The Vanity Game Page 7

  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.

  TWELVE

  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 near
est 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.

  I pull on tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and head downstairs where I find Olga in the kitchen, folding her apron up.

  "I finish now, so I see you next week," she says flatly when she notices me in the doorway.

  "Cool, and thanks a lot," I tell her, flashing a smile, but I don't get one back. Stroppy old cow. I walk to the front door with her and then listen to her car engine fading as she drives away, towards the scumbag paps. I can't help smiling when I think about her seeing her picture in the papers tomorrow. How will she react? It'll go straight to her head like it does every other poor cunt. It's more addictive than crack, fame is, and it'll make her think about herself, see herself through other people's eyes, realise all her bad points. Hell, she'll be whoring herself out on some D-list celebrity reality TV show within weeks. The thought of that makes me laugh, for the first time I can remember in a while.

  Back in the kitchen, I turn the coffee machine on and look around me. Every surface glistens with cleanliness. It's hard to imagine that just a few days ago she was lying there in a pool of blood. But fuck, I don't even want to think about that now, so I try to think again about Olga in the Big Brother house with a load of has-been celebs. I'm just throwing the empty milk carton into the bin when something in there catches my eye. First thing I think: Olga's not emptied it, which is weird, I mean, unheard of. So maybe I take a longer look at the rubbish than normal and that's why I notice the white and blue and darkened rusty brown thing. My heart lurches – it's a dirty jay-cloth, crusty with dried up blood. I slam the bin shut. Where the fuck has it come from? She must have found it when she was cleaning. One of us must have left it out somewhere when we were tidying up the mess. Fuck. I try to run through the events of that night. We'd looked over everything before we left, hadn't we? I was so tired though. Oh shit, the Old Bill have been in the house, I mean, what if they saw it? But surely that Dante twat would have taken it, along with the diary. But Olga has seen it. She must have picked it up and put it in the bin, and I bet she knew it was blood. My heart's beating like mad. I slowly open the bin again, hoping that I'm imagining it, but no, there it is, lying there on top of a protein-shake packet and an empty Xanax box. I need to do something about it. It takes some courage, but I manage to pick up the thing with the tips of my fingers, holding it as far away from myself as possible. I carry it like this through to the living room and then drop it into the fireplace, just like we did with my clothes and stuff that night. I hold a match to it but for some reason the bastard won't light, it just catches a little then fizzles out. I go back into the kitchen and grab a newspaper, rip the pages from it, screw them up into balls, and arrange them round the cloth. They soon catch fire and to my relief I see a tiny hedge of fire begin to eat away at the cloth and it soon turns into a blaze. The rusty smell of blood fills my nostrils for a second, making me want to puke again, but then it's gone and all I smell is burning paper. I prod the fire with the poker and a bit of paper floats up – and I swear I see my name just before the flames come up and take it.

  THIRTEEN

  I feel cold on the inside and pretty revolting on the outside as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A black shirt, Ralph Lauren, a rebellious non-Franco Visconti pair of jeans (plain old Levi's in fact), hair styled in a messy do, a change from the trademark quiff. But my skin looks pasty and there are grey bags under my eyes that no amount of gel will get rid of. Though I don't want to be seen in public looking like this, the need to get out of this empty house is stronger than anything. I down the last of my Corona (the booze ain't going down well I have to say) and slap my cheeks to try to give my face a bit of colour. I feel nervous, my stomach won't settle. What will they think about me going out on the lash when I'm supposed to be sad about my missing girlfriend? Ah crap, what do I care what they think? I care quite a lot if I'm honest with myself. The car will be here in five and now I don't want to go, can't face the thought of seeing people. It's already 11pm and I just want to go to bed, but it's too late to cancel the car and when it arrives I reluctantly climb in and tell the driver to head for Sutra.

  They're still camped out on the lane as the car passes through the gates. The Japanese news van has gone but now I notice a couple of hacks who stand back from the general rabble as they press their lenses against the car windows, and take photos of the scrum around the car itself. They must be the 'serious' hacks who like to come and take pictures of celebrities being hassled by the general scum and make bitchy comments on the fickle nature of fame and stuff. They think they're better than the rest, but they ain't no more dignified at all.

  None of them try to follow the car and you can bet money they've got their mates waiting at the other end of the journey. It's guaranteed that word will have got round that Mattaus Jonze is having a party at Sutra tonight and it's well known that I'm good mates with Mattaus.

  Sutra is a pretty cool bar in Notting Hill, a regular stop on the paps' night prowl as you usually find drunken models stumbling out of there at about 4am.

  As we're pulling up outside it I can see there's a big crowd of them. They're photographing a chick in a very short skirt who's standing with her hand on her hip smiling in one direction, then the next, to ensure all of the bastards get a shot of her beautiful face. I don't recognise her. I guess she must be new to the whole thing, raw meat. She don't have that jaded look about her yet. As my car stops though and I'm getting out, I hear someone shout "it's him!" and the whole mass turn and point their black eyes at my face. I hold my hands up to shield myself from the dazzling light of the flash bulbs but between my fingers I catch sight of the posing girl, who's now just standing there, giving me the evils because they're all looking at me now. Have them back, little girl, I really don't want them.

  "Beaumont, what are you doing out on the lash at a time like this?"

  "Look over here cunt-face!"

  "Did you kill her, Beaumont?"

  I try not to listen as the club's bouncers fight their way to me through the mob and drag me inside. I'm shaking as I stand there in the lobby, getting used to the dim red lighting. What's wrong with me? I can handle them, real
ly, they were no worse than normal. Maybe it's just the hangover, and a little bit of paranoia left over from the coke binge last night, aggravated by the Olga issue.

  "Hello, Mr. Alexander, welcome to Sutra," I hear a husky, sexy voice telling me.

  It's the hostess, giving me a totally 'I'd love to fuck you' smile. In this red lighting it's hard to see if she's hot or not, but I'm not really in the mood to even consider it, which is pretty brutal.

  She hands me a small black velvet bag. Inside is a packet of condoms, some cheap-looking shades with thick pink frames, a drum'n'bass CD and a piece of cake wrapped in a pink napkin. A Mattaus-style party bag. The cake is probably laced with LSD or something. He likes to try to bring out-of-vogue drugs back into fashion.

  I can hear the thud-thud-thud of the bass line in the room above me. Suddenly lying in bed, at home, on my own, seems a much better option, I'm so weary. But fuck it, I'm here now, so I trudge up the narrow staircase towards the main room of the bar. Just as I get to the door, two chicks come through it. They're both giggling, obviously tipsy, but when they see me, pressed against the wall to let them pass, they stop laughing and just stare, and I swear I can see fear in their eyes. No one says anything, they carry on walking in silence and then start whispering as they get to the bottom of the steps. As I walk through the door and into the bar, it's like everyone stops what they're doing and stares, or rather, stares but pretends not to, looking at me from the corners of their eyes. It's like I can actually feel all those eyes on me. Don't the fuckers have anything better to do? It's busy in here and I clock a few familiar faces, people you see hanging out on the scene week-in week-out but don't speak to. All of them – supermodels, TV presenters, DJs, athletes – taking sneaky looks at me like I'm the first famous person they've ever seen. Then I'm almost at the bar, preparing to order a Mojito even though I swore I wasn't going to drink much, when I feel a slap on my back, and turn to find Mattaus grinning at me like a lunatic.