The Vanity Game (22 page)

When will they come for me? The questions keep going round in my head. I feel like the world as I knew it has exploded into a million little pieces and yet… Didn't I really know all along that it was a fake? Didn't it always feel like we were just playing these parts?

I'm pacing up and down in the kitchen, thinking about all this. Stella's sitting at the table, on the phone to Georgia, who'd phoned to check she was okay. So she's trying her best to pretend that she's fine and totally believes that that Felicity is a liar. No-one is going to be told of her plan to leave, not even her manager, until the moment she's gone.

She's booked her flight, tomorrow at 8:45pm: one first class seat from Heathrow to Sydney, via an overnight stopover in Kuala Lumpur. And she's spoken to her mother who is, apparently, overjoyed at the thought of being re-united with her long-lost daughter (and all her money). So that's all good, isn't it? Aside from my paranoia about this substitute business, I'm kind of sad about Stella, and, it has to be said, Krystal. Here's Stella playing out the final act in the life of the legendary Krystal McQueen and then, that's it, no more 'Beaumont and Krystal'. The end of an era, no lie. What will happen to our his'n'hers perfumes and the rest of 'Brand B & K'?

Everything is going to change. For the first time in five years I'm going to be an officially single man, I'm going to have to sack Serge and find a new, more honest agent and, I've decided, I'll sell the Love Palace with all it's awful secrets and buy a simple penthouse apartment in the city. A nice bachelor pad, that'll be the life. And then in a couple of years I really will settle down with a nice girl and have kids that I can be a great Dad to, and have a nice little house with a garden, and a pond and some Koi Carp fish.

Stella has become totally focused on packing now, like she's shutting everything else out. I find myself wandering aimlessly around the house as she hurries to and fro carrying stuff to fill four huge cases with. Or I sit on the bed and watch as she tries to pick which dresses to take. She asks for my advice, then ignores it, puts dresses into the cases, then changes her mind and pulls them back out so there's a huge pile of fabric in the middle of the room. I pick a few of them up, they bring back memories. There's the tight little yellow one Krystal wore to Elton John's birthday party, the beautiful Sportsmax one she wore to some film première or other, but which I specifically remember was splashed all over the papers the next day because she looked so amazing; and then the kinky leather dress she wore to the Brit Awards – again, that got her all over the papers.

But Stella has decided she can't take these with her, it's too risky, and besides, they're not
her
dresses really.

"Give them to a charity for sick kids," she says.

It makes me kind of sad. I miss the Krystal that wore those dresses, the outrageous, good time girl, before the drugs and the diets, and the death.

She carries on packing late into the night and still doesn't finish. We go to bed, but neither of us sleeps well and the next day I head out to training early and leave her to it.

Training is a nightmare. I'm too tired and too distracted to focus, plus it's pissing it down. I run around in the cold rain and listen to the continuous bollocks Di Cotto is giving me. If only he had a clue what was going on.

When I return to the house Stella has finished packing and has closed Krystal's accounts and even managed to transfer the money to some off-shore account in her real name. We decide not to go out for a last meal together, as it might look suspicious, so instead Stella cooks up steak with fancy potatoes and vegetables – she is an excellent cook. Krystal couldn't cook for toffee, it became a running joke.

Anyway, me and Stella sit there in the light of the candle she's placed on the table, not really knowing what to say to each other. It's strange now how after all these months I find myself looking at her and wondering who the hell she is, this stranger, sitting at my kitchen table. She leaves in less than two hours and now, it's got to be said, I just want her gone. I do like the girl, don't get me wrong, but I just ain't into these fucking long drawn-out goodbyes. Still the food is nice, and the wine is good.

"Can you load the dishwasher?" she asks when we've finished, "I've still got a few bits to do."

So I load up the dishwasher then go and sit in the lounge and start watching some movie I Sky Plussed the other day. A while passes, the movie makes no sense, and then she comes back into the lounge.

