Authors: H. J. Hampson
"So, yeah, anyway, that's all I got for you. You still there?"
"Yeah." I grunt.
"So, erm, about this ten grand?"
"Oh yeah, mate, I'll get the cash sent by courier tomorrow, yeah?"
"Sweet, sweet man, so I'll catch you soon then, yeah?"
"Yeah."
I hang up and stare into the deep, beige carpet. I've got to get Stella out of here and back to the house. I'm going to have to tell her, this is bad shit, no lie. How can Serge do this to me? Bump my girlfriend off and hook me up with some random chick. I can't believe it. How could the bastard just sit there so chilled and talk to me about jeans. Jeans?!
Back in the bar, I scan the party for Stella. She's not sitting at the table any more. Nor, thank fuck, can I see that crazy bitch Felicity. Everyone is moving over to a little stage in the corner and as I watch them, there's an explosion of glitter and a blast of deafening disco music. Boadecia appears on the stage and everyone starts cheering. It's then that I catch sight of Stella, standing with two members of a girl pop group who, in normal circumstances, I would love to make conversation with whilst fantasising about a wild threesome, but not now.
I push past a few people and stand beside her.
"Where the hell have you been?" she snaps when she notices me. She's pissed, and the Home Counties accent is slipping into her old Salford drawl.
"I've been on the phone. We've got to go."
"What? Boadecia is just doing her thing though."
I try to take her arm, but she turns away from me.
"Please, Stella, it's really important, there's something I need to talk to you about."
I'm standing right in front of her now and watch her face change as she realises I mean it.
"Come on."
"Well… Okay but we can come back, yeah?"
I glance around me. Suddenly it feels like danger is around us.
"Maybe, yeah."
"Hang on then."
She turns to the pop muppets and starts telling them she's going, so I leave off for a minute. But there's these two guys next to me who are totally fucked and swaying about, invading my space. They're smarter dressed than the Shelf-stacker brigade but one of them is wearing a gay vest thing and his bare arm is covered in a mess of tattoos. Musicians, probably American, rock stars. They're both holding champagne glasses.
"Yeah, I still miss him you know," Tattoo-guy is saying.
"Yeah, man, I can't believe it. God bless him," replies the other.
Then they raise their glasses, smack them together so hard I'm surprised they don't crack and say: "To Taylor Jones."
"Gone but not forgotten," the English one says before they both down the champers, and then stumble off to the bar.
Taylor Jones … the name nags at my brain … that rock star who killed himself. I don't have time to think about it now, but I tell myself I should later. I feel like there is something about it that I need to know. But we have to get out of here first. Stella is now by my side, looking miserable, but I take her hand and start walking towards the lift. Jesus fucking Christ though, who should appear in front of us? Felicity the slag-nutcase.
'Please, please, please don't say anything,' I pray. She's standing there like a hooker, one hand on her hip, giving me the eye. I look straight ahead as we walk past her.
"Leaving already, guys?" she says cheerfully.
"Yeah," I reply, without turning to look.
"Well that is a shame."
"What's her problem?" Stella slurs when we're in the lift.
"I dunno, probably high on coke or something."
There's a car waiting for us when we reach the hotel lobby and I help Stella inside, ignoring the whoops and jibes from the paparazzi who love it that she's so wasted. She's still moaning about going home but seems to sense, through the alcoholic haze, that something dodgy is going on. I don't know what to do because it probably won't do any good telling her Serge is out to kill her when she's in this state. Will she even remember when she sobers up?
My head's a mess, no lie, I can't think straight. Each time I try to think of how I could tell her, thoughts of Felicity and the hotel room interrupt. What the fuck did I do that for?
The car glides through London and I stare through the tinted windows at the people swarming around Liverpool Street Station. It's just gone 11pm, some of them must be heading home after a night of after-work drinking and some might have just left work, some might just be starting. There's City workers in their suits, trendy young students, teenage boys in their hoodies, tourists, immigrants, the
Big Issue
seller, the tramps and the buskers and the junkies, and I'm jealous of all of them – the anonymous masses, all going about their lives, not realising what a luxury ordinariness is. The lucky bastards.
They feed on my life, gorging on tabloid papers and celebrity magazines, and no doubt they'll be laughing at the pictures of me helping my drunken girlfriend into a car tomorrow morning. I want to roll down the window and shout 'Come on, trade with me, then, see what it's like to live this life.' But I can't.
We're back home about an hour later and the cold air and dead quiet of the Essex countryside seems to sober her up a bit as we walk up the drive. I make her drink water and two espressos and then I sit her down at the kitchen table.
"You remember you told me Dean was involved with those gangsters? The ones that arranged for you to replace Krystal?"
A look of horror passes over her face at the mention of Dean's name, but she nods slowly.
"Well I think Serge is involved with them."
"Serge? What are you talking about Beaumont?"
"I found this fax in his office, you see," I swallow hard, my mouth is suddenly really dry, "and then I got someone to follow him. They called me when I was at the party, that's why I disappeared. Stella, darling, they're trying to replace
you
."
"Oh my God," she whispers quietly.
"They're planning the hit for the 1
st
of April so we need to act by then."
"The hit? You mean they're gonna try and kill me?" She starts getting up from the table, but I keep hold of her hands and she sits back down.
"I don't know. But listen, babe, try not to panic. We'll think of something," I tell her as I stare into her wet blue eyes, "we'll think of something."
I tell her everything I know, including the stuff about the girl, Denise.
"Show me the picture," she says.
