaze. It took the guy a minute, but he finally looked at me.
‘You just knocked my drink out of my hand,’ I said, not moving my face, not moving any part of my body. Not blinking.
‘I’m trying to get a drink, love, give me a break,’ he said, and turned away again. I felt fury build up, my face getting hot.
‘You spilled my drink. What are you going to do about that?’ The man turned towards me again, clenching his fist on the bar.
‘You’re not getting free drinks off me. I’m not an idiot.’ He gestured to his mate, a dismissive shrug. Just as I was about to explode with rage, Lee appeared between us. He blocked my view of his burly mate and put his hands together as if in prayer.
‘I’m so sorry about my friend, darling, he’s no gentleman but I can see that he’s cost you a nice glass of wine and I’d very much like to buy you another one to make up for it.’ He grinned at me, clasping his hands around my own and bringing them up to rest on the bar, signalling to the waiter to bring me a new drink.
And that is how I got chatting to my uncle. He was charming, in the way that my mother used to say that Simon was. All gab and smiles. The confidence to take control and take liberties without any real offence. I allowed him to order me wine. I didn’t tell him I was having a Martini. I didn’t object when he picked one I didn’t much like, and I didn’t flinch when he touched my hands without asking. There was nothing likeable or interesting in his behaviour, it was more that he’d grown up confident that he was an all-powerful man and acted as though everyone else knew it too. Men like that get away with an unbelievable amount. Even if you hate that kind of attitude, it’s hard to push back against it sometimes. And then later, you hate yourself for enabling it.
Lee made his friend, who he called ‘Scotty dog’, apologise to me, before releasing him back into the bar where he promptly headed towards a door to the left of the bar.
‘Doesn’t waste time does Scott,’ winked Lee. ‘So what brings a girl like you to a place like this then?’
I told him my friend had recommended these gatherings as a good place to start if you were thinking about getting involved in the scene. Lee nodded. ‘It’s a vanilla crowd, nothing too raunchy happens here, bit of shagging, some nice girl-on-girl stuff. Less hardcore than I like but it’ll do for a rainy Thursday.’
‘What do you like then?’ I asked, feeling increasingly aware that this sounded very much like flirting and having to quash the slight nausea that I could sense rising up. Hard not to sound like you’re flirting at a sex party though, even a discussion about council tax would end up coming across as suggestive when you’re fifteen feet away from people having sex with strangers.
He tilted his head and smiled at me. I could see he was only now looking at my face properly, taking the time to actually pay attention. He was sizing me up, either as a proposition or as an oddity. I sipped my drink and tried not to look coquettish. If he wanted to tell me about his sexual proclivities that was one thing, but I wouldn’t try and seduce them out of him.
‘That’s bold, considering we’ve still got our clothes on, missy.’ Lee smirked and checked his watch, a big silver Rolex dotted with diamonds which flung a glittery reflection onto the bar top. ‘It’s not stuff good girls like you want to know about, trust me. Try this place out for starters, then we’ll talk.’
The fresh-faced ingénue approach wasn’t working. I was boring him already.
‘What, you like being humiliated, is that your thing? Big rich guy, never told no, gets treated like a prince but really wants someone to reflect his own sneaking sense of failure back at him? Or maybe you like being hit. Really smacked about. Or is it that you want to get fucked? You’re not gay, oh no heaven forbid, but you want someone to push you down and dominate you? It’s not that interesting, honestly. You think your fetishes are unique or different? They’re not, mate, I assure you.’
That made him laugh. Men often laugh with surprise when they find women funny, as though it’s a skill we’re not expected to possess. Lee was engaged again now, I’d won him back. My dignity took huge knocks while I tried to rid the world of this awful family. The end result would be worth it, of that I had no doubt, but hanging out in Marbella, digging up weeds at a nature centre and now talking about sex with my uncle … it was certainly a trial. In a funny way it reminded me of a line from Sense and Sensibility: ‘The rent here may be low but I believe we have it on very hard terms.’
‘Hard to impress, aren’t you?’ He looked around, as though he were preparing to divulge state secrets. ‘OK, Miss Seen-It-All, I like a bit of choking. Belts, scarves, whatever works. Losing your breath as you edge towards glory. It’s fucking wild, I tell you. I’ve always liked it. I guess some big-brained psychiat
rist would say it’s because I nearly drowned in the family pool when I was ten or some nonsense, but who the fuck knows.’
I looked down at his hand pointedly. ‘Does your wife indulge?’ I said, smiling at his wedding ring. ‘I assume she’d like to choke you occasionally.’
To his dubious credit, Lee didn’t even try to look ashamed. ‘My wife is … she’s classy. She ignores some of my pastimes and I let her get on with redesigning our kitchen for the eighteenth time. She acts like an old lady half the time now. I get it, she’s got a good life out of me, that’s the deal with marriage. But men and women are different species, you know? I’ve still got desires. If she doesn’t want to help me with them, she can’t really be too surprised when I look elsewhere.’
At that moment, Lee’s other mate barrelled towards us, spilling his drink and bumping into a group of people standing nearby.
‘Oh Christ, that’s Benj done for the night,’ said Lee. ‘Nice to meet you, love, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ I swallowed down the need to visibly wince and waved goodbye with one hand as he took command of his friend and steered him out of the bar.
I gave it five more minutes to be sure that they’d gone, finished my horrible wine, and made an exit, giving a wide berth to the nervous couple who were now arguing by the door, mascara pooling below the wife’s eyes. The girls in reception gave me a cheery wave as I left, not surprised by how short my stay was. Perhaps a lot of people nip in to sex parties?