The Vanity Game (6 page)

I dial Michael's number with my shaking finger, and feel the rye bread swirling around my stomach. He picks up just as I'm beginning to believe it's going to go to voicemail.

"MC talent agents."

Cunt, I think to myself, and I know I'll find it pretty easy to lie to him. Did he see Krystal last night, I ask. No, he says, he didn't, was everything okay? He sounds concerned.

"Yeah, I think so, I just thought she was meeting you."

"Oh no, we hadn't planned anything…well I'll let you know if she calls me."

Why would she call you? I want to shout down the phone.

Shona sounds high or drunk, and mutters something about how it's so beautiful to hear my voice. I don't know if she fully understands what I'm asking her, but no matter. Julio sounds like he's too busy to talk, Kelly just sounds pissed off. None of them saw Krystal last night or know where she is today. No surprises there.

Then I call Di Cotto's office. Natalia, his gorgeous secretary, answers as normal. I fancy the arse off her and usually I'm super-flirty and jokey, but not today. Today I try to put on a worried, emotional voice and she sounds genuinely concerned and says she'll pass the message onto Di Cotto straight away. This pisses me off a little because I want to hear a little envy in her voice, envy that here was the gorgeous, famous footballer calling about his girlfriend, but there was none, just the "Oh no, Beaumont, zat is ter-ri-ble". Right now I wish more than anything I'm there in Di Cotto's office fucking Natalia over the desk rather than here, about to call the police and watch the whole thing blow up.

I can feel a panic attack coming on as I run through what I'm going to say. Any way that I put it, it sounds ridiculous. I look round for the bottle of Xanax but then remember I've taken two this morning already. Maybe I will have a vodka and cranberry after all. Just to steady the nerves.

I'm at the bar in the corner of the lounge when Serge appears, thankfully now fully dressed.

"Pour me one while you're at it," he says, settling himself down on one the cream leather sofas. I oblige, grudgingly, thinking how I could drink the whole bottle myself, and slowly obliterate the day.

"I've called her friends, it went okay," I say, taking a large gulp of vod and cran and almost retching as it hits the back of my throat. I've made it a little too strong.

"So the Old Bill, eh?" Serge says.

I down the rest of the drink and pick up my mobile. The alcohol hasn't had the calming affect I hoped it would and now I'm shaking even more and feel like I'm going to shit myself. How will they react when I have to say that it's Beaumont Alexander calling, then tell them yes, it is
that
Beaumont Alexander?

It's ringing. Deep breaths, stay focused.

"Hi, erm, I need to report my girlfriend missing, well I think she's gone missing," I blurt out; too aware of my own voice and how fake it sounds.

"Right, okay…" the woman at the end of the phone sounds doubtful already. It feels like my bowels might explode any second now. She asks what her name is, and then what my name is.

"Right," she says again, in a kind of way that suggests people ring up and tell her this all the time. I wonder if they do.

"So, what exactly happened then?" she says with a sigh.

I run through the details, like we'd agreed.

"And your address is?"

"The address is…The Love Palace, Meadow Lane, near Woodfood."

"The Love Palace?"

I can tell she's trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, it's got gold gates outside, can't miss it," I say, trying to sound as comfortable as I can about this.

"Okay then Mr Alexander, we'll send someone round in the next half hour," she says and then puts the phone down. I keep it held to my ear, listening to the dull tone for a few seconds. I feel like a tidal wave has passed over me and now I'm standing on the beach, drenched but still standing.

"Nice one, son, now you just gotta lie to their faces," says Serge, with a freakish grin on his face. This half hour is going to be long.

The voices are faint but I can hear them, moving through the building towards me. They're almost outside the living room when I hear Serge exclaim: "He's been fraught with worry, poor boy."

Fucking hell, what does he think this is – an episode of
EastEnders
?

I look up as they enter the room, tramping behind Serge. There's two of them: a young guy that looks like a rookie and an older, more weary-looking one with a long, thin face. Even though it's a big room, in their bulky uniforms they make it seem smaller suddenly. They're too busy looking around at the décor of the house to look at me. They both do a second take at the painting above the fireplace and seem to stifle laughs. I feel myself starting to blush, but the colour drains away when I remember why they're here. They both settle into the sofa opposite me, their uniforms rustling.

Thin Face introduces them both with names I instantly forget and pulls a notebook out of his pocket whilst Rookie continues to stare up at the fucking painting with eyes so wide they might fall out of his head. Not very professional. I imagine him in the pub later, telling his loser mates how he'd been to Beaumont Alexander's gaff, seen the swimming pool through a window as they walked through the house, seen the chandeliers, seen
that
picture. Of course no doubt the story of Krystal's disappearance will have broken by then. What will I be doing when it does?

"So Mr Alexander," Thin Face says, "you better tell us what's happened."

"Well, like I said, I came home yesterday, about 4pm." My mouth is so dry I'm not sure I can go on speaking. Thin Face scribbles in his notebook.

"Krystal was here, on the phone to her agent. She was arranging a photo-shoot for next week, you know, with
Chic!
magazine."

Thin Face kind of frowns and nods at the same time, whilst the Rookie smirks. I want to leap across the room and punch him.

"I went into my games room – it's the other side of the house, and when I came out a couple of hours later she'd gone.

"I didn't think much of it at first. But it got to about eleven o'clock and she hadn't come back. I started to get worried because it's not really like her to just go out for that long without saying anything. I tried calling her mobile and it was dead – that's when I started thinking maybe something was wrong, although, you know, it seemed a bit ridiculous to raise the alarm then because maybe she had just gone to a friend and they'd decided to go out…so I went to bed, expecting her to be there when I woke up," I try to make my eyes water, "but she wasn't."