I'd kept the fax folded up in my wallet, so I pull it out and hand it to her. She gasps and puts her hand over her mouth.
"She looks just like me."
"Like Krystal."
She looks up at me. "Oh God, Beaumont. What am I going to do?"
"It'll be okay," I say and we're both standing up hugging, and I'm thinking how her hair smells of fags and woodchips, weirdly.
She pulls away from me and looks up into my eyes.
"So what happened to Krystal?"
Shit, what did she have to ask that for? I glance away from her and a bolt of anger flashes through me.
"She died. But it was an accident, okay?"
She nods and sniffs.
"I know they were gonna charge you with murder. He told me, Dean did."
"Yeah, well, they made a mistake and then you came along at the right time to save me."
I try to smile. This is a totally uncomfortable conversation. What the fuck has that got to do with anything right now?
"So it's your turn to save me then?" she smiles back, but tears are rolling down her cheeks.
"Yeah."
We both down a whisky to help us sleep, but we lie in bed awake for a long time, our bodies folded into each other.
It's half nine and I'm standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee machine to heat up. The remnants of the nightmare I had last night are merging with the reality of the morning.
I think about Serge. He'll probably call me at some point today. Should I act normal or confront him? And what should I do about Stella? I stand at the breakfast bar and think about stuff for a while, then I hear Stella coming down the stairs, but rather than come into the kitchen she carries on downstairs towards the front door. It's a while before I hear her coming back upstairs towards the kitchen.
"Alright, babe?" I ask when she appears at the kitchen door. She looks pale and upset, but I guess it's understandable in the circumstances. I notice she's holding a newspaper and I watch her, this sense of worry coming over me, as she walks towards me in silence and then holds the newspaper out to me. I think I know before I unfold it, but my heart sinks when I see, there on the fucking front page, Felicity, in stockings and suspenders, posing provocatively.
The headline:
'My kinky sex with Beaumont'
and beneath that: '
(while Krystal gets drunk)
'
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. I stare from the paper to Stella and back again. There's no point reading the whole story. Minutes seem to pass and I watch her face slowly screw itself up and tears start rolling down her cheeks. She lets out a cry.
"How could you?"
I try to think of what to say – to lie or to tell her the truth? The pros and cons of both swirl around my head, but there's no time to make a decision. I'm just wondering how the hell the bitch managed to get to the journos in time, but I guess there were plenty of paps outside that fucking hotel.
"She came on to me."
This might be the truth but as soon as I say it I know it's the worst possible thing to say.
"You bastard."
She picks up an empty glass and makes to throw it at me, but I rush forward and grab her arms and try to hold her as gently as I can.
"Stella, look, I'm sorry, but please let me explain."
She's crying so much she can't speak but she pulls away from me and sits down at the table, holding her head in her hands. This is the last thing I need.
"Please just let me explain," I say again, sitting down at the table with her and taking one of her hands in mine. I'm going to have to tell her the whole, horrible truth.
"I went downstairs to call CJ. That Felicity," Stella shudders at the sound of her name, "had been giving me the come-on all night and I was trying to ignore her but there was this foreign maid who I was trying to ask for a key to a room."
"What?" she looks at me like she's totally confused.
"I was trying to get in one of the rooms to make the call. Anyway, this Felicity woman appears and starts speaking to the maid in Spanish. She gets her to open a room for me but then she followed me in.
"Honestly, I swear I tried to get rid of her. Then she's coming onto me real strong…she practically pinned me to the bed…it just happened."
She glares at me, eyes wide in disbelief. "It just happened? You knew they were trying to kill me and 'it just happened?'" She raises her voice now, on the verge of going totally psycho.
"No, I didn't know they were trying to kill you then."
She stands up suddenly and stares at me slowly shaking her head.
"I can't believe this is happening," she says quietly and then turns and runs out of the kitchen.
"Stella!" I call after her, but stay where I'm sat and pull the paper towards me.
The complete bitch. The sight of her in fishnets and a corset makes me want to hurl. What a slag. All those other girls, the ones I'd fucked behind Krystal's back, raped even, I'll admit it now, and they never went to the papers. But now this slut, who I didn't even
want
to shag, has gone and done this, at the worst time possible. Fucking karma? Whatever. Jesus, well now I'm feeling pretty lousy thinking about how I've hurt Stella, girls like Monique and most of all Krystal. Poor Krystal who knew all along but never said anything.
"You never cared for her did you? She used to talk to me you know."
Words from a lifetime ago come back to me.
I scan the story:
'Busty blonde Felicity….Beaumont dragged me into an empty hotel room…got me down on hands and knees…the maid was shocked…Krystal was knocking back the cocktails while we had sex…he's a real dirty dog…'
And so it goes on. There's a picture of me helping Stella into the taxi. I feel sick with anger and shame. Serge could have stopped this, but then Serge ain't on my side any more.
It's like I'm in the middle of a chaotic circus. Serge was the one who kept it all in order, the ringmaster. Now I can't trust him it's like a massive hole has opened and I'm teetering on the edge of it. Shit, I mean, what if the fucker goes to the press and tells them everything – Krystal, Dean, the lot? Or worse, what if he goes to the Old Bill? But then, no, he's got too much to lose as well, and the bastard would never go crawling to the pigs for nothing. But what if he tips them off? Ah, fuck it, do I care any more? What do I care that I've cheated on Stella ... she's not my real girlfriend. I thump the table in frustration, so hard it sends a splinter of pain up my arm, and I chuck the paper away from me. It lands near the Aga, the pages fanning out on the floor, the exact spot where Dean had died. And then everything is silent.