The Vanity Game Page 2

  When I open them again I see Monique. She's leaning over the table in front of us, her tight little ass bulging out of those hot pants. Jesus, what I'd give for that. So this gets me onto thinking: how dare she turn me down? What right did she have to do that? Some no-mark little waitress! And I feel the anger seeping back. But maybe she didn't hear me.

  Another tray of cocktails arrives – different waitress.

  "Oh no, not more cocktails," Krystal says, but she takes another one anyway.

  She's well on her way to getting absolutely hammered. I pick a Cosmo off the tray and gulp it down, thinking I may as well get the same way as the alcohol hits the back of my throat and makes me want to gag. I scan the bar area to see who is doing what, who's talking to who, who's getting it on with who. My eyes are drawn to this scruffy-looking guy. I'm reckoning he's some music-industry type – a complete tramp who looks like he's not washed for days: the tell-tale sign of the middle-class rock star or record company ponce. These are the kind of people who always know where the best coke at the party can be sourced.

  Coke.

  I weigh up the pros and cons – the drink lending the pros a hand – and I decide that if I ain't gonna get a fuck, I might as well make something of the evening. I murmur something about seeing a mate over at the bar, but no one takes any notice anyway, and I get up and approach the guy.

  "Know where I can get any charlie, by any chance, mate?" I whisper. The tramp, who reeks of weed and general grot, turns and looks at me, trying to hide his surprise at being spoken to by Beaumont Alexander.

  "I can help you out myself. Follow me to the Gents in two minutes."

  He smiles, revealing a set of yellow, wonky teeth.

  I watch him walk off in the direction of the toilets. I'm hesitant about going back in there, as if it holds some strange curse, but there's nothing for it – my whole body has started to crave the cocaine rush.

  I wait, leaning against the bar, with my back turned to Krystal et al, and then after a while I head towards the men's rooms. Inside, the tramp motions me silently into the cubicle. As soon as the door's locked he gets out a small zip-bag full of powder.

  "That's too much," I say. That amount could get you done for possession with intent. The cons of the situation are making a comeback, big style.

  "Come on, mate, it's good stuff. Try a bit."

  He offers me the open bag so I lick the tip of my little finger and dip it in, just to test it. I feel the sharp salty taste on my gums as I rub it in, followed by numbness and then….yeah, a little suggestion of highness: it is good stuff. The pros surge back for a resounding victory. Fuck it, might as well take the bag.

  "How much?"

  "Two fifty."

  That's not a bad price and so now I'm thinking I've got to take it because it's such a good deal. I've got a wad of cash in my pocket so I peel off two-fifty's worth of notes and watch tramp boy take it eagerly and stuff it into his own pocket. Then he's sliding out of the cubicle without saying anything and closing the door quietly behind him. I re-lock it and set about making two short, fat lines on the cistern with my Amex card.

  I pull another tenner out of my wallet, roll it up, and then take in the scene for a few seconds. Sod it, I'm leaning over snorting the beauties up before the doubts can get out of the starting blocks. I exhale, close my eyes and feel the powder tickling my nose. This stuff will work fast and come on strong.

  I check my reflection in the mirror over the sink. I'm looking pretty good, no lie, probably the best looking guy at this fucking party, and again I think of Monique – the stupid bitch doesn't know what she's missing. Halfway between the Gents and the table, the coke hits me. Man, it's strong, like a punch in the face. I stagger for a moment because it feels like my brain has exploded, and as the pieces settle I look around me at the party which now seems to be a little more jumping. Everyone looks pretty wasted. Probably that dealer has been supplying the whole joint for hours. What have I been missing? I see Krystal is still sitting at the table, but Jon, Kelly and Darren have disappeared and instead she's talking to a couple I recognise but can't place. Minor soap stars or something? It matters fuck all because I'm suddenly overcome by an aversion to going back to that table anyway, so instead I turn and am about to walk over to the bar when there's a cry behind me.

  I swivel back around and see Darren standing up, pointing at a guy, also standing, on the other side of a table. The guy's wearing a dinner jacket. Everyone seems to have stopped talking and is staring at them, waiting, as one of Clyde's album tracks plays in the background.

