The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  ‘NexS,’ Sam said. ‘It’s been on the news.’ He explained the whole story; what had happened in the Hexenhaus bar, the mansion in Green Park, the students’ honour parade, the suicide of Lawrence Maybury, the reference to NexS.

  Mencken nodded. ‘Small world, huh?’

  ‘What’s the plan now?’ Jez asked.

  Mencken turned to me. ‘Any ideas, Sophie? You’re the one with the local knowledge.’

  ‘I’ve never hung out with any Oxford students,’ I admitted.

  ‘I need to think about this,’ Mencken said. Luckily, he didn’t seem too bothered that I couldn’t help. ‘I have some business meetings today, but let’s hook up tonight and decide how to play this.’

  ‘What about us?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Sophie has something lined up for you,’ Mencken replied.

  ‘It will be good to see you guys in top hats and tails,’ I declared. I found myself easily faking a smile, even though I was still shaken up about Lawrence Maybury. I tried not to worry too much at how I was such an effortless fraud.

  The boys looked at each other. ‘Top hats and tails?’

  ‘This had better be good,’ Sam said threateningly.

  Chapter 12: The Royal Enclosure

  My choice for the day’s main event wasn’t exactly original, but since Sam and Jez liked a bet I was sure they’d love a trip to a horseracing event. Not just any old horses – we were on our way to Royal Ascot to watch the Gold Cup. Mencken said he wished he could come too, but couldn’t get out of his business meetings.

  We left before noon, travelling in a fabulous old car: a 1929 yellow and black Franklin convertible coupe with gleaming nickel fittings. Gary from the Hexenhaus bar had organised the car – through a friend of a friend – and it came with a chauffeur in a bottle-green uniform. I mentioned to Sam and Jez that The Great Gatsby was my favourite American novel and Gatsby drove a swanky car just like this.

  ‘I know all about it,’ Sam commented gruffly.

  The idea of Sam reading The Great Gatsby seemed far-fetched. I guessed he’d seen the old movie starring Robert Redford.

  Sam sat in the front with the driver while Jez and I made ourselves comfortable in the back. I was looking forward to a glamorous occasion, especially since I had managed to swing privileged access to Ascot’s Royal Enclosure. That meant I had to persuade Sam and Jez to fall in line with the strict dress code, hence the request that they wear top hat and tails. Surprisingly, once they knew what it was for they gave me no trouble and were now sitting in smart grey morning suits, hired for the day. With their elegant gold waistcoats, gold ties, crisp white shirts and yellow carnations in their buttonholes, I think even they were impressed by how classy they looked. Of course, they couldn’t resist a little touch of Hollywood, so they were both sporting designer wrap-around shades in a garish metallic orange. They didn’t blend in with the refined look of their outfits, but I didn’t object.

  As for me, I was the lady in red: red stilettos, a gorgeous red fishtail dress and a beautiful wide-brimmed red hat like the sort of thing Audrey Hepburn wore in My Fair Lady. Jez said I was looking ‘mighty fine’, but it was Sam I wanted the compliments from and I didn’t get any.

  When we reached the racecourse, Sam and Jez soon attracted attention. I think the top hats and sci-fi shades combination looked decidedly cranky, but at least it made it difficult for anyone to recognise them.

  The actors were clearly impressed by the parade of gleaming Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and assorted limousines lined up on the lush turf. Lords and Ladies were wining and dining from luxury wicker hampers.

  Sam and Jez sucked in the spectacle – the crazy haute couture hats and glam outfits, the eccentric aristocrats with their braying voices, the hordes of ordinary punters, the paparazzi stalking suitable prey. Luckily, everyone’s attention was focused on a cackling of WAGs, tastelessly flaunting their fake breasts, garish hats and limitless bling. You have to hand it to the WAGs – even by my standards they’re supremely vulgar. They make everyone else feel classy.

  A woman pushed a pram past Sam and one of its wheels collided with his shoe. He gave the woman a furious look and I thought he was going to shout at her, but he managed to control himself.

  ‘Catch a baby by the toe and when it squeals don’t let it go,’ he said in an odd tone.

  He was one weird bloke. Avoiding a discussion of his baby phobia, I glanced at my watch. Almost 2 pm. I explained that it was the custom for the Queen and other members of the royal family to parade in an open carriage along the racecourse to signal the start of the day’s competition.

