Pleasure Island (26 page)

‘
My
conscience? Ha!' Angelika snorted, the heat from the alcohol stinging her nostrils.

‘If you do decide to sue, and frankly I couldn't blame any of you if you did, I won't take it personally. Besides, I'm a businessman, Angelika; it's standard practice to make sure you're insured to the hilt, to make allowances for every eventuality. Even unforeseen air accidents.'

‘What happened to the plane that flew Joshua out of here and back again? Why couldn't it have flown us out of here, too?'

McKenzie shook his head. He was growing tired of her relentless questions.

‘Unfortunately I have no idea.' He poured himself another drink in an excuse to turn away from her, lest she see his irritation. ‘But as I've said, I will conduct a full and thorough investigation, which will result in the answers you need in full clarity.' Of course he had no intention of doing this whatsoever. After tonight, the plane crash and question marks it had brought about would be the least of this inquisitive bitch's concerns. After tonight it would be all about damage limitation for Angelika Tippie-toes Deyton, the hack with a knack for asking the wrong questions and sealing her own fate. All she would be worried about would be protecting her privacy, keeping her dignity and reputation intact; it would be the same for the rest of them, too. Once those boxes were open they would have nothing but happy memories to share about the island and they would praise him in the press, voluntarily enforcing the original Vegas motto that ‘whatever happens on Pleasure Island stays on Pleasure Island'. And if, though he had calculated it being a very big if, any of them
still
had the minerals to take him on, then he would do what he'd always done and buy their silence. As far as McKenzie was concerned, it was a win-win situation.

L
ennard Bailey gulped
back some Pepto-Bismol straight from the bottle and washed the pink gloop down with a tot of cheap whiskey that he kept in the top drawer in case of emergencies, of which there seemed to be an alarming frequency. His heartburn was giving him serious gyp. He'd been putting off making an appointment at the doctors for months now, afraid of the dreaded ‘I'm afraid it's not especially good news' line he sensed was due his way.

Absentmindedly scratching his backside and pulling at the waistband of his cheap slacks, he checked his diary for the day ahead. Client meetings followed by more client meetings. He didn't know why he'd even bothered looking. The telephone rang and belching painfully, he picked it up.

‘Bailey.'

‘Bailey, it's John Kirkbride from the
Daily Voice
in the UK.'

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and checked his watch. It would be 11pm in London now. Bit late, wasn't it?

‘Kirkbwide, to what do I owe the pleasure?' He hadn't heard from this unscrupulous motherfucker in a while and was all the more grateful for it. They had history that went way back, a reluctant relationship born of mutual necessity; Bailey had needed Kirkbride to feature stories on his clients and Kirkbride had needed stories to sell in his newspaper: a simple enough exchange, one would think, but that hadn't always been the case. Kirkbride's irresponsible journalism had given Bailey cause for some real ballache over the years, namely defaming some of his biggest client's, often sullying their reputations, even outing their sexuality, and usually without the good grace of a little forewarning. Bailey remembered how Kirkbride had been a mere wet-behind the ears junior hack during Mia Manhattan's sensational trial and had made his name on the back of it, thanks to his especially unforgiving reportage. His scathing negativity of Mia had, Bailey felt sure, been partly responsible for her steep public decline. While it was all a long time ago now, he had never truly forgiven him for it. The man couldn't be trusted.

‘Courtesy call, Bailey,' Kirkbride said, forgoing any niceties. ‘Tomorrow's headlines. I take it you've heard about the footage doing the rounds?'

Bailey dropped his feet from the desk and sat up straight.

‘What footage doing what rounds?'

Kirkbride snorted. ‘You're getting sloppy, Bailey. Mia Manhattan and the webcam footage … it's all over the Internet.'

Bailey felt his sphincter muscles relax, panic tightening around his stomach like a gastric band.

‘Fuck off, Kirkbwide, you're winding me up. Mia's on vacation, a
priyvate
destination …not even the paps know where she is.'

