The Vanity Game
Authors: H. J. Hampson
by
H.J. Hampson
Published by Blasted Heath, 2012
copyright © H.J. Hampson, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
H.J. Hampson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
Visit H.J. Hampson at:
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-19-4
Version 2-1-3
'In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of
spectacles
. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation.'
Guy Debord
,
The Society of the Spectacle
'The image is one thing and the human being another. It's very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.'
Elvis Presley
We're delighted to bring you an exclusive glimpse into the glamorous world of soccer ace Beaumont Alexander and his beautiful girlfriend, pop star Krystal McQueen.
Beaumont and Krystal invited the
Peek!
team round for afternoon tea at their new home: the cheekily named 'Love Palace'.
Situated deep in the Essex countryside, the architecture of the Love Palace combines medieval practicality and twenty-first century flamboyance creating a romantic castle for the king and queen of glamour.
We marvelled at the imposing façade, adorned not with vicious gargoyles but with stone figures re-creating positions from the
Kama Sutra –
a mischievous nod to the Love Palace theme.
Through the heavy oak door we found ourselves in the spacious entrance hall. With the white and black tiled floor and several giant chess pieces you might think you're walking into a dream. In fact this area of the mansion has been designed with Krystal's favourite story in mind,
Alice in Wonderland
.
The theme continues up the striking sweeping staircase. Carved into the dark mahogany banisters are scenes from Disney's popular version of the fairy-tale. And at the top of the stairs if you look back you'll gasp in wonder for on the ceiling above hangs a dazzling chandelier, literally dripping with real Swarovski crystals.
The stairs then branch off into two wings: the yin and the yang. Krystal is a devotee of the ancient practice of
Feng Shui
and everything in the house is aligned to capture the forces of Luck, Happiness and, obviously, Love. It must be working – the first of a trilogy of erotic films by Beaumont's director friend, Marcus Bazelle, has already been filmed here, and the next two will feature scenes filmed in the mansion's Tiki-themed pool area and
al fresco
in the landscaped gardens.
The living space on the first floor is huge and straddles both the yin and the yang aspects of the house. Here chic, cream leather sofas and bean bags are arranged in front of a cool white marble fireplace.
But it's the picture over the fireplace that catches our eyes most of all. Yes, it's that much talked about portrait by the exciting new artist Peter St. John of the couple relaxing here in the Love Palace itself. Krystal is reclining suggestively over a
chaise longue
while Beaumont stands to the side looking ready for action, showing off his new Japanese Warrior themed tattoos. As if we needed to be reminded that we're in the presence of two of the most beautiful people in the world!
I'm out of the car and immediately dazzled by the flashes. I see hordes of the bastards, all vying for a place at the front of the cordon. There's this lame piece of red rope strung between two silver posts that hardly looks strong enough to stop them if they suddenly decided to all surge forward as one and devour me. A scary thought, no lie.
"Beaumont, this way!" and "Over here, Beaumont!" they're shouting, vicious but desperate. Gagging for it.
I flash a smile, give them what they're begging for, but it don't do much to tame them. The pack wants more: the money-shot. I turn back to help Krystal out of the car. She's wearing this mini-dress that's a little bit obscene and it makes me shudder the way they make them whooping and jeering noises, the fucking animals.
Beyond this pack of dogs though I can hear the screams and cheers of the public, guaranteed to be mostly chicks, who you can bet would do anything for the chance to fuck me. With them and the fucking paparazzi it's like the two extremes of Lovers and Haters, both as crazy as each other.
So we linger on the red carpet a few minutes, and force smiles whilst they get their gratification. You can almost hear them panting with joy, it's totally gross.
Inside the lobby of the hotel I check a few more paps. These are the full-timers from the big news corps or tabloids: a better trained crew than the rabble outside but just as desperate, with their ass-licking questions. We stop for a couple more photos and then we're ushered by the security detail towards the elevator that will take us up to the roof garden and into the hottest party this month.
US rapper Clyde D Vine is in town to promote his – allegedly – hot new album and
everyone
has been scrambling for an invite to his summer BBQ. Holding the thing on top of The Clancy, the newest and coolest boutique hotel in London, makes the event twice as crucial.
The elevator doors open directly onto the roof terrace and I take in the scene of the party laid out before me.
There's a crazy red sunset happening on the horizon, the water in the deserted swimming pool sparkles and the scent of grilled meat is hanging deliciously in the air. It's already got the makings of a good night.
We stand for a moment on the terrace and look at the crowd.
"Look, look," Krystal whispers, nudging me, "isn't that Boadecia Klaus over there? She's just become the face of Chanel. And ain't that Chris Clarkson and … what's her name off
EastEnders
? I didn't know they were dating."
"Wow, me neither," I reply, but I'm looking at an old Hollywood legend sitting with a girl that's much too young for him, and the next-big-thing film director, and several pop stars. This party is indeed A-list.