  "So come on motherfucker, gimmie, what you got," Clyde rhymes, over and over again.

  It's a bad sign.

  "Yeah come on, ya fucker!" Darren cries out, as if inspired by it.

  He's swaying side to side, totally slaughtered. And then I notice Monique standing near them at the pool side. She's holding a tray against her chest and looking nervous. Suddenly Darren leaps right across the table and falls into the other guy. Now they're fighting proper, a two-person ball and every so often an arm or a leg sticks out then ploughs back into the tangle – it's kind of funny. People are screeching and moving away. I'm enjoying the spectacle and congratulating myself on my earlier reckoning that kids like Darren are better off in Faces. And Monique's still standing there.

  But the next thing I know there's an almighty splash, and three bodies are thrashing about in the water. The two guys have fallen in and, I see, accidentally pushed Monique in with them. Fucking hilarious.

  People are at the pool side helping her get out whilst the two guys try to continue their fight in the pool, sending water splashing over the tables nearby. Two security guards appear, stand for a second by the water then dive in and begin to try to part the fighters. It's chaos and in the midst of this a soaking Monique is trying to dry herself off with a napkin. I smile to myself – serves her right but God, does she look hot all wet like that. The coke is juddering through my veins now and I can feel my cock stirring, hardening as I watch her. Jesus I'm horny for it. She begins to walk away from the pool, ignored by the fight spectators, and without really thinking what I'm doing, I follow her. She's heading into the building where the toilets are. I wait when I reach the glass door and watch her go past the Ladies and the Gents and through another door. I go in and walk up to this door. There's a window above the handle and I can see that this is actually the entrance to a staircase which heads down into the hotel. Fortunately, there's no lock on the door so I push it open and go down the stairs. All the time I'm thinking of her tight ass in those hot pants, the bronzed skin, the dragon tattoo. She obviously hadn't heard me earlier…yeah…that was it, she must have got confused and that was why she never came to me.

  It's dark at the bottom of the staircase but I can see a light under a door. She must be in there, waiting for me. I hesitate, gripping the handle … what if … what if … don't think about it now … the coke and the drink are telling me to open the door, screaming at me. She must hear it open because she turns round and exclaims "Oh!" with a surprised look on her face. She's taken off her bikini top and is holding a towel over her chest. I shut the door behind me.

  "What are you…" she's saying as I move towards her. "You're really drun..."

  I'm pressing my lips against hers and I've grabbed her arms. She's leaning against a table and I push forwards, onto her. I can feel her struggling but I've got to go on. My cock's pushing against the inside of my jeans, hard as hell. I manage to unzip myself so it springs up, free and brushes against her thigh.

  "N…" she's saying. She wants it though, I know she does, how could she not? They always do. It's happened before.

  With her right hand she's pushing her palm hard against my thigh. The nails of her other hand are digging into my other leg, which just turns me on even more.

  "Oh come on baby," I say. I'm starting to feel a little exasperated.

  But now I've got her pants off. And I've got her on her stomach, bent over the table and
I'm leaning over her, looking the dragon in the eyes, its tongue still curling suggestively round.

  "I bet you love it, don't you, you dirty little slut." The words are coming out of my mouth without me thinking them. "Yeah, you want it harder?"

  And then it's over and I collapse on top of her. We remain like this for a few seconds – me panting like a dog as she makes a squeaky, whimpering noise. As I get off her she sinks to the floor and, crying, begins to reach slowly for her things – the tiny scraps of clothing she was wearing before. I pull up my trousers and reach for the cash in my pocket.

  "Here," I say to her, throwing a few notes, around fifty quid, down. They flutter around her as she turns and looks up at me. Her face is a mess, all red and blotchy with black streams of mascara running down it. Our eyes meet and I can tell she understands: I am power, I can come here and do whatever I want because I have the fame and the money and she has fuck all.

  What you gonna do about it, little girl? It's sick, I know really, but the cocaine has locked my conscience out of my brain. I turn and walk out of the room and don't look back, slamming the door on her quiet weeping.