‘'Fraid you're wrong there, Bailey. How about I send it over to you? Seems as though Mia's been – how can I put this –
enjoying
herself on her little island retreat. I don't suppose you know where she is exactly, or if you've been in touch with her?'

How the hell did Kirkbride know where Mia was? Even he had no idea. A private, secluded island McKenzie had said, although he hadn't given an exact location. He had, however, given Bailey no room to manoeuvre when it came to convincing her to agree to it.

‘It's imperative that bitch agrees to accept my hospitality, Bailey,' McKenzie had said, ‘and it's up to you to make Goddamn sure of it.'

Bailey hadn't wanted to challenge the almighty Martin McKenzie. Keeping a man such as him happy was par for the course. He was just too powerful to upset. McKenzie had the sway to make or break anyone in the industry. Hell, he
was
the industry. If he came to you and asked you to jump you asked, ‘how high?' Besides, there was something about the man that gave him the bloody willies. He'd heard rumours over the years, unpleasant stuff about his sexual preferences and a ruthlessness that bordered on the plain psychotic. And one thing Bailey had learned in life; there was rarely smoke without fire. On the few occasions they'd crossed paths, Bailey had noted the unhinged look in his eyes, giving him cause to believe that Martin McKenzie was not a man you fucked with.

As it was he'd been given no choice in the matter. He thought back to the conversation they'd had some weeks back.

‘I can tell you now it won't be easy to persuade her,' he'd nervously explained. Mia despised Martin McKenzie with an unfettered rampant passion that was borderline unnatural.

‘I don't care how you do it, Bailey, but you will get that cunt to agree, do you understand?'

McKenzie had paused as the line crackled like the embers of a bonfire.

‘Rumour has it you're under investigation by the IRS, if I'm not correct?'

Bailey had been affronted. How the hell did McKenzie know about that? It was his private business and he was most keen for it to remain so. The last thing he wanted was any attention on himself; he saved that shit for the catalogue of limelight-hoggers he represented. Despite his lack of sartorial finesse and speech impediment, Bailey was respected and revered as being a bloody-good agent. Something like that getting out would be very bad for business indeed.

‘Are you blackmailing me?'

‘Call it what you will, Bailey,' McKenzie had said, ‘but actually I want to help you. I hear you're looking at a serious fraud charge, somewhere in the region of $450K?'

Bailey had sighed. It was little wonder he'd got a bloody ulcer; in all honesty, with the stress he'd been under since the audit he was surprised he hadn't dropped dead of a heart attack.

‘What's it to you, anyway?' he'd muttered miserably. It couldn't really get much worse than it already was. If the IRS found him liable, which of course they would, then it was all over for him, anyway. Sometimes he wished he'd never relocated to the States; the tax office here was made up of even bigger bastards than in the UK, and that was really saying something.

‘Make sure Mia Manhattan is on that plane next Thursday and I'll foot the bill. Once she signs that disclaimer whatever you owe will be written off by me.'

Bailey had struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. McKenzie was going to solve all his problems just as long as he convinced Mia to go and stay on his luxury island for a couple of weeks. It should have been a no-brainer. It was a no-brainer. Only Bailey knew that there had to be more to it than that.

‘Why Mia?'

‘Why not?'

‘What's the catch, McKenzie? How can I weally twust you?'

‘How can you afford not to?'

It was a fair point. Sill, getting Mia to agree would be a task in itself. That woman was unmovable when she didn't want to do something, no amount of transatlantic phone calls and begging in the past had proved it. He'd not wanted to sell her down the river, which he sensed was exactly what he would be doing. Despite their turbulent relationship over the years he was still fond of the old diva.

‘I need your assurance that she'll come to no harm, McKenzie,' he'd said, his gastric juices bubbling.

McKenzie had laughed horribly.

