2cool2btrue (34 page)

“Get yourselves a drink and come on in,” she says peering around outside carefully before shutting the door. “Well, Piers, this is a turn-up for the books, we didn’t expect to see you here again. I think there are rather a lot of people who are just a teensy-weensy bit cross with you,” she says, pulling down his shades with a long, slim, bejewelled finger. “I think they might want to spank you.”

Nora laughs nervously.

“I think they’ll want to do something worse than that.”

“Even better,” says the woman looking me over again. “Get changed upstairs if you want to.”

As soon as we’re safely inside the house and our hostess has left us alone Nora turns round to me. She looks shocked.

“So you’ve ended it?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Are you, are you all right, Charlie?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. Hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just assumed that…well, you know, you guys had made up.”

“No, I thought we might but, well, things have changed so much in the last few weeks, we’ve both changed and…” I can’t possibly get into it all now. Nora looks away, lost in thought.

“We need to talk,” she says.

I give a sad exasperated laugh.

“That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“But we need to get this thing out of the way first,” she says, her brow furrowed with thought and concentration. I nod. Even though I’m desperate to leave right now, I know that there is no way that she will be able to concentrate on anything else until we’ve investigated this party thing further. “Okay,” she seems to say as much to herself as to me. She looks closely at me and then reaches up and touches my cheek; I take her hand and kiss her palm, enjoying the softness of her skin and her smell.

“Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I tell her softly.

Piers has already gone on ahead so we follow him silently. The living room, and the rest of the house, as far as I can see, is decorated very much like the Huntsmans’—antiques, classic upright sofas, huge lamps, marble-topped tables, silver photograph frames, landscape paintings alongside some abstract pieces on dark, heavily patterned wallpaper. There are big bookcases full of leather-bound volumes which look as though they’ve been bought wholesale by an interior decorator and never read.

But despite the classic furnishings there is something odd about this place, I can smell it before I even see it. Bodies, sweat. I can sense a certain electricity too. As I peer further into the living room wondering whether I’ll see anyone I know, I notice a coffee table like the one my dad used to have except that underneath it is a man in a leather basque. A real man.

We carry on, looking into a couple of other rooms further towards the back of the house. In one I notice a naked bottom. In fact it’s a large woman on her knees giving a man, half hidden by the shadowy light, a blow job. Wide eyed and trying not to laugh, Nora turns round to look at me. It would be funny except that I know that my dad is connected with this in some way. The idea that I might confront him in a moment doing something like this couple (no, wait a minute, there’s three of them, now that I look carefully) is too horrible.

Piers has started to talk to some people in a quiet corner by the stairs, his cap pulled down over his ears, but when he sees us move off he follows.

“Wait, while I get rid of my coat and put on my disguise.”

“Disguise?” I ask. “Aren’t you disguised enough?”

“No, that woman at the front door wasn’t kidding. There are a quite a few people who’d like to have my balls for marbles.”

“Well, why are you staying here, then?”

He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me as if it were obvious.

“Because it’s fun. Best free peep show in London.” The risk probably appeals, I guess. Part of me hopes that one of these irate investors recognises him and decides to vent their spleen on him.

“Piers, go and put your disguise on and then come back quickly. Coats are in there, I think,” says Nora, nervously, pointing to a door beside us. He is back within a few moments.

“That’s better,” he says.

“Piers?” I say. “What are you doing? What’s that for?”

“What’s what for?”

“You’re wearing a gas mask.”

“I know—disguise.”

“Don’t you think it looks a bit odd?”

Piers gives a muffled laugh.

“You’re so innocent.”

“Come on, let’s look upstairs. If anyone asks you to, you know, get involved, just say you’re just getting a drink and you’ll be right back,” Nora instructs us.

“Roger wilco,” says Piers. I look round at him but it’s impossible to tell now if he’s joking or not. We move towards the stairs, keeping as close together as it’s possible to be without tripping over each other.

But before we go up we look into another room where some people are having sex over tables, hands grasping desperately at each other, looking to grab some new piece of flesh, some new appendage or errogenous zone that they haven’t experienced yet. Just then there is a farting noise as an old guy is pulled along a polished dining table by two young girls, his skin alternately sliding over and sticking on the polished, dark wood.

I pull Nora and Piers out of the doorway and we go up. A woman is giving a man a blow job on the stairs as another man takes her from behind, his thighs slapping rhythmically against her quivering buttocks, generating waves of flesh. Without acknowledging our presence they shuffle over to one side to let us pass. I find myself saying “thanks” which makes Nora laugh.

On the landing there are two giant Chinese vases and a huge imposing portrait of a young girl. Obviously recently painted, her face is frozen in a look of self-conscious seriousness. The owners’ daughter? She must love coming home and seeing that. Better than coming home and seeing this lot I suppose. I’m aware of someone staring at me. An older guy with bouffant, blue-rinsed hair and a black polo neck is inches away from my face, looking at me provocatively. I step back—into Nora and Piers.

“Care to join us?” asks the man, squeezing my biceps. I pull away. “Us” seems to refer to a sad looking young guy wearing only a pair of navy blue Y fronts. With his solid build, pale skin and round face, he looks Russian or Middle European. He stares impassively at me. “Mmm?” enquires the older guy, who is holding him by the hand.

“Er, no thanks,” I mutter.

The older guy shrugs petulantly and leads his friend off into another room.

“Spoil sport,” says Nora.

I look round at her, still slightly bemused. But she is smiling wickedly.

“You should have taken up the offer. That guy’s minted, what’s his name? He owns half a dozen theatres and he’s got shows all over the world.”