  The boys were unimpressed. ‘I hate royalty,’ Sam snarled. ‘Who the fuck do these people think they are?’ He prodded me in the tummy. ‘You English folks can bow and grovel to them all you like, but they can kiss my ass.’

  An explosion of clapping signalled the Queen’s arrival, but after what Sam had just said, I thought it smart to lead Jez and him in the opposite direction.

  ‘No, let’s watch the old crone,’ Sam said.

  The royal procession entered through Ascot’s golden gates and made its way along the course. There were four open-topped black carriages interspersed with a column of outriders in magnificent red tunics, seated on white horses. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were in the first carriage while assorted hangers-on rode in the others. Shining, polished attendants with glittering gold braid on their red uniforms sat on the tailgates of the carriages.

  The Queen wore her customary hideous outfit, reflecting the dress sense of a granny losing her wits and a bag lady who’d just wet herself. It always amused me that people would actually bet on what colour of hat she was wearing for the procession. This year it was an awful indeterminate colour and a few people behind me cheered when it was eventually officially confirmed as white for the purposes of the bet.

  The national anthem struck up as the procession neared the winners’ enclosure, en route to the royal box. Everyone took off their hats – except Sam and Jez who turned their backs. For a second, I thought they were going to drop their trousers and moon, but thankfully they spared me that.

  With that ordeal out of the way, we made our way to the Royal Enclosure and navigated our way past the bowler-hatted gatemen without too much difficulty, though they stared disapprovingly at the boys’ shades and made sure they hadn’t broken the rule forbidding brown shoes.

  Inside, hordes of men in morning suits, with binoculars slung round their necks, jostled past us to get the best vantage points to watch the horses crossing the nearby finishing line. Pushing through them, we went to the catering area. I was amazed that so many women were wearing miniskirts and showing off bare shoulders. For some reason, the traditional dress code seemed to have been suspended today. There were plunging necklines galore, exposed belly buttons and bare legs way past the modesty level of former years.

  Sam and Jez’s heads swivelled around as they stared at micro-minis, slip-dresses, lace-trimmed camisoles and an abundance of assorted corsetry. It was a fashion spotter’s paradise. I suddenly felt boring amongst the acres of naked flesh.

  After the skin fest, Sam and Jez concentrated on their stomachs and were soon enjoying strawberries and cream, washed down by champagne. I stuck with sparkling water. Twice before, I’d thrown up in the Royal Enclosure after getting wrecked on champagne within hours of arriving at the course.

  The boys seemed fascinated by the gestures and signals of the tic-tac men and Sam announced that he and Jez intended to make £1000 bets on each race. Their way of choosing a horse would be simple. They’d approach the nearest beautiful woman, but only if she were wearing a ridiculous hat, and ask her, in their most ludicrous version of a Cockney accent, what she fancied in the next race.

  I was happy enough with the way things were going. I just wished Sam would pull himself out of his sour mood when he was with me. While Jez chatted freely, I hardly got a word out of him.

  After the third race, Jez disappeared. I said to Sam that
I should go and look for him, but he told me not to bother. A few minutes of self-conscious silence passed until I decided I wouldn’t let the strained atmosphere between us continue any longer.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Sam?’ I said, taking his arm in mine. ‘We’re having a nice afternoon, aren’t we?’

  Sam sighed. ‘It’s been a long time since anything juiced me up. That guy with the cakes last night…that was the first time I’ve been intrigued for years. Then he shows up dead this morning.’ He gazed past me. ‘You know, I kind of relate to that note he left. Life isn’t about how many breaths you take but how many moments that take your breath away.’

  I stared at him. Mencken had said that exact same thing.

  ‘I’ve not had moments like that lately,’ Sam went on. ‘I need some or I’ll go crazy.’

  It sounded as though he’d burned out his pleasure circuits. He and Jez were terminally bored as far as I could make out. The price of having everything, I guess.

  There was a rippling movement in the crowd as though lots of people were moving at once, and some people began to snigger. Next thing, everyone was laughing. Everyone. The Queen, too, for all I knew. People were applauding and cheering. There were even some wolf whistles. Jez was walking through the crowd with a sandwich board round his neck. The board said: ‘Hunk, fabulously wealthy, GSOH, seeks hot babe. First name must begin with Y.’

  I nudged Sam. He was half-grinning, half-scowling.

  ‘So when did you start playing Alphabet Love?’ I asked.

  ‘You heard about the punch-up at the MTV awards?’