‘As soon as she signs up, the money's yours. Then you can kiss goodbye to your financial woes, my
fwiend
,' he'd said mockingly. And, surprisingly, he'd been as good as his word.

‘So, what's the story exactly, Kirkbwide?' It was a question he'd rather not have to have an answer to but he needed to know what the damage was.

‘Mia's part of a much bigger picture; she's on holiday with Joshua Jones, Nate and Billie-Jo Simmons and Rupert Deyton and his wife, one of my columnist's, Angelika Deyton. Tell me, Bailey: why would Mia Manhattan be on holiday with Rupert Deyton? We both know there's zero love lost between the pair.'

‘Rupert Deyton.' Bailey's stomach lurched. ‘Jesus Christ.' Mia would have his balls on a plate for this. So that's why McKenzie had refused to confirm who else would be on his special little trip … his
power
trip. Mia would never have agreed and McKenzie had known it.

‘Don't tell me you know nothing about this, Bailey, because you've always been a spectacularly shit liar. I can see straight through you like a pane of glass.' Kirkbride hesitated a little. Thinking about it, Bailey had actually sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Cut the shit, Bailey; you're telling me you seriously didn't know about this?'

Bailey cleared his throat.

‘The fact that Mia was away with Joshua, yes. That she was on vacation with Rupert Deyton, no.'

Surprisingly Kirkbride believed him. ‘Do you know where they are?'

‘No, I'm afraid I don't,' he said. It was a half-truth.

‘Has this got anything to do with Martin McKenzie?'

Bailey felt his panic reach fever pitch.

‘McKenzie? What on earth makes you say that?'

This time Kirkbride didn't believe him.

‘A little birdie, Bailey.'

‘So what's on the footage? What's Mia done?' He was already pre-empting damage limitation.

‘See for yourself,' Kirkbride said, ‘I'm sending you the link now. It's live footage, Bailey … seems as though your client has signed up for some kind of reality TV show she knows nothing about.'

Bailey gulped back some more of his pink gloop followed by the last of the whiskey.

‘You mean they don't know they're being filmed?'

‘Watch the stream and make up your own mind.'

Bailey groaned. Suddenly an afternoon filled with demanding client meetings didn't seem such a bad thing at all. ‘I'd advise you not to run with this story, John. Seriously, you're opening a can of worms.'

Now Kirkbride was really intrigued. Bailey had used his Christian name. This
was
serious.

‘And why's that, Bailey?'

‘You don't know who you're dealing with.'

‘So it is McKenzie?'

‘Selling out one of your own, too … are there no depths you people won't sink to?'

Kirkbride laughed.

‘Dance with the devil, Bailey, and your feet get burned. You know how it works.'

As he'd suspected, McKenzie had stitched Mia up, placing her on a secluded island with her nemesis and filming the results. But why? What would McKenzie possibly gain from it aside from enjoying Mia's obvious discomfort? He frantically thought how he might be able to turn this around to her advantage and save his sorry arse in the process. She wanted a comeback, right? Well, perhaps Kirkbride getting hold of this footage, whatever it was, would be a blessing in disguise. He sure as shit hoped so because compared to what Mia would do to him when she discovered the truth, financial ruin suddenly seemed like the soft option.

W
earing only
a matching Victoria's Secret bra and thong, Billie-Jo was energetically twerking in the bathroom, Beyoncé blaring out from the Bang & Olufsen surround-sound speakers as she racked up a line of coke on the tiled surface and quaffed back yet more chilled Cristal. Grinning at herself in the large full-length mirror she took a hit, snorting up a long, fat line in one deep inhalation. She'd promised Nate she would never touch the stuff again but then she'd also promised to forsake all others on her wedding day and look how that had turned out. Oh, well, she sighed resignedly, in for a penny … Anyway, screw Nate, she decided, he was just too fucking square for her. He was only in his early 30s, for fuck's sake, yet the way he carried on you'd think he was ready for his pipe and slippers. Nate's trouble was that he didn't know how to have fun, and moreover it seemed he didn't want to either. All Nate wanted to do was hide away from the world, wallowing in self-pity about being adopted while disappearing into obscurity. Billie-Jo just didn't get it. She didn't understand what the fucking deal was; Nate was still young, he was fit, in every sense, and he was loaded. He had everything he wanted at his feet, yet still he was miserable. Some people were never happy. It was so unfair really; Nate had access to real fame and fortune and yet wasn't arsed about either, whereas she was desperate for both and had neither – at least not quite, not autonomously, although all that looked set to change if she played her cards carefully over these next few months.

