The Vanity Game (9 page)

We drink more whisky and I'm grateful for the numbness it brings. It'd be so easy to carry on drinking, head out into the night, to the Biscuit Factory or the Social, see if Jon is out, or Mr. Wu, who runs high class escort girls. The thought of getting an escort girl makes me realise how much I crave some human affection, even if it is paid for. That's the best kind sometimes – a shot of affection without any obligations, the efficiency of the business transaction. Yeah, that's what I want – a girl, a hotel room, some good charlie. Mr. Wu would take care of the girl and the hotel room, someone at the Social could get me the coke.

Why am I wasting the evening sitting here with Serge, a middle-aged, ex-small time crim? He's just finishing telling some story about a guy called O'Brian, a crazy IRA geezer who he'd shared a cell with back in the '80s in Wormwood Scrubs and I seize the opportunity.

"Listen, mate, I'm gonna make a move, I'm whacked," I tell him, standing up, steadying myself as the room tilts a little. Serge makes no objection, saying he's going to stay on for a bit, sorting out 'paperwork' and so I leave him there with the near-empty bottle of whisky.

The corridor outside the office is empty but fully lit. It's a semi-plush office block where Serge rents one small room. Sometimes you see media-looking types hanging around, poofs with longish hair wearing cardigans and posh birds in crazy clothes, that sort or thing, but I don't know what they all do. Never bothered to ask. They never show any recognition when they see me, but then they don't look like the types that would be into football. None of them are around now anyway, it feels like the whole building is deserted except for Serge pickling himself up there in his office and the old black dude on security at the front reception. He nods at me as I walk through the lobby to the door. I know he recognises me. He's probably been dying to ask me for an autograph for his grandkid ever since he started working here, and I must be a bit sloshed because when I'm at the door I almost feel like turning back and offering him one, but then I figure it's best not to talk to strangers right now, plus I'm gagging for another drink and he'll probably try to start a conversation with me which is not what I want to get into.

Out on the street it's quiet too. I stand there for a while and think about where to go. The Biscuit Factory is closer, but the Social is more likely to have drugs and girls and that's what I need right now. Just as I've made up my mind I see a black cab with its light on heading towards me. Beautiful. I hail it down and climb in, ignoring the cabbie's gaping face. Beaumont Alexander is in your cab, deal with it.

I can't risk bumping into the paps, or any weirdo plebs when I'm this pissed so I get the cabbie to take me to the back entrance of the club. I can tell he's getting off on this, having a superstar direct him to the back entrance. I imagine him sitting there in a greasy spoon café, or wherever cabbies hang out, telling his mates about it.

Soon enough I'm there, in the Social, asking the hostess of the VIP area to bring me a strong Mojito. She's hottish in a weird kind of way, slightly gothy, and probably a lesbian, but I half consider making a pass at her. The place is dead, no sign of any fucker I know. But then I catch sight of Mr. Wu sitting in a dark corner with a load of other guys. They look like they're playing a card game, so I hang around the bar trying to catch his eye. I'm onto my second Mojito (or is it my third?), when the fucker finally gets up and comes over to me.

Sure he could sort out a girl, or even a couple of girls, and a room at the nearest Hilton, he tells me, it's been a while and all that. Yeah, it has been a while, so fuck it, why not a couple of girls? He shuffles off to make the calls, and I order another drink. I'm wasted now, and I hope the girls come soon otherwise I'll be too bladdered to perform.

Then I'm talking to some other guy who looks kind of familiar and I realise it's the dealer from the other night – the tramp. I'm kind of surprised, but not really, because I'm too drunk, but weird to think she was alive then, and weird to think she ain't now, and of course I end up buying some more coke and doing it in the Gents, almost dropping the whole fucking packet down the bog. And I'm in a taxi with these two giggling, but really fit girls. Blonde and brunette, both foreign. I don't know their names, but isn't one called Christa, or Christine? Sounds too much like Krystal. But maybe that's not her name, and my nose is running real bad from doing the coke. And we're in a hotel room with blank walls and low lighting. More drugs, flesh against flesh, girl on girl, me in the middle of it, fucking without a climax, the boredom of it all and the realisation that this isn't enough after all.

