Authors: H. J. Hampson
The Love Palace has been completely re-decorated. Gone are the
Alice in Wonderland
chess piece sculptures in the entrance hall, and the façade up the staircase, gone is the Ying and Yang theme to the wings, gone is the picture above the fireplace. Now it's all much more
demure.
Only the chandelier in the
atrium
, as we've begun to call it, remains. In fact, we've talked about moving house and have already looked at two properties in The Cotswolds.
But come January the club are stalling over my contract, and the papers are full of rumours of a move to Italy. It all gets pretty brutal, with me and Serge meeting the chairman, and I'm coming round to the idea of a few seasons abroad. Serge seems to think it's a bad idea though, which I can't understand – the money they're talking about is a wet dream for any agent. But I guess maybe he does have my best interests at heart and thinks I'm not suited to the continental style of the game. Me, I just want to get the thing sorted and I'm secretly pleased when the club finally gives in and offers me the wages I'm demanding. Some of the fans, however, get a bit stroppy about the whole thing, saying I'm greedy and only interested in money. The first game of the season is a total head-fuck, with sections of the home crowd booing me when we go down one nil. The
home
crowd. I can't believe it and I'm totally wishing I went to Serie A. It gets me thinking and I can't help blaming Serge for it all. It was him who encouraged me, almost demanded, that I hold out for more money from the club. And it was him who started talking to the Italians, stirred up the rumours, then told me it was a bad idea. And he's still funny with Stella, can't bear to hold a proper conversation with her. I don't know what his fucking problem is, after all if she'd not turned up both me and him would probably be doing the best part of twenty years in the fucking clink.
As the weeks pass, and I score one in a crunch game against Man United and two in a Champions League game against Bayern Munich, the fans start to come round and I try to ignore the Serge/ Stella face-off. It's weird how things have turned out, but life is pretty sweet, no lie, and I ain't complaining.
It's a Tuesday lunchtime and I get back from training to find Stella and Georgia sitting at the table in the kitchen. They're discussing a fashion shoot or something while I'm trying to make myself a salad.
"We could do the thing in a day, get you straight on a flight that night from Dubai to Paris and you'd be sitting in the front row of Marc Jacobs by 1pm, what do you think?" Georgia is asking Stella.
"Yeah, I guess so. It'd be nice to have a bit of time off though," Stella replies, blatantly not committed to the gig.
"Oh come on Krystal, you're used to it by now? Besides, I know Marc will be very upset if you're not at his show."
I always find it weird how Georgia calls her Krystal, but then she doesn't know.
"Alright, I'll do it. So long as Billy can as well." Billy, her camp-as-fuck stylist goes everywhere with her.
Georgia seems to think this ain't a bad idea and they wrap the meeting up. After she's shown Georgia out, she comes back into the kitchen and rolls her eyes at me.
"Bloody Dubai, Paris and London in forty-eight bleeding hours, Monty, can you imagine?"
"Yeah, but you've done it before, babe. Remember the LA to Tokyo to Berlin forty-eight-hour marathon?"
She looks at me blankly.
"The MTV Europe awards?" I say, just before I remember that it was before her time.
"You must have gone there with her."
She turns away from me, goes to the table and seems to stand there, staring at the fruit bowl.
"Oh yeah. Wasn't much fun anyway."
Krystal sang ‘Your Song’ to me in a karaoke bar on top of a skyscraper in Japan and we hung out with Robbie Williams in Berlin.
"Listen, you gonna be back in good time for this magazine launch tonight?" Stella asks, turning her head to look at me.
"Yeah, I should be."
The magazine in question is
Dsquired
, edited by Boadecia Klaus, and it's the hottest party this month.
We sit and eat salad and talk about the party and Stella's schedule but I can't stop thinking about me and Krystal in Berlin. I leave Stella awaiting Billy as I have to head into town to see Serge about my Franco Visconti contract. Fucking waste of time in my opinion, but these things have to be done.