While it was not an option she'd initially wanted to consider, Billie-Jo had to concede that perhaps time was running out on her marriage to Nate Simmons. Whatever else this ‘holiday' had revealed, the cracks in their relationship had certainly been one of them. Joshua Jones, however, was fast shaping up to be a half-decent proposition in terms of a suitable replacement. With a single due for release which had already been tipped to be a global smash and an album to promote, plus a major tour in the pipeline, Billie-Jo was starting to ruminate on the idea of trading in her WAG status for that of rock-star wife, or girlfriend to start with, at least. The more she thought of it, the more she warmed to the idea. WAGs were so yesterday, so passé. Now a rock star's wife: that had real cachet and kudos. Moreover, JJ knew how to have fun – proper fun, her kind of fun – sharing a love of hard partying, coke and champagne. And he was hung like a donkey, not that she had any complaints about Nate in that department but when she weighed it all up JJ came out on top; they certainly had more in common. And he made her laugh which, while not being a prerequisite in a potential husband, at least for her, was most definitely a bonus. All JJ needed to do now was make some serious wedge and she'd be cool with a trade in. Divorcing Nate would be a doddle. She doubted he'd make a fuss; Nate was just too nice to put her through any bitter acrimony and plus he wouldn't want the exposure. With a bit of consideration she would come out of it with a decent lump to see her right, a nice property and a smart motor, plus some fabulous jewellery and clobber to boot.

Billie-Jo wasn't sure whether it was the coke, the champagne, or the fact that her plan B was coming together nicely but she felt damned good. Perhaps it was all three, that and the fact that spending the morning with JJ had given her a real buzz. She had enjoyed his company more than she'd enjoyed anything in a long while, well, aside from the mind-blowing sex she'd had with the stranger in the spa. It was odd that she hadn't seen the horny masseur about the island since their encounter, leading her to believe that he was keeping a low profile. Still, she didn't give it too much thought; that ship had seemingly sailed without any repercussions and her focus was now firmly on Joshua Jones. Billie-Jo racked up another line of gear and turned the stereo up. She'd cajoled Nate into coming here, much like she cajoled him into doing anything worthwhile and despite everything that had happened she was now very glad that she had. If Nate wanted that boring bitch Angelika Deyton then he was welcome to her. They were welcome to each other. They could bore each other shitless slipping into a mundane middle-class existence while she toured the globe partying with a famous front man. Fuck yeah! Flo Rida came on the stereo and she wacked up the sound with the remote; this tune was sick! Whipping off her bra and thong, Billie-Jo stepped into the shower with a renewed vigour and began lathering herself up in Chanel Coco Mademoiselle body wash. She didn't hear Nate enter the bathroom.

‘Billie-Jo?'

‘Shit!' Nate was back. She could've sworn she'd locked the door. Holy fuck, the gear! She'd left it out on the side with a rolled up bank note next to it.

Nate pulled the glass door to the shower open causing a rush of cold air to hit her naked body.

‘What the fuck is this, Billie-Jo?' He was holding the bank note up in his fist, waving it at her, eyes aflame. ‘I thought I asked you not to touch that fucking shit ever again? Are you stupid? One line, you said … yeah, right, and the rest!' She'd never seen him so angry.