It occurs to me that almost everyone we’ve seen so far is either over fifty or under twenty-five. Nora, Piers and myself are a sort of demographic hiccup: presumably neither young and desperate enough to be paid or old and desperate enough to be paying.

We look into the master bedroom, continuing our ritual: a quick glance, a moment to analyse exactly what is going on, a wave of relief on my part that it’s not my dad, followed by another sensation of repulsion at which I drag a smirking Nora and Piers out. Scented candles blend with the smell of sweat and pot. A searing stink of amyl nitrate meets us suddenly.

On the floor of this huge room, with its chandelier and elegant mahogany-fitted wardrobes, a middle-aged, Rubenesque woman is riding a very thin young guy who looks more scared than turned on, her huge legs almost crushing his thin thighs. Still bouncing energetically she shouts across to a grey-haired bloke who is jerking off furiously as he watches two young girls kissing listlessly on a settee.

“Jeremy, uh, uh, you’ll have to feed, uh, uh, the meter in a minute, you know,” she says. Thinking that this might be slang for another sexual position, I look away and drag the others out again. We turn and bump into a bloke who I’ve seen on the telly a few times but I can’t think when.

“What a fantastic dress,” he tells Nora. “I love it. Where
did
you get it?”

“Thanks, it’s Hussein Chalayan,” says Nora. “What about yours?”

“It’s a just a little Vivienne Westward number,” he says, touching her arm. Then it comes to me. Of course—he’s that football commentator.

“Don’t leave me alone” she says to me after he’s moved off.

“Okay, let’s go up another floor,” I tell her. “And then we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

We bump into a rather drunken Lady Huntsman, her arms round two young men; one, a skinhead, has a tattoo of a spider web across his neck and the other is in camouflaged combat pants and is drinking champagne out of the bottle, letting it pour down over neck and naked torso.

“Huh,” she says, looking me up and down. “Changed your mind have you?” She moves on haughtily. We pass a girl, totally naked doing coke off a marbled-topped console table.

“Oh, my God, can you believe this?” hisses Nora at me as we move into another room. “I just hope I remember all the names. Wait.” She rather clumsily holds her handbag up in front of her and fiddles with the catch. “Look, there’s Josh Langdon.” Langdon, drunk or stoned or both, is with three young girls. “Oh, fucking hell, there’s Sir Peter Townsley, he owns
The Informer
—now that would be funny.” She holds up her bag again.

“Nora, someone’s going to notice you doing that in a minute,” I tell her.

“No,” she says, “they’re all too trashed. Talking of which I could do with a drink. Can you get me one?”

“I’m not sure…oh, wait a minute, there are some bottles over there.”

“Charlie.”

“Yes?”

“Get me a large one will you.”

“Sure.”

“Er, yep, whatever’s going,” says Piers when I ask him.

“Will you be able to drink it through that?”

“When it comes to alcohol, mate, where there’s a will there’s a way.”

I notice a table on the other side of the room, complete with snowy white tablecloth. There are cut crystal glasses, a huge ice bucket and a silver dish with elegant slices of lemon. Bottles of Tabasco, Angostura bitters and Worcestershire sauce are gathered in a little triangle. Everything else is neatly arranged but the ultimate absurdity are the canapés: exquisite squares of brown bread with smoked salmon and gravidlax, little cocktail sausages and what looks like slices of foie gras on crackers. Who, tell me,
who,
is here for the food?

I shake my head in disbelief. In a way this very ordinary sight seems more bizarre than anything else I’ve seen tonight. I pour a nicely chilled Chablis into three heavy cut-crystal glasses. As I replace the bottle in the silver ice bucket I notice a face peering up at me from beside the table. It’s a middle-aged man with a moustache and neatly cropped grey hair. He winks at me then closes his eyes and opens his mouth. Feeling slightly embarrassed and not wanting to be a party pooper, I take the bottle out and pour some of the wine into his open mouth. He gently squirts a bit out and lets it trickle over his face and down his neck, before drinking the remainder, ecstatically.

“Don’t you want to piss?” he asks, sweetly.

“Erm, not at the moment, thanks.”

“Oh, well, you know where I am if you do,” he says, smiling.

“I’ll bear it in mind, thanks.”

I get back to the others and give them their drinks. Nora knocks hers back almost in one go and then looks around again.

“You’re right,” she says. “I shouldn’t waste my time writing this one silly article. I should blackmail these people, I’d get a hell of a lot more for it, that way.”

We watch a bit more, backed up against a wall, hoping there is safety in numbers. I realise that not many people seem to be actually enjoying themselves. Those that aren’t obviously too drunk or stoned to know what’s happening are looking around to see what else is going on and what other activities they should be involved with. It’s like one of those parties where everyone is looking past everyone else to see who else they should be talking to.

“I’m going to the loo,” says Nora, after a while. “Do you know where it is?”

“No,” I tell her, “but there’s a bloke by the drinks table who’ll be happy to oblige.”

“Oh, he knows, does he—oh, I see what you mean.” I don’t look around but I assume from her expression that someone is indulging the guy. “Actually I just want to make some notes.”

I catch her arm.

“Nora—”

“Charlie, I’m just going to write down some names—this is what I came for. Please.” I let her go and turn to Piers who has now pushed his gas mask up onto his head and is chatting to a well-preserved woman with long blond hair. She’s wearing a leather waistcoat, riding chaps and cripplingly high stilettoes.

“Hello,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Sabrina, Mistress of Pleasure.”

“Hi,” I say shaking it, wishing she’d beat it off, mistress of pleasure or not, and let me talk to Piers.

“We’re having our own little thing up on the next floor, front bedroom. Hope you’ll be able to join us.”

“Very kind. I’ll certainly try and make it,” I tell her.