Pain, slicing through my head. The taste of stale vodka, I think I'm going to puke, or maybe not just yet. Fuck. But I'm in my own bed, not that blank hotel room, not with those chicks. Did that really happen? My dick feels almost as sore as my head so it must have. Jesus. I am going to be sick. I leap out of bed, shuddering with the pain because everything aches, and make it to the bog just in time. The bathroom spins around me and I'm scared to get up from where I'm kneeling in case I fall backwards, but eventually the dizziness goes away and I realise throwing up has made me feel a little bit better. But only a little bit.

How the fuck did last night happen? Why did it happen? How did I get home? And what the fuck did I say? I vow never to do drugs or drink that much again, but even as I'm saying it I know I will. At least I'm at home though, that's one good thing it has to be said. But where's my wallet and phone? I have a minor panic but then I see my jeans crumpled on the floor and am relieved to find them both in the pockets (two missed calls – one from Mum, the other with no caller ID, can't deal with either right now). Thank God. It looks like someone or something was looking after me last night. I guess Satan keeps an eye on his own. Am I even alone in the house though? There could be some random fucker crashed out in one of the spare rooms or on the sofas downstairs, but then, who knows, maybe that'd be better than being here alone, me and my mind pranging out.

The hangover keeps my brain busy just figuring out how to function – to move from the bedroom to the kitchen and turn the coffee machine on and so I manage to stop the thoughts about dead bodies, prison cells, bloodied knives, crazy ghosts coming until I see the newspapers stacked in the post chute. I could just leave them there but I guess part of me wants to know what the bastards have got to say about me.

'Beaumont questioned by police'
The Sun's
front page screams over a picture of me sitting in the passenger seat of Dante's car with my hand over my face, a pose I don't even remember striking. It's the same in the other rags – most give at least five pages to me, very fucking generous of them. There have been more sightings though, including grainy pictures in
The Mirror
of a blonde girl walking through Cannes, lots in the UK and even one in Goa, India. Hundreds of Facebook groups have been set up with names like 'I've seen Krystal McQueen' and some cunt even set one up called 'I think Beaumont murdered Krystal and has hidden her body under the patio' but I'm pleased to say it was quickly taken down by the internet geeks. Fuck me, though, the whole thing is out of control, no lie. I flick through all the papers, and then re-flick through them, trying to imagine I'm just some ordinary guy reading this, wishing I was some ordinary guy. On the sports pages everything is normal: the usual build up and bullshit about tomorrow's games. I'm just mentioned in passing:
'In the current circumstances it's unlikely that Alexander will be available. It is likely he would have been on the subs bench anyway as Di Cotto has indicated he's going to play the promising Nico as a lone forward'.

Shit. I'm too hung-over to give a fuck about Nico or the fact that if we lose this game we'll be too far adrift to get back into the title race.

I go into the kitchen and figure I should try to eat something, but there's only this gross fortified muesli that my dietician put me on. So I'm trying to force spoonfuls of the shit down my throat when I hear a noise, a deep thud somewhere down below…the front door closing.

I stop chewing mid-mouthful and my whole body tingles with an icy coldness. Who the hell?
She's
the only one who had a key, but
she's
dead. Then footsteps. I'm shaking like fuck, the muesli dropping off my spoon and onto the table. I mean I'm totally bricking it, way more freaked out than I was when I thought I saw a dead body in the pool. Am I imagining it? Is this some weird hangover-induced trip? But no, I can definitely hear them or her or it coming up the stairs. I swallow hard, making bits of the fucking muesli stick in my throat, so I want to cough, but no, I can't make a noise, and suddenly I can't breathe, my lungs just won't fill with air. Shit, is this a heart attack? I take a gulp of water, I can breathe again, and look around me. Nowhere to hide. Could I climb inside a cupboard? Would I fit? But no, there's no time, the footsteps are getting nearer, and then, whatever it is, it's right outside the kitchen door, it's opening … oh my God.

The usually bored and grumpy face of Olga the cleaner stares back at me, her drawn-on eyebrows raised in cartoon surprise. I exhale a long, deep sigh. Of course, it's Friday she always comes on Fridays when I'm usually out at training and Krystal's at the beauticians’. I fall back into my chair in relief.

