The Vanity Game (10 page)

I pull on tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and head downstairs where I find Olga in the kitchen, folding her apron up.

"I finish now, so I see you next week," she says flatly when she notices me in the doorway.

"Cool, and thanks a lot," I tell her, flashing a smile, but I don't get one back. Stroppy old cow. I walk to the front door with her and then listen to her car engine fading as she drives away, towards the scumbag paps. I can't help smiling when I think about her seeing her picture in the papers tomorrow. How will she react? It'll go straight to her head like it does every other poor cunt. It's more addictive than crack, fame is, and it'll make her think about herself, see herself through other people's eyes, realise all her bad points. Hell, she'll be whoring herself out on some D-list celebrity reality TV show within weeks. The thought of that makes me laugh, for the first time I can remember in a while.

Back in the kitchen, I turn the coffee machine on and look around me. Every surface glistens with cleanliness. It's hard to imagine that just a few days ago she was lying there in a pool of blood. But fuck, I don't even want to think about that now, so I try to think again about Olga in the Big Brother house with a load of has-been celebs. I'm just throwing the empty milk carton into the bin when something in there catches my eye. First thing I think: Olga's not emptied it, which is weird, I mean, unheard of. So maybe I take a longer look at the rubbish than normal and that's why I notice the white and blue and darkened rusty brown thing. My heart lurches – it's a dirty jay-cloth, crusty with dried up blood. I slam the bin shut. Where the fuck has it come from? She must have found it when she was cleaning. One of us must have left it out somewhere when we were tidying up the mess. Fuck. I try to run through the events of that night. We'd looked over everything before we left, hadn't we? I was so tired though. Oh shit, the Old Bill have been in the house, I mean, what if they saw it? But surely that Dante twat would have taken it, along with the diary. But Olga has seen it. She must have picked it up and put it in the bin, and I bet she knew it was blood. My heart's beating like mad. I slowly open the bin again, hoping that I'm imagining it, but no, there it is, lying there on top of a protein-shake packet and an empty Xanax box. I need to do something about it. It takes some courage, but I manage to pick up the thing with the tips of my fingers, holding it as far away from myself as possible. I carry it like this through to the living room and then drop it into the fireplace, just like we did with my clothes and stuff that night. I hold a match to it but for some reason the bastard won't light, it just catches a little then fizzles out. I go back into the kitchen and grab a newspaper, rip the pages from it, screw them up into balls, and arrange them round the cloth. They soon catch fire and to my relief I see a tiny hedge of fire begin to eat away at the cloth and it soon turns into a blaze. The rusty smell of blood fills my nostrils for a second, making me want to puke again, but then it's gone and all I smell is burning paper. I prod the fire with the poker and a bit of paper floats up – and I swear I see my name just before the flames come up and take it.

I feel cold on the inside and pretty revolting on the outside as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A black shirt, Ralph Lauren, a rebellious non-Franco Visconti pair of jeans (plain old Levi's in fact), hair styled in a messy do, a change from the trademark quiff. But my skin looks pasty and there are grey bags under my eyes that no amount of gel will get rid of. Though I don't want to be seen in public looking like this, the need to get out of this empty house is stronger than anything. I down the last of my Corona (the booze ain't going down well I have to say) and slap my cheeks to try to give my face a bit of colour. I feel nervous, my stomach won't settle. What will they think about me going out on the lash when I'm supposed to be sad about my missing girlfriend? Ah crap, what do I care what they think? I care quite a lot if I'm honest with myself. The car will be here in five and now I don't want to go, can't face the thought of seeing people. It's already 11pm and I just want to go to bed, but it's too late to cancel the car and when it arrives I reluctantly climb in and tell the driver to head for Sutra.

They're still camped out on the lane as the car passes through the gates. The Japanese news van has gone but now I notice a couple of hacks who stand back from the general rabble as they press their lenses against the car windows, and take photos of the scrum around the car itself. They must be the 'serious' hacks who like to come and take pictures of celebrities being hassled by the general scum and make bitchy comments on the fickle nature of fame and stuff. They think they're better than the rest, but they ain't no more dignified at all.