  By the time I reach the top of the stairs my conscience is banging on the walls of my brain. I shouldn't have done that, she didn't want it after all, but I can't deal with it and so I do a couple more lines of coke in the toilets and then go and find Krystal.

  "Where've you been all this time? Have you taken something?" Krystal slurs, jealously, accusingly. She can tell I'm high and is well green with envy. She's recovering from a major habit and is now super-righteous about anyone else doing it. Fuck her though, it's not like I do this all the time.

  Another cocktail, or maybe two, and events start to get fragmented: Krystal's contorted face, me and Kelly in a corridor somewhere, a man in a suit holding my arms, a blur of neon lights, Krystal making the car stop so she can puke: just like scenes from a film you can't really remember.

  THREE

  The alarm comes screeching through my pleasant dream: I'm feeding Koi Carp in a small garden pond, watching the flakes flutter down, land gently on the water then be pecked off by the graceful, yet sinister fish. A neat garden, a newly creosoted fence, Dad's sitting on a white plastic chair giving me shrubbery tips, children are playing inside the house … and then the fucking panic of the alarm.

  As soon as I'm conscious the hangover hits me. My brain feels like it has shrunk and is pulling the lining of my skull into a place near the centre of my forehead, it's brutal. And I know I did something stupid last night … that chick, Monique, her make-up stained face. And the money, what the fuck was that about? Damn my coke-fuelled self. I want to go back to sleep and die because I can't deal with the self-disgust and fear that is starting to nag. But no, I tell myself, she won't go to the police. Serge will sort it if she does anyway.

  I force myself to look at the clock by the bed. Shit, in an hour's time I'm supposed to be at the training ground, working my ass off chasing a ball whist the grumpy Italian cunt screams orders. After that there'll be only enough time to wolf down a protein shake and then I've got to be back in central London for a Franco Visconti Jeans shoot. I see my day stretched out in front of me and feel physically sick at the trauma of it all.

  But work is work. I haul myself out of bed and walk, naked, through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I study my reflection in the huge, gold-leaf framed mirror and run my hand through my hair. Despite last night's excesses it feels soft and clean. I stroke the light stubble that's covering my jaw line and turn my face one way and then the other. My skin is smooth and golden, not an imperfection anywhere, the black swirls of my Japanese Warrior tats standing out beautifully. I stretch my arms out and notice the way the muscles in my chest move. My whole body is honed to perfection, as muscled, sleek and powerful as a panther. A chiselled Greek God. I run my hand over the ripples of my chest and try to remember the names of the muscles, the ones the physio uses. I see myself, pressing her down, her tiny, weak body. I hold the subtle weight of my cock in my hands – you always get me into trouble, I think. I don't know if it's the hangover or the guilt, but I can't bring myself to jack one off this morning so I jump straight into the shower.

  Then I'm slathering on some eye de-puffing cream and Vitamin E moisturiser, pulling on a white t-shirt and the FV Jeans that I'm obliged to wear to and from the training ground or wherever else the paps might lurk, and sculpting my hair into a ruffled quiff.

  Krystal is still asleep, dead to the world, her blonde hair over her face and her mouth slightly open. She'll probably be rummaging through my jeans as soon as she wakes up, looking for the leftover coke so I pull the bag out of my pocket. There's hardly any powder left in it. I must have done way more than I thought which kick-starts those paranoia vibes, just what I need. I stuff the bag into my jacket pocket, making a mental note to leave it in the car at training and the photo shoot.

  In the kitchen I turn on the percolator and flick through the morning's papers while I wait for it to spit a shot of reviving caffeine into the tiny cup.

  'Mad rock star's internet suicide' screams The Sun's front page. It's Taylor Jones, the guy Kelly was on about last night. Admittedly, the story is pretty gruesome – the twat went and shot himself in the head in a Paris hotel room and streamed the whole thing live to his website. Sick. The Sun describes how just before the actual suicide 'horrified fans' had listened to a rambling, bizarre speech in which he went on about something to do with Stalin and reality TV. Conspiracy theories all over the internet are suggesting he was involved in some strange religious cult. The traumatised viewers describe it as the 'sickest thing they've ever seen', and the video is currently topping the YouTube chart. Jesus. What is the world is coming to?

