The Vanity Game (3 page)

"N…" she's saying. She wants it though, I know she does, how could she not? They always do. It's happened before.

With her right hand she's pushing her palm hard against my thigh. The nails of her other hand are digging into my other leg, which just turns me on even more.

"Oh come on baby," I say. I'm starting to feel a little exasperated.

But now I've got her pants off. And I've got her on her stomach, bent over the table and I'm leaning over her, looking the dragon in the eyes, its tongue still curling suggestively round.

"I bet you love it, don't you, you dirty little slut." The words are coming out of my mouth without me thinking them. "Yeah, you want it harder?"

And then it's over and I collapse on top of her. We remain like this for a few seconds – me panting like a dog as she makes a squeaky, whimpering noise. As I get off her she sinks to the floor and, crying, begins to reach slowly for her things – the tiny scraps of clothing she was wearing before. I pull up my trousers and reach for the cash in my pocket.

"Here," I say to her, throwing a few notes, around fifty quid, down. They flutter around her as she turns and looks up at me. Her face is a mess, all red and blotchy with black streams of mascara running down it. Our eyes meet and I can tell she understands: I am power, I can come here and do whatever I want because I have the fame and the money and she has fuck all.

What you gonna do about it, little girl? It's sick, I know really, but the cocaine has locked my conscience out of my brain. I turn and walk out of the room and don't look back, slamming the door on her quiet weeping.

By the time I reach the top of the stairs my conscience is banging on the walls of my brain. I shouldn't have done that, she didn't want it after all, but I can't deal with it and so I do a couple more lines of coke in the toilets and then go and find Krystal.

"Where've you been all this time? Have you taken something?" Krystal slurs, jealously, accusingly. She can tell I'm high and is well green with envy. She's recovering from a major habit and is now super-righteous about anyone else doing it. Fuck her though, it's not like I do this all the time.

Another cocktail, or maybe two, and events start to get fragmented: Krystal's contorted face, me and Kelly in a corridor somewhere, a man in a suit holding my arms, a blur of neon lights, Krystal making the car stop so she can puke: just like scenes from a film you can't really remember.

The alarm comes screeching through my pleasant dream: I'm feeding Koi Carp in a small garden pond, watching the flakes flutter down, land gently on the water then be pecked off by the graceful, yet sinister fish. A neat garden, a newly creosoted fence, Dad's sitting on a white plastic chair giving me shrubbery tips, children are playing inside the house … and then the fucking panic of the alarm.

As soon as I'm conscious the hangover hits me. My brain feels like it has shrunk and is pulling the lining of my skull into a place near the centre of my forehead, it's brutal. And I know I did something stupid last night … that chick, Monique, her make-up stained face. And the money, what the fuck was that about? Damn my coke-fuelled self. I want to go back to sleep and die because I can't deal with the self-disgust and fear that is starting to nag. But no, I tell myself, she won't go to the police. Serge will sort it if she does anyway.

I force myself to look at the clock by the bed. Shit, in an hour's time I'm supposed to be at the training ground, working my ass off chasing a ball whist the grumpy Italian cunt screams orders. After that there'll be only enough time to wolf down a protein shake and then I've got to be back in central London for a Franco Visconti Jeans shoot. I see my day stretched out in front of me and feel physically sick at the trauma of it all.

But work is work. I haul myself out of bed and walk, naked, through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I study my reflection in the huge, gold-leaf framed mirror and run my hand through my hair. Despite last night's excesses it feels soft and clean. I stroke the light stubble that's covering my jaw line and turn my face one way and then the other. My skin is smooth and golden, not an imperfection anywhere, the black swirls of my Japanese Warrior tats standing out beautifully. I stretch my arms out and notice the way the muscles in my chest move. My whole body is honed to perfection, as muscled, sleek and powerful as a panther. A chiselled Greek God. I run my hand over the ripples of my chest and try to remember the names of the muscles, the ones the physio uses. I see myself, pressing her down, her tiny, weak body. I hold the subtle weight of my cock in my hands –
you
always get me into trouble, I think. I don't know if it's the hangover or the guilt, but I can't bring myself to jack one off this morning so I jump straight into the shower.