"The car will be here in five."

"Right," I stand up, opposite her and wonder what I should do. It feels really awkward, like this is the wrong girl. I wish she was Krystal.

"So I'll call you in about a week yeah?"

"Yeah. I hope you have a good flight, and everything goes okay. It's been fun, ain't it?"

She smiles. "It's been fucking crazy. Thanks for everything Beaumont, you changed my life."

"No worries." I smile back and then we hug – a long, tight, real hug.

"I'm going to miss you," she says, muffled by my chest.

"I'll miss you too," I say, staring ahead of me at the abstract picture above the fireplace that is no longer the painting of me and Krystal.

And then the door buzzes, the car is here. I can't come to the door with her, that's been decided, as if the driver sees me it'll ruin the 'doing a runner' thing. So we hug for one last time, I tell her 'good luck' and then return to my games room, just as I hear the door slamming, and that's it, Krystal McQueen has gone forever.

I sit there with my head in my hands and start fucking crying. I can't help it. I wish I could have said more to Stella, that it had all been more emotional, but more than anything I wish this fucking mess had never happened. I wish I could go back in time, back to being that naïve kid, and Krystal was that naïve girl and we were just living like children in a fucking sweetshop, living for the moment, loving life, loving each other. I've got a picture of me and her in the desk drawer. We'd just moved into the house, the start of our new life. I look hard at her face, through my tears. If only she knew then what was to come.

"Oh babe," I whisper aloud, "I'm so sorry, so sorry."

Now I'm facing this all on my own, just me versus the fucking Subsitutors.

I wake with a start, scared out of sleep by a disturbing dream. I roll over in bed and lie there for a few seconds clearing out my mind. My eyes feel swollen from crying last night and I've got a headache.

Stella's gone.

It should have hit the papers now. I can imagine the headlines, the front pages screaming '
Déjà vu as Krystal leaves again'
, '
Gone for Good?
', quoting lines from the note she'll have emailed Georgia from the airport. The public will be taking it all in, wide-eyed, as they munch on their cornflakes. And
they,
the fucking paps, will follow me everywhere I go today, hassling me with pointless questions. But I'll deal with them, I won't mind because I know they've been fooled, along with everyone else.

Last night I was pretty low, no fucking lie, but lying here right now, it feels like there's a tiny ray of hope breaking through the dark clouds. Today is, after all, a new beginning. The whole day is stretched out in front of me full of possibilities. I'll go to training, perhaps have a swim, obviously keeping up this show of being totally gutted about my girlfriend going. But maybe later in the week, when the dust's settled, I could get a few of the boys round for a game of Pro-Evo. Weird how last night I was freaking out so much after Stella had gone. Now I can sense my freedom beckoning me and, man, am I ready to embrace it full-on.

I reach for my phone and see there are new messages and five missed calls. The calls and one message are from Serge – all left last night after I went to bed. I wonder what the fucker wants, he's probably mega- pranging out now he's found out Stella's gone. I open the message anyway, it just says 'Call me, it's urgent'. Oh yeah, I bet it is. The other message is from Jon D:

'Congratulations mate, never thought you'd do it!'

What the hell is that about…'do it'? But then Jon has got a fucking weird sense of humour, he's probably trying to make a joke of the fact that I'm single again. Hadn't he joked when Krystal first went missing? Good old Jon, maybe we can start hanging out again, like old times, just without the girls and the drugs.

I look at Serge's message again and try to imagine the bastard's face when he heard the news that 'Krystal' had gone and realised his little plan had gone tits up. The story will be blowing up around him like a fire he's got no hope of putting out. And today he's going to be sacked. Well, more like replaced. That'll serve the bastard right, a taste of his own medicine, as they say.