None of them try to follow the car and you can bet money they've got their mates waiting at the other end of the journey. It's guaranteed that word will have got round that Mattaus Jonze is having a party at Sutra tonight and it's well known that I'm good mates with Mattaus.

Sutra is a pretty cool bar in Notting Hill, a regular stop on the paps' night prowl as you usually find drunken models stumbling out of there at about 4am.

As we're pulling up outside it I can see there's a big crowd of them. They're photographing a chick in a very short skirt who's standing with her hand on her hip smiling in one direction, then the next, to ensure all of the bastards get a shot of her beautiful face. I don't recognise her. I guess she must be new to the whole thing, raw meat. She don't have that jaded look about her yet. As my car stops though and I'm getting out, I hear someone shout "it's him!" and the whole mass turn and point their black eyes at my face. I hold my hands up to shield myself from the dazzling light of the flash bulbs but between my fingers I catch sight of the posing girl, who's now just standing there, giving me the evils because they're all looking at me now. Have them back, little girl, I really don't want them.

"Beaumont, what are you doing out on the lash at a time like this?"

"Look over here cunt-face!"

"Did you kill her, Beaumont?"

I try not to listen as the club's bouncers fight their way to me through the mob and drag me inside. I'm shaking as I stand there in the lobby, getting used to the dim red lighting. What's wrong with me? I can handle them, really, they were no worse than normal. Maybe it's just the hangover, and a little bit of paranoia left over from the coke binge last night, aggravated by the Olga issue.

"Hello, Mr. Alexander, welcome to Sutra," I hear a husky, sexy voice telling me.

It's the hostess, giving me a totally 'I'd love to fuck you' smile. In this red lighting it's hard to see if she's hot or not, but I'm not really in the mood to even consider it, which is pretty brutal.

She hands me a small black velvet bag. Inside is a packet of condoms, some cheap-looking shades with thick pink frames, a drum'n'bass CD and a piece of cake wrapped in a pink napkin. A Mattaus-style party bag. The cake is probably laced with LSD or something. He likes to try to bring out-of-vogue drugs back into fashion.

I can hear the thud-thud-thud of the bass line in the room above me. Suddenly lying in bed, at home, on my own, seems a much better option, I'm so weary. But fuck it, I'm here now, so I trudge up the narrow staircase towards the main room of the bar. Just as I get to the door, two chicks come through it. They're both giggling, obviously tipsy, but when they see me, pressed against the wall to let them pass, they stop laughing and just stare, and I swear I can see fear in their eyes. No one says anything, they carry on walking in silence and then start whispering as they get to the bottom of the steps. As I walk through the door and into the bar, it's like everyone stops what they're doing and stares, or rather, stares but pretends not to, looking at me from the corners of their eyes. It's like I can actually feel all those eyes on me. Don't the fuckers have anything better to do? It's busy in here and I clock a few familiar faces, people you see hanging out on the scene week-in week-out but don't speak to. All of them – supermodels, TV presenters, DJs, athletes – taking sneaky looks at me like I'm the first famous person they've ever seen. Then I'm almost at the bar, preparing to order a Mojito even though I swore I wasn't going to drink much, when I feel a slap on my back, and turn to find Mattaus grinning at me like a lunatic.

"Beaumont, you made it man!" he gushes, eyes all bulging, as E'd-up as anything. I just grin back at him best I can. He starts jabbering on about the high pussy ratio tonight, but then the crazy grin turns into this look of total, comical shock.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry," he says. "I forgot … your missus and all that, any news?"

I can't help but be fond of the geezer, he seems genuinely concerned.

"Nah, but I'm sure it will all be okay," (shit, that nasty guilty feeling again that keeps coming with the lies) "but Christ, I could do with a drink."

As if he's psychic, a waiter dressed in a full top hat and tails appears next to me with a tray of drinks – long, thin glasses filled with some kind of black liquid. I take one, I'm sick of Mojitos anyway.