Then I'm slathering on some eye de-puffing cream and Vitamin E moisturiser, pulling on a white t-shirt and the FV Jeans that I'm obliged to wear to and from the training ground or wherever else the paps might lurk, and sculpting my hair into a ruffled quiff.

Krystal is still asleep, dead to the world, her blonde hair over her face and her mouth slightly open. She'll probably be rummaging through my jeans as soon as she wakes up, looking for the leftover coke so I pull the bag out of my pocket. There's hardly any powder left in it. I must have done way more than I thought which kick-starts those paranoia vibes, just what I need. I stuff the bag into my jacket pocket, making a mental note to leave it in the car at training and the photo shoot.

In the kitchen I turn on the percolator and flick through the morning's papers while I wait for it to spit a shot of reviving caffeine into the tiny cup.

'Mad rock star's internet suicide'
screams
The Sun's
front page. It's Taylor Jones, the guy Kelly was on about last night. Admittedly, the story is pretty gruesome – the twat went and shot himself in the head in a Paris hotel room and streamed the whole thing live to his website. Sick.
The Sun
describes how just before the actual suicide 'horrified fans' had listened to a rambling, bizarre speech in which he went on about something to do with Stalin and reality TV. Conspiracy theories all over the internet are suggesting he was involved in some strange religious cult. The traumatised viewers describe it as the 'sickest thing they've ever seen', and the video is currently topping the YouTube chart. Jesus. What is the world is coming to?

But over the page I'm not surprised to see pictures of myself arriving and leaving last night's party. Thankfully I don't look too wasted, although Krystal looks a mess in one of them. She won't be pleased to see that – they love to print pictures of her looking rough and she hates it. Anyway, it's no big deal to me. These days I can look at photos of myself entering and leaving nightclubs without analysing and stressing over it. I put it down to the anxiety tablets and mood pills which generally make me feel a calm sense of detachment from everything, as if it's someone else in the tabloid photos, the adverts and even the goal replays and occasional pre-match interviews. As the therapist says: "they only read these stories because they admire you"…

I'm an hour and a half late for training which will earn me a bollicking from the gaffer, guaranteed. Not that me being late is unusual, and not that the bollicking will have any real meaning. I'm the club's biggest star, fact. Di Cotto therefore knows he can't afford to piss me off too much. He's proper eye-balling me when I run out onto the pitch though, a real evil glare. No doubt he's seen the photos of me out last night. I start doing a few warm-up moves and watch the practice game that's already in progress. I'm exceedingly peeved to see Nico is wearing my number and playing up front. He's our recent record signing – some mediocre kid who everyone loves just because he's the son of one of Italy's greatest players. Makes me sick, he's never had to fight for it like I did. My Dad didn't even stick around to play kick-about with me in the park.

I watch him nutmegging old Savos then hitting the post.

"Aw, brilliant try Nico," Di Cotto squeals. I think he wishes that the bastard was his son. One of these days I'm going to smash Nico's shins in.

When I finally do get to play, after the predicted bollicking when the lads break for half time, I'm sloppy and just can't keep the ball.

At one point Gareth Dobson slides in with a dirty tackle which could have broke my ankle.

"Fucking hell mate, watch out," I cry.

"What you gonna do, pretty boy? Sue me?" Gareth snarls back with more venom than normal.

'No, but my agent, publicist and several CEOs of the mega-brands I endorse probably would,' I want to reply but Gareth has already raced off down the field.

Then I miss an absolute sitter of a goal which in the old days would have led to much dressing room mockery but these days the others hardly speak to me. I put that down to envy and intimidation, and the fact that some of them can hardly string a sentence together in English. Still, by the end of the morning I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself and the coke paranoia and general come-down vibes have set in, big style.