My eyes are blurry with tears, but there's not enough liquid to roll down my face.

"Right," says Thin Face briskly, "so you've not seen her since four o'clock yesterday." I shake my head.

"And can you describe her to us?"

They can barely contain their laughter as they both shoot a glance at the hideous painting. Fucking police scum. How dare they come into my house and mock me? At a time like this, when my girlfriend had gone missing. Yes, I can make myself believe it if I try.

"Well she's about 5'7", thin, long blonde hair, pretty. I'll show you a picture if you like – or you could always Google her."

This last bit comes out more sarcastically than I mean it to.

"A photo would be useful," Thin Face replies, coldly.

I go upstairs to look for a picture. It's a relief to get out of the room. I grab the one of the two of us that's still lying face down on the bedside table.

The two pigs study it closely and I wonder what they must think of it. An exclusive picture of the soccer star and his glamorous girlfriend. No doubt it'll be plastered all over the papers tomorrow. They ask a few more routine questions about her movements and people she was close to then they get up to go.

"We usually give it twenty-four hours, so if she's not turned up by about five we'll start looking," the Rookie says as he replaces his hat, the only thing he's said to me the whole time they've been here.

"And of course, if you hear from her, let us know straight away."

I nod vigorously, trying to work out whether they really believe she's missing or not, but it's impossible to tell – the slight smirk on his face could mean he thinks I'm a liar or a tosser or it could just be he's so in awe of me. Perhaps the Rookie is a Lover.

I see them out and lean back against the closed door as they drive away. There is no way back now.

I spend the rest of the day sitting in front of the TV watching Sky News. Serge left shortly after the police, leaving me alone in the empty house. Within about half an hour of him going I've totally freaked myself out, listening for random noises that might suggest some kind of spiritual presence, convincing myself
she
is still here, or has come back, a crazy ghost looking for payback. And not to mention waiting for that knock on the fucking door: the Old Bill coming to arrest me because the body has washed up somewhere. I'm too scared to leave the house though, because despite the paranoia trips, it feels like the safest place to be. So I sit here, petrified to fuck and shaking, watching the TV with the sound turned up high, my eyes glued to the breaking news ticker.
'Earthquake in South Asia kills hundreds'
…I follow the death count as it rises through the afternoon, and get bored watching footage of rescue workers in hard hats standing on piles of rubble. More troops killed in the war, a teenager stabbed in London during an argument over a packet of crisps, stuff about the economy that I don't understand. Adverts for cancer insurance. Then at quarter past three:

'Breaking news: girlfriend of soccer ace reported missing'

Oh crap. Here we fucking go.

The bedside table picture fills the screen. I jerk forward, feel my heart thudding in my throat, and squeeze the cushion I'm holding.

"Sky News exclusive: Football star Beaumont Alexander has reported his girlfriend Krystal McQueen missing.

"It's believed that Krystal left the Essex mansion the couple share yesterday afternoon and has not been seen or heard from since."

Then there's footage of the two of us smiling, turning to the cameras on the red carpet at an awards ceremony or film première that I can't remember. I'm in a suit, looks like Versace. She's in a glittery white dress, split to the hip. Then a clip from the video for her song
'Sweet Fantasy
' where she's writhing around in foam, the complete Fantasy Fuck. I see her eyes, when she knew she was dying. 'You fucker', the voice from the watery grave.

"The star was recently in rehab for a long-term cocaine problem and police are trying to determine her state of mind when she disappeared. Beaumont Alexander is said to be very worried about his girlfriend. The couple have become style icons and are followed everywhere they go by the paparazzi. But in a recent interview Krystal said she hated the media attention."

Now a
Peek!
splash fills the screen – it's an interview we gave when we moved into the house, 'Beaumont and Krystal's Love Palace.'

"We'll keep you updated when we hear more on this story."

Then they cut to the adverts. I make it to the toilet in time to spit out the thin bile I've retched up. Then I collapse, exhausted, against the side of the bathtub. This is really happening, I'm stuck in this terrible film.

I feel my mobile vibrating against my thigh in the pocket of my jeans. It's Serge.

"Bleeding hell, Beaumont." He sounds out of breath, panicky.

"I've had about fifty calls from journos already – I assume you've seen Sky have got hold of it?"

"Yeah," I reply weakly.

He asks if I've heard from the Old Bill again, says I probably will soon. We have to act fast and do something with the Land Rover, he says. The fucking Land Rover, I'd completely forgotten about that. He tells me to go out, go and visit a friend for moral support. While I'm away he'll arrange for someone to come round and break into the garage to take the car. Simple as that.

"Jesus Christ, let's just hope they ain't tapping the phones yet," he says before hanging up.

Simple as that, can it really be? Can I really get away with it that easily? And as for calling a friend…I stare blankly at my mobile and wonder who I could possibly call. I run through all the people I know and realise I don't consider any of them good enough friends at this point in time. Jon, Mattaus, how many times have I spoken to either recently when we've been completely sober? Danny, my best mate from the YTS scheme, we've not spoken now for how long? Must be getting on a year, or more. I think of the two of us larking around in the dressing room when we were cleaning the boots of the senior players and I have to swallow back the lump in my throat.

I scroll down through the names in my phone book hoping to find the name of that great, reliable mate that has somehow slipped my mind, but I get to the entry entitled 'Mum', hover my finger over the call button and then press it.

She still lives in the two bed-roomed house in Wembley where she brought me up, single-handedly and wrapped in cotton wool. My therapist has told me it's a classic case of what he calls 'permanent adoration syndrome' – because Sheila Alexander had bestowed so much love and attention on her son he had normalised it and expected it, craved it, off everyone else.