The traffic ain't so bad though and within an hour I'm sinking into the chair opposite Serge. I really don't have the time or the inclination to be here, it's already four o'clock and I've got to get ready for the party. Serge is taking his time shuffling through the papers on his desk trying to find the fucking fax Franco Visconti have sent him. I've been sat here for five minutes already.
"Can't you show me this some other time? Is it really that urgent?" I ask him.
"Yeah it is… They want to thrash out particulars today Beaumont. I'm sorry, I know you wanna go to that B Square party but this..."
"It's Dsquired, d-squire-d," I correct him, even though I know the bastard was being sarcastic anyway.
"Yeah whatever," he replies, "look maybe I left it in the room downstairs. Wait here while I check."
He pulls himself out of his chair and I can't help but notice the way a fold of fat hangs over his trousers and his shirt is stretched tight. Jesus, a fucking jeans contract, like it's the end of the world. Soon as he's left the room I stand up and go over to the window behind the desk. London looks like a building site, everywhere I look there seems to be a crane or scaffolding. Yet somewhere amongst all that chaos caterers will be tea-spooning foie gras onto tiny crackers, bar staff will be cleaning the cocktail glasses and the finest quality cocaine is being scored from dealers. Not that I'm into that shit any more but still, the point is everyone is getting ready for the
Dsquired
party and I should be too. Yet here I am fucking around at my agent's over a jeans contract. I glance down at his messy desk. There's old newspapers, a filthy coffee mug, a McDonalds bag and piles of papers. Makes me wonder what the bastard does all day.
But then something catches my eye: half of a black and white picture peeping out from under a copy of
The Sun
. I glance at the closed door and quickly pull it out. It's a photocopy of a Polaroid picture, one page of a fax. The other page, the cover page, says it's from someone called Petrov, to Serge, and has scrawny hand-written writing on it. The picture though … my hands shake as I look at it.
At first I think it's a picture of Stella, or Krystal, but looking more closely, it's not, it's just a girl who looks like both of them … a lot like them. She's staring at the camera with no expression, like a mug-shot. Under the photo, on the white border someone has written 'Denise: K. McQueen'. I feel cold all through my body, as if my blood has dropped tens of degrees. What the fuck does it mean?
But then I hear footsteps and shuffling – Serge coming back – so without really thinking what I'm doing I fold the paper up, stuff it into my hoodie pocket and quickly go and sit down.
"Found the bleeding thing," Serge is saying. "You alright? You look as if someone's just walked over your grave."
"What? Oh yeah, Stella just texted me, she's hassling me about this party."
"Right, right. Anyway, the gist of this new contract is that…" he starts going on about the fucking legal shit, "…what do you reckon?"
"Erm," I can't concentrate on what he's saying, all I can think of is that photo and the paper that's burning a hole in my pocket. "Yeah, that sounds fine to me."
"So you agree not to wear any other make of jeans then? Technically this contract is valid for ten years, so that means for the next decade you can only wear one brand of jeans. I'd think about the repercussions of that, Beaumont. So I don't know nothing about fashion, but seems to me like that might be something you'd want to consider."
What the fuck is he on about?
"Yeah, listen Serge," I tell him, " I can't really think about this right now. Can I get back to you later this afternoon?"
He sighs.
"As long as it is this afternoon. Any later and you can kiss that extra gazillion they're offering a year goodbye."
He's waving the Franco Visconti contract around in the air. What's a couple more million a year to me? How much of that will he be getting?
I take a good look around me before I climb into the car but the underground car park is deserted. I can feel my heart beating fast in my chest and I'm sweating. I try to check myself – what is there to be paranoid about? But still, I'm grateful for the Merc's shaded windows. Even if someone is following me, or the CCTV is trained on me, neither would be able to see into the car, I hope. I pull the fax out of my pocket, resting it on my knees, and look at the picture again. The girl in the photo stares back blankly, with large, dark eyes. Denise.