We're playing Bolton at home this weekend and the word is that Di Cotto is going try out a new formation. I'm getting the impression this means he might play Nico up front, but I'm finding it hard to feel disappointed. It's Mattaus' birthday at Sutra on Friday which is sure to be a banging night so the subs bench on Saturday don't seem too bad an option. The knives are already out for Di Cotto anyway as we've lost our last two matches and drawn the one before those, so I know the crowd will be unforgiving if he fucks up and it results in a painful ass-whipping. Whatever those wankers in the dressing room think of me,
they
will be screaming my name, cursing Di Cotto for not playing me. The fans still love me. And even if they are drunk, obese and ugly, there is a hell of a lot of them.

I'm straight out of the training ground as soon as we're done and I'm showered. There's no way I'm sticking round for lunch with these guys and besides, I can't face eating anyway.

The fashion shoot is tiresome, with a tetchy old queen directing the thing who literally dribbles over me when I have to pose shirtless and oiled. The girl doing my make-up is pretty hot though and is definitely giving me some serious flirty vibes so I contemplate trying to set something up with her but think better of it when I remember that Monique chick's face after we did it. Best to steer clear of random fucks for a while, I think, lest some nasty karma shit comes back to hit me with a kiss-and-tell or an STD.

By half four, when the shoot is finally wrapping up, I'm totally dying – my head is banging like a bitch and I feel so tired I can hardly speak. I drive home with my man George's
Listen without Prejudice
on full blast to soothe my hangover, but it has to be said even the legendary geezer himself can't shift the bastard.

Krystal is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, glass of champers in hand, phone to her ear.

"Yeah, yeah, that'd be great honey," she's saying, which leads me to gather that she's on the phone to her cunt of an agent, Michael. I can never figure out if the slimy jerk wants to fuck her or me, or maybe both of us in some vile threesome fantasy he has.

She pauses, puts the phone to her chest and looks over at me as I stand at our mini cocktail bar downing a glass of water.

"4pm next Tuesday – is that okay? For a
Chic!
magazine shoot?"

I pull a face which she dismisses and tells Michael that, yes, it is fine. Just what I need. I hate celebrity magazine features as much as Krystal loves them.

Letting some bastard journalists into my house,
my home
, for an afternoon is more unpleasant than getting the fucking clap.

They'll come and coo over the 'lushness' of the Tiki-themed pool area, ask dumb questions about Krystal's stupid hippy objects, and generally ass-lick. Then the next week the little shit-stirrers will be writing stories about how me and Krystal are on the verge of splitting up or, even worse, getting married. They're a bunch of reptiles that lot; slimy, deceiving snakes, not like the dirty, yelping paparazzi.

I know it's irrational but I just have to think about the last time they came round here to do a feature, and a surge of rage passes through me that even the anxiety tablets I'm on can't hold back. But is it just them? Or maybe what makes it so bad is that
I
let them come round. I let them come to this tacky, over-the-top gaff I'm forced to live in, the "Love Palace", this temple of Krystal's bad taste and stupid ideas about mystical forces and other bullshit. How did things get to this? Did I let myself go with the flow too much? Have I let too many people make decisions for me? And when I get to thinking like this I end up blaming
them
, the army of people who've forced their will on me that includes my own mother and, of course, my dad (in his own way), the talent scouts, Serge, the club people, the fashion people, the faceless millions, and Michael. It's Michael's fault for encouraging Krystal. But fuck it, I know deep down part of me wants it as well, and the rest of me hates that part of me. Jesus. I find I'm clenching the empty glass in my hand so hard it could break so I put it down, but I imagine the crunch of it breaking and the tiny shards slicing through my skin.

I shut my eyes and try to summon thoughts that make me calm – the Koi Carp pond, turning a water sprinkler on, decking, DIY … the simple life … one day, one day I'll turn my back on all this.