And I'm thinking
is
that Giorgio Del Fumo, the rumoured-to-be-gay centre half for Man United, wearing a Panama hat and talking to what is most definitely a rent-boy when a cute brunette waitress in a white bikini top and tight hot pants appears in front of us, smiling, dazzling.
My eyes take in her beautifully toned body and I feel Krystal grip my arm as if she can sense it. The waitress greets us by name, introduces herself as Monique and beckons us to follow her to where Clyde D Vine himself is sitting. As she leads us through the crowd, I notice she's got this cute little dragon tattoo on her bronzed shoulder whose forked tongue for some reason looks well kinky to me, and I can't not-look at that small ass in those tight hot pants. The chick is hot, it has to be said.
I'm totally resenting Krystal's hand on my arm. Two months it's been now, not even looking at another woman. After that brutal situation with the seventeen year old (she told me she was twenty-one) and that humiliating trip to the clinic I've been put right off. But here's this Monique chick, waving her ass in front of me on this fine summer evening, tempting the old devil out again.
Clyde D Vine is sprawled on a huge cushion under a white gazebo with two girls, both dressed like Monique, wafting giant fans in front of him. He's wearing a weird outfit made up of a red velvet blazer, red velvet shorts and white frilly shirt, with a huge pair of white-rimmed sunglasses. Fuck me if he don't look like a black Elton John and I have to stop myself from grinning like an idiot as Monique presents us to the rapper. He doesn't get up but holds out his hand to me. I grip it tightly.
"Welcome to da party, guys," he says in a heavy New York ghetto accent.
"Thanks for inviting us, I love your new album," Krystal gushes. Clyde just nods.
"Well thank you sweetie, enjoy yourselves tonight. Monique will get ya anything ya want, if ya ask her nicely."
I smile at the thought of getting anything I want from this sexy little vixen.
"Cool party. Catch you later, man," I say to Clyde, giving both him and Monique a wink when Krystal's back is turned.
"Why did you tell him you liked his album?" I say to Krystal as we're walking away.
"Because it seemed … polite."
"Yeah, not very cool though."
"Really?"
She stops walking and looks at me and I see the trauma in her big blue eyes. She's talked for weeks about how she wants to get in with Clyde D. She's got this delusional idea about making a record with the guy.
But she recovers when she spots Kelly C and Jon Donald sitting at a table near the empty swimming pool. I groan to myself as she makes a bee-line to go and join them. Don't get me wrong, Jon is one of my best mates, even if he does play for those bastards over the other side of the city, but since that drunken fumble with Kelly I feel slightly uncomfortable in situations where the four of us are together. Kelly is looking a bit too chavvy tonight anyway, and as we all greet each other I virtually get a face full of her fake tits when she air-kisses me. That reminds me of the previously mentioned drunken fumble and for a moment I'm well sore for going behind Jon and Krystal's backs, but as me and Kel exchange quick, guilty glances I have a fleeting thought of the four of us together in some weird group sex situation. Would Krystal be up for this? Then I could legitimately bang Kelly and there'd be no need for this nasty guilt-trip. Why am I more turned on by the thought of watching Jon with Krystal though? Fuck it, there's no time to dwell on this anyway because here's Monique again giving us the cocktail list and running through what's on the barbecue. There's a whole zoo of weird meats including a wildebeest that Clyde himself apparently shot whilst on a hunting trip in Africa, but no one's hungry so we just order four Mojitos.
"You heard about that Taylor Jones guy?" Kelly says, looking from me to Krystal and back again.
Krystal asks who he is. I explain to her, in not so many words, that he's a smacked up rock star that's always slouching around at the kind of parties I don't take her to.
"He shot himself in the head…" Kelly says.
"Kelly, they don't want to hear about this," Jon interrupts, taking her hand.
"Makes a change from him shooting up then, don't it?" I laugh. No-one round the table laughs with me.
"Beaumont, that's terrible," Krystal tuts, but nudges me playfully on my arm.
"He made this really weird speech…"
"Kel, come on, it's a load of shite," Jon interrupts her again. He looks pissed off, like she's been going on about this all night.
I'm about to lighten the mood by ribbing him over the absolute sitter he missed in the match earlier today when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find Darren O'Mally, the young Scouse lad who's just come through to the first team England squad, grinning drunkenly back at me, a brutal sight.
"Alright, Beaumont," he slurs, slapping me on the shoulder.
Now I like Darren, don't get me wrong, the lad reminds me of myself when I was eighteen and still pretty naïve about the whole fame thing, but I'm pretty aghast that a kid like him has managed to blag his way into a party like this. When I was a rookie you thought getting into Faces was the dog's bollocks, but times must be changing, as they say.
"Fuckin' great party, innit? Yous just got 'ere?" Darren says.
I nod and he leans in so close to me I can smell the booze on his breath.
"Ay," he says in a low whisper, "I can't believe the talent 'ere. I just seen that bird from the Diesel ads. Fuckin' dead fit, man."