The writing on the cover page is hard to read, but what I can read is fucking alarming:
"From: 'Petrov'
To: 'Serge'
Pic attached as requested. Had nose job since. Just needs blue contacts. Plans for discreet deletion of current target in place. Meeting still on tomorrow evening – await confirmation of where and when. Will bring more pictures. Pls destroy this. P"
The date on the fax shows it was sent yesterday – the 'meeting' could be taking place right now! 'Deletion of current target'… what the fuck does it mean? I sit there, wondering what to do, but I can't think of anything, just the words of the fax over and over. Who is Petrov? Maybe it's nothing … but no, it says under the picture, 'K. McQueen'. There's only one … blue contacts … and she has blue eyes. Current target … it has to mean Stella. The Substitutors, it has to be.
I have to find out more, follow Serge, but I can't do this myself. Someone else will need to hang around outside the building, but who could do this at such short notice? I take my mobile out of my pocket and scroll through the contacts. 'Maybe' I think as I reach CJ's number and by the time I get to the Z's (Zachariah the tattooist, Zita, florist) I know the only person on my contacts that would get involved in anything as dodgy as this at such short notice is CJ, supplier of the best coke in West London, and this is only if he isn't out in Essex doing a thousand pound deal with some other 'baller or their wife. I've not spoken to CJ for months, I don't even know for sure whether he's still on the streets, or whether he's been busted or retired to Rio. But I take a deep breath and press the 'call' button.
"Yo, Beaumont man, long time no speak, yeah?"
I breathe a sigh of relief, though I still can't stop shaking.
"Hey Ceej how's tricks?"
"Spiffing man, spiffing. What can I do you for? I've just got a fresh delivery from the mountains, man, some real cool produce."
"Nah mate, I'm not looking to order today, but I was wondering if you could help me though. I need a bit of er, surveillance, doing."
I can hear CJ chewing on something at the other end of the line, weighing up what's being asked of him.
"Go on…" he says. I tell him that I'm suspicious Serge is doing a business deal behind my back and there's a meeting happening sometime today. After all, this is what he's doing, and there's no point telling CJ it's as dodgy as I think it is.
"Yeah, man, well you see it ain't good for my face to be seen hanging on no street corner, you get me?"
Great. If he won't do it, who will?
"But sure I can send one of my men round, what would be in it for me though?"
One of his 'men', that's good enough.
"Ten grand?" I say, without really thinking whether the work is worth this much.
"Sweet, man, sweet," CJ chuckles. "I can send my man Rod over to trail this cat soon as. He's pretty good at looking invisible. You just tell me the address."
I tell him where Serge's office is and then hang up. All I can do is wait now, and see what this Rod guy comes up with. I think about Serge sitting in his office above me. The scheming fucker, giving me advice on a fucking jeans contract when he's plotting to kill my girlfriend. How could he get involved with these people?
Then I remember when we took Dean's body to the docks. He told me he was going to do research into The Substitutors. Serge … the guy has been like a father to me. I feel tears welling up in my eyes.
I notice it's getting on for 6pm. By the time I get home there'll only be a couple of hours until we have to leave for the party, and Stella will be wondering where the hell I am. How should I break it to her that some crazy gangsters have got a hit out on her?
We're in a car heading towards the venue, some new place called the Quaker Street Bar and Rooms. We had a bit of a row when I got back. She was in a bad mood because I was late, and I got in a bad mood with her because I was late because I was trying to sort out who's trying to kill her and she's giving me a hard time for it. Not that she knows, of course. I thought it was best not to say anything. Anyway, we've not spoke much in the car and I'm sat there, praying CJ doesn't ring while I'm with her. But we're pulling up outside the venue now, where there's the usual crowd of paps scavving for pictures. It looks familiar, but I can't place it. Perhaps I've been here before when it was called something else. It's a little boutique hotel and the party is in the glass-domed roof area.