I lie in bed a while longer then get up to shower. I've got to admit that as the hot water splashes around me, over my muscles, I find myself thinking about Felicity of all people. That was one dirty fuck, and I'm reliving it in my head, holding my hard cock in my hand and leaning against the wall to steady myself. Maybe a bit of casual sex would do me good…

I see the papers lying on the floor and pick up a couple as I leave the house, preparing myself for the amusement of seeing what they have to say about the latest disappearance of Krystal. But as I'm walking to the car I'm disappointed by the front pages: one has some boring story about immigrants and hospital waiting lists and the other has an even more boring story about a politician and dodgy business links. Weird neither has picked up on the Krystal story, but maybe it didn't reach the newsrooms until after the papers had gone to press. As I'm climbing into the car though something catches my eye. It's my name, in the column beside the main story below a smaller headline saying: 'And now they're getting married'. My heart jolts – what the hell is this about? And a coldness comes over me as I read the story.

"After love-rat Beaumont Alexander cheated on gorgeous Krystal we thought that would be the end of the Golden Couple, but today we can
exclusively
reveal that the remorseful footballer was so desperate to hang onto her that he's actually proposed…and she said yes! Turn to page 5 for more on this exclusive"

This isn't happening.

I can feel my chest tightening – like a panic attack is coming on – as I frantically tear through the other paper. It's there on page four:

"
Extravagant Vegas wedding planned
"

I can't read the rest, I'm shaking too much. I feel like crying. Fuck. The Substitutors and Serge must have spread a rival story, paid reporters to go with it, or threatened them. How could they have known she'd gone though? Someone must have told them as soon as they heard. Who though? Georgia? Martin from the AP Sports section? Oh God, who else is in on this? How fucking stupid we were to trust anyone, anyone at all. Sitting in my Land Rover on the elegant drive of my house, I suddenly feel incredibly alone and absolutely petrified. Are they coming for me next? Are they? Beaumont and Krystal getting married … they've got me now, good and fucking proper. They're probably on their way here now with her, the new Krystal. All my dreams up in smoke. Fuck.

"Oh you bastard, you fucking little bastard," I curse Serge as I rub my eyes. I can't control myself any longer.

"No!" I shout, thumping the steering wheel and letting the tears come in huge, loud sobs. Why me? Why are they targeting me?

As I sit there crying it suddenly crosses my mind that maybe they'd got to Stella before she got on the plane, kidnapped her at the airport possibly, and this makes me weep even more. Poor, innocent Stella! She was a sweet girl, meant no harm to anyone. And yeah, most of all I'm sorry for myself, how happy I'd felt thinking I was free, only to find this fucking nightmare continues. How fucking brutal can you get? I try to pull myself together and slowly open the car door. The few metres between the vehicle and the house seems like a gulf filled with danger. What if they're hiding in the bushes watching me? But I can't stay here. I carefully step out of the car and cringe as the gravel crunches beneath my feet, sounding deafening, like it could wake sleeping giants. The only other sounds are the breeze rustling through the leaves and the dull groan of an aeroplane up in the sky above me – a plane I fucking wish I was on, wherever it's heading. It takes my shaking hand several attempts to get the key in the door and when I finally open it I'm in there like a shot and slam it behind me. The heavy wood thuds loudly against its frame, echoing through the silent house. Now what? I need to get away from here, but where can I go? Mum's would be too obvious, the airport is too unplanned. I just need some place I can go and think things through, somewhere I can go undercover. A hotel somewhere. I picture in my mind one of those grim little motels you get by the sides of motorways, but what would the room service be like there? Would they even have room service? No, that would be too much. But maybe a faceless four star hotel smack in the centre of town would do… Who would ever think of looking for me there, in the middle of the tourists and foreign business people? If I could hunker down there for a few days I could wait for Serge and those gangster fuckers to make the next move and then figure out what to do. Another genius plan? Hardly, but it's the best I can come up with right now.

I stuff a few clothes into my Louis Vuitton holdall and then grab some random toiletries from the bathroom and all the while I'm shaking with fear that any minute they could turn up.