‘Nate! What are you doing? Shut the door, you're spraying water all over the floor!' Her eyes began to sting as soap slid down her face. ‘Jesus,' she said angrily, ‘can't this wait until I'm out of the shower!'

‘You lied to me; you said you wouldn't touch this fucking shite ever again. I told you I'd div–'

Angry herself now and charged up on champagne and coke, Billie-Jo grabbed a fluffy, white towel and wrapped it around her nakedness before stepping out of the shower, her buzz disappearing as fast as the steam from the hot water.

‘Told me what, Nate, that you'd divorce me … yeah, I remember. Well, what you waiting for, on you go.'

‘Just how out of hand has your coke habit got, eh?'

He looked down at the small pile of white powder next to the matching his-and-hers sink, and promptly blew it all into the basin before running the tap.

‘You fucking idiot,' she hissed.

Nate shook his head.

‘Now that is rich,' he snorted. ‘You know what this stuff does to people. How many more times do I need to ram it home to you?'

‘Oh, lighten up, killjoy – it's just a line of coke. It's not heroin or crack … just a bit of a livener, that's all. We're on holiday, Nate. You need to take that stick out of your arsehole and relax a little, have a little hit yourself. You never know, you might even enjoy it. Miracles can happen.'

He felt like slapping her face.

‘How long have you been doing this stuff really, Billie-Jo? And be honest, if you're even capable of honesty, that is.' He looked at her contemptuously. He knew she had dabbled in the past, but he was beginning to realise he may have sorely underestimated the extent of her habit.

‘Since before we were married,' she sneered, ‘well, I needed something to relieve the boredom, didn't I? And in case you're wondering, yes, I was coked off me tits on our wedding day, too. How else did you think I was gonna get through it?' She didn't know why she was being so mean; the words were just tumbling from her lips. She'd been cold-busted and was panicking.

‘So this is what you spend my money on, is it? Handbags and coke.' He was looking her up and down like he'd stepped in her. ‘That's the thanks I get from pulling your arse out of the gutter, is it, Bee? A junkie for a wife? Thanks … thanks a lot.'

‘Out of the gutter? Ha! Oh, the Golden fucking Bolt. I've got more balls than you'll ever have, Nate Simmons. If only you could've been such a hit off the pitch as well as on it. But you're a lame duck, now aintcha? In every fucking sense. Couldn't have fun on a fucking bouncy castle, you couldn't … too busy wallowing in your own misery, pining after Mummy and Daddy, whoever the fuck they might be. My money's on a pair of gutless drips. After all, you must've got it from somewhere.' Billie-Jo had gone too far and she knew it, but she couldn't help but be vicious when cornered.

‘
Your
money?
My
money you mean, sweetheart,' he shot back, ‘the pocket money you make getting those fake tits of yours out only just makes enough to keep you in bras, and no doubt more of this shit!' He threw the note at her but it fell short. ‘You know what,' he said, leering at her, ‘it was a mistake to marry you ,Billie-Jo. Yeah, that's what
I
was thinking while I was saying
my
vows. And as it turns out I should've listened to my gut. You're little more than a strung-out coked-up gold-digger with a vicious tongue.'

Billie-Jo's face contorted in anger and hurt. How dare he speak her like that! Dropping her towel she picked up a full shampoo bottle from the side and threw it directly at him. But Nate's reflexes were too quick and he dodged it. The sound as the bottle impacted with the mirror was ear-splitting and they both winced as the glass exploded, shattering into pieces onto the marble floor.

‘Now look what you made me do!' She glared at him. ‘I'm going to the beach.' She flounced from the bathroom, leaving him to clear up the mess.

Nate looked down at the shattered glass on the floor and then up at the huge mirror frame.

‘Jesus Christ,' he said, moving towards it. There was something … something behind the mirror. He stared at it, its lens in full view, red light still flashing as it followed his movements. ‘Well, I'll be damned,
'
he said
, ‘
now that
is
a camera
.'

This time there was no mistaking it.