"Ah Mr. Alexander, you scare me," she says in her flat East European accent. The face soon shapes itself back into its usual look, with her eyelids almost closed as if she's stoned. Krystal chose her just because of that look, along with her age, her thickset, bloke-ish frame, her unfriendly manner, and of course the glowing references which came from her previous employer – another 'baller's girlfriend whose other half was a notorious sleaze as well. No petite Filipino or leggy young Russian chick was going to be employed in this household. She mistrusted me that much, but I didn't give a fuck and was just jealous of guys whose girlfriends weren't so wise to the fact that their men were having it off with their cleaners, nannies and PAs right, left and centre.

"Olga, you scare me also," I say, trying to smile at her and hide any sign of just having had the biggest freak-out of the century. "I forgot you were coming, I'm a bit pre-occupied – you've seen the news?"

She stares back blankly at me. Either she hasn't seen the news or, more like she doesn't think it's professional to react.

"I'm sorry Mr. Alexander, you no want me to clean?"

For some reason a really shitty feeling comes over me, as she stands there staring at me. I wonder what she thinks of me, of all this celebrity gossip and tabloid scandal. How does it feel to have to dust the tacky ornaments and hoover the ridiculously thick carpets of this stupidly rich young geezer's house? And for the first time I wonder about her, what her life is like and where she comes from.

"It's okay Olga, you clean as normal. I'll be in the master bedroom, so no need to hoover there," I tell her.

I want to sound polite but it probably just comes out really snooty. I want to sprawl out on the sofa and watch TV but I can't face having her cleaning around me. She just nods in acceptance and walks past me, towards the cupboards. Of course – the cleaning stuff. We used almost everything up when were cleaning after 'it' happened.

"Oh, I'm sorry Olga, we used your supplies. We had a few friends round last week – it was a bit of a mess afterwards," I say just as she opens the cupboard and I see those drawn on eyebrows rising again.

"Here," I pull a couple of twenties out of my wallet. "Do you think you could go and get some more?" Again, the grateful, polite, master of the house.

She turns round and gives me this really pissed off look. I guess she had to run the gauntlet of those bastards outside to get in here and doesn't fancy it again. I can imagine her twee little Corsa battling its way through the cameras. Maybe I should just tell her to go home but then the house needs all the cleaning it can get after what happened here.

So Olga goes out to get more cleaning stuff from the nearest supermarket, which is a good seven miles away. I go back to bed to try to deal with my fucker of a hangover.

I crawl under my duvet, pull it over my head and close my eyes.

It's an unsettling dream: I'm in a garden, going to feed the fish in the pond, but when I look into the water, there are no Koi Carp fish, but a body, floating face down – her body – and then the water turns to blood and there is a buzzing noise like a swarm of flies... I sit up in bed startled, breathing hard. It takes a few seconds for the dull buzzing to register as the hoover. Olga must be back, this comforts me. I take a huge gulp of water as my mouth feels dry as hell and glance at the clock beside the bed. I've been asleep for about two hours. I rub my eyes and stare into the duvet for a while, can't bring myself to move, but then I hear my phone go off and this breaks me out of the trance. It's a text from Mattaus:

'Hey man, know UR havin a hard time rite now but u still comin da party 2nite? Itz gonna rock! M'

Bollocks. I'd totally forgotten that tonight was Mattaus' birthday party. Right now, drinking is the last thing I feel like doing, but man, could I do with seeing Mattaus and his posse – they're a good laugh and just the kind of company I need right now. I guess I don't have to drink that much if I go. Yeah, I'll just go and hang out there for a bit, have a couple of beers and be home by one.

I drag myself out of bed and I spend ages in the shower, just letting the streaming hot water crash down over my body. I feel flabby, like the muscles are looser. As I run my hand across my stomach the skin feels slack, as if the six pack is disappearing. Just from missing a few days training. It's scary. I decide when I get out of the shower I'm going to make myself a proper meal, and after this early night I'm going to get up first thing tomorrow and do some weights, maybe go for a swim. Soon I'll be able to get back to training anyway, when this whole thing blows over. When, not if, I lie to myself.