  But over the page I'm not surprised to see pictures of myself arriving and leaving last night's party. Thankfully I don't look too wasted, although Krystal looks a mess in one of them. She won't be pleased to see that – they love to print pictures of her looking rough and she hates it. Anyway, it's no big deal to me. These days I can look at photos of myself entering and leaving nightclubs without analysing and stressing over it. I put it down to the anxiety tablets and mood pills which generally make me feel a calm sense of detachment from everything, as if it's someone else in the tabloid photos, the adverts and even the goal replays and occasional pre-match interviews. As the therapist says: "they only read these stories because they admire you"…

  I'm an hour and a half late for training which will earn me a bollicking from the gaffer, guaranteed. Not that me being late is unusual, and not that the bollicking will have any real meaning. I'm the club's biggest star, fact. Di Cotto therefore knows he can't afford to piss me off too much. He's proper eye-balling me when I run out onto the pitch though, a real evil glare. No doubt he's seen the photos of me out last night. I start doing a few warm-up moves and watch the practice game that's already in progress. I'm exceedingly peeved to see Nico is wearing my number and playing up front. He's our recent record signing – some mediocre kid who everyone loves just because he's the son of one of Italy's greatest players. Makes me sick, he's never had to fight for it like I did. My Dad didn't even stick around to play kick-about with me in the park.

  I watch him nutmegging old Savos then hitting the post.

  "Aw, brilliant try Nico," Di Cotto squeals. I think he wishes that the bastard was his son. One of these days I'm going to smash Nico's shins in.

  When I finally do get to play, after the predicted bollicking when the lads break for half time, I'm sloppy and just can't keep the ball.

  At one point Gareth Dobson slides in with a dirty tackle which could have broke my ankle.

  "Fucking hell mate, watch out," I cry.

  "What you gonna do, pretty boy? Sue me?" Gareth snarls back with more venom than normal.

  'No, but my agent, publicist and several CEOs of the mega-brands I endorse probably would,' I want to reply but Gareth has already raced off down the field.

  Then I miss an absol
ute sitter of a goal which in the old days would have led to much dressing room mockery but these days the others hardly speak to me. I put that down to envy and intimidation, and the fact that some of them can hardly string a sentence together in English. Still, by the end of the morning I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself and the coke paranoia and general come-down vibes have set in, big style.

  We're playing Bolton at home this weekend and the word is that Di Cotto is going try out a new formation. I'm getting the impression this means he might play Nico up front, but I'm finding it hard to feel disappointed. It's Mattaus' birthday at Sutra on Friday which is sure to be a banging night so the subs bench on Saturday don't seem too bad an option. The knives are already out for Di Cotto anyway as we've lost our last two matches and drawn the one before those, so I know the crowd will be unforgiving if he fucks up and it results in a painful ass-whipping. Whatever those wankers in the dressing room think of me, they will be screaming my name, cursing Di Cotto for not playing me. The fans still love me. And even if they are drunk, obese and ugly, there is a hell of a lot of them.

  I'm straight out of the training ground as soon as we're done and I'm showered. There's no way I'm sticking round for lunch with these guys and besides, I can't face eating anyway.

  The fashion shoot is tiresome, with a tetchy old queen directing the thing who literally dribbles over me when I have to pose shirtless and oiled. The girl doing my make-up is pretty hot though and is definitely giving me some serious flirty vibes so I contemplate trying to set something up with her but think better of it when I remember that Monique chick's face after we did it. Best to steer clear of random fucks for a while, I think, lest some nasty karma shit comes back to hit me with a kiss-and-tell or an STD.

  By half four, when the shoot is finally wrapping up, I'm totally dying – my head is banging like a bitch and I feel so tired I can hardly speak. I drive home with my man George's Listen without Prejudice on full blast to soothe my hangover, but it has to be said even the legendary geezer himself can't shift the bastard.