"Liquorice split cocktail man, it's completely lethal," Mattaus says, just as a dark-haired, impossibly tall and thin woman appears and puts her arm around his waist. She's well eyeballing me and I can't tell if her dark eyes are saying 'fuck me' or 'fuck off'. Either way, she doesn't look like the kind of girl I'd want to mess with, so I tell Mattaus I'll catch him later. He's too gone to talk to anyway, but then he always kind of is. Shit, I forgot to say 'happy birthday', but when I turn back round he's smooching with the vixen. I scan the room looking for someone else I know, taking in the décor. There's these giant gold candle sticks along with some Greek-style statues – guys and chicks wrapped in towels with arms missing – dotted around the room. I dunno what the theme is meant to be – toga party, mock posh house, but it kind of works, I guess. On the other side of the room there's a series of booths with cushions where you have to sit cross-legged or kneel and thick red velvet's been draped around them, making them even more shadowy than normal. I bet there's some real kinky stuff going on inside them. But just by a drape of red velvet I check Jon Donald, necking one of those liquorice cocktails. Good old Jonny, he's a good mate after all, I feel bad for having that thing with Kelly now. He waves at me when he sees me and does this weird 'he's da man' pointing gesture as I get close to him. Great, he's obviously drunk already.

"Hey, El Monto! You came after all!" he slurs, draping his arm around me. "So what's this deal with Krystal? Really, I mean?" he says, breathing close into my ear.

"I dunno man, she's just disappeared," I say, trying to sound depressed. I am kind of offended he thinks it's some sort of joke. He frowns at me, as if this isn't the right answer.

"Like, seriously? You ain't just done away with her so you can get it on with that Natalia chick at your gay little club?"

"Christ Jon, no. I ain't being funny but I'm kind of worried about her." I push his arm off me. The guy's acting like a complete twat.

"Ah sorry mate. That's probably a bad thing to say. Look, come and sit down with us" – he gestures towards one of the booths – "Sambo's here with his new missus, you gotta check her out."

Sambo is a mate of Jon's who plays for some shit Championship side, but Jon hangs out with him all the time. I need some company, so I follow Jon to the booth. It's dark but I can just make out Sambo's crazy dreads and a blonde girl sitting next to him, and a couple of other guys and girls who I think I've seen before, but can't really remember. I have to get on my knees and crawl to a spare cushion – it's like some kind of Arabian grotto thing, cushions on the floor rather than chairs. And when I get settled in a corner, I swear I could fall asleep. The conversation just happens around me and I can feel myself drifting into a daze...

…I come to and find Jon is straddling Sambo and everyone is pissing themselves and I'm not really sure what's happening. I glance at my watch – it's almost 4am. Fuck me, I really have been asleep.

Without speaking to anyone I hoist myself up and crawl out of the booth. I just want to go home. Outside of the booth, the club has emptied out a bit but there is still a load of people dancing like twats on the dance floor. I'm shaking my head, trying to wake myself up, when I notice someone slowly walking towards me. I'm trying not to look because I think I know who it is, wondering if I should dart back into the booth but, shit, it definitely is him – Michael, Krystal's sloppy little agent. He's definitely staggering towards me – and as pissed as hell. Great. People are already turning to look, sensing some scandal about to kick off.

"You," he slurs, pointing a finger at me. "You've got a fucking nerve, haven't you?"

"What do you want, Michael?" I try to sound calm but I can feel panic rising in me and my heart beating faster.

"I want to see them lock you up and throw away the key. I want the truth to out."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

God, this is embarrassing.

He shrugs and turns to our audience – about fifteen people, loitering around us.

"This man is a murderer, I want you all to know that."

More gasps, I want to strangle him right here, show them I really am a murderer.

I can see two security guards making their way through the bar, not fucking fast enough for my liking. I don't know what to say, I wish I could think of some witty comeback to try to make him look stupid, but it's like the word 'murderer' is hanging in the air, stopping me from saying anything else.