  I smiled. ‘Yeah, I saw it on cable. The story I heard was that a third party intervened and managed to patch things up.’

  Sam nodded. ‘The third party was Mencken. He’s the only guy who can smooth things between Jez and me. He told us Alphabet Love would prove which of us was the head honcho. We shook hands on it and here we are.’ He took off his top hat and scratched the side of his head as he watched numerous women bustling around Jez. ‘That jerk will never beat me.’

  ‘What’s the prize? Are you allowed to say?’

  ‘Sure. It’s a week at the Burj Al Arab seven-star hotel in Dubai.’

  I knew the place he was talking about – the spectacular hotel that looked like a silver sail set in the surf. It had an underwater restaurant reachable only by submarine. Nice.

  The prize had a part two, Sam explained – the loser had to spend a week in a one-star motel in Cleveland, Ohio, with someone nominated by the winner. One could only imagine the dreadfulness of the guest likely to be chosen.

  ‘How do you prove who you’ve slept with?’ I asked out of curiosity.

  Sam said that each woman had to pose for a picture holding that day’s newspaper to prove the date. She was required to write her name clearly on the bottom of the photo, accompanied by a phone number for verification in case of doubt. Cheating – particularly the use of a false name – would result in instant disqualification and the automatic loss of the bet. Sometimes, a woman didn’t play ball and that liaison had to be written off.

  ‘The game’s easy most of the time,’ Sam said, ‘but there are some crappy letters. Q was sticky. I got lucky when I met Quira from Kenya. Xanthy was my X and Yasmine my Y.’

  He pointed towards Jez. ‘If Jez gets his Y it’s going to be a photo finish. First one to nail a Z wins all.’

  Part of me felt depressed that Sophie, ungratefully, refused to begin with a Z, while another part was outraged by how meaningless sex would be if all that mattered was the initial of your first name. What was wrong with men?

  ‘Got to hand it to Jez, I suppose,’ Sam said. ‘He’s going down fighting.’

  The glamorous women clustered around Jez were giggling, flirting and pawing at him. A couple handed him notes.

  ‘Winning Alphabet Love means a lot to Jez, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Did no one ever tell you? – second is the first of the losers,’ Sam responded sharply. ‘As we say in America, “Winning isn’t the important thing, it’s the only thing.”’

  There was another commotion and we turned to see what was going on. A gang of young men and women were rudely pushing through the crowd, ostentatiously sipping pink champagne as they went. The men wore old-fashioned grey morning suits and absurdly high stovepipe top hats; as for the women, they were dressed in beautiful rose-pink dresses and matching wide-brimmed hats. Crazily, all of their faces were covered with solid white make-up so that the women looked like Geisha girls and the men mime artists. Or maybe they were supposed to resemble ghosts. Everyone was staring at them and whispering.

  Sam nudged me. ‘Hey, aren’t they…’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling.’

  I didn’t need any feeling. One of the men had removed his hat – it was the guy with the blond Elvis quiff. This was getting ridiculous. The group passed close to us. Before I could react, Elvis pushed into Sam before swiftly moving away. Sam started patting his pockets.

  ‘Nothing’s missing,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve seen that guy before. Sin 6 wasn’t it?’

  I nodded. I told him that the man had also been at The Moulin Rouge nightclub and that I’d seen him last night at the mansion.

  ‘You’re saying he’s following us?’

  ‘Not just him: the whole lot of them.’ I noticed something sticking out of Sam’s breast pocket. Reaching across, I snatched it out. It was a glossy black card stamped with a holographic skull, exactly like the one from the lap-dancing club. As I passed it to Sam, my hand trembled.

  It said, ‘The Millionaires’ Death Club has accepted your application to join.’

  Chapter 13: Sexual Politics

  On the journey back to London, Sam sat beside me in the back of the car, staring into space. He refused to talk about the skull card, but he was obviously rattled. We’d both seen Elvis bumping into him and that must have been when the card was planted. But Elvis’s whole gang were in on it, weren’t they? They were the Millionaires’ Death Club.

  As for Jez, he’d vanished and I couldn’t reach him on his mobile. Sam told me to leave a message saying we were leaving and that he’d have to make his own way back.

  As we reached the outskirts of London, Sam said, ‘What if that guy Lawrence Maybury didn’t commit suicide?’

  ‘What do you mean? The police didn’t mention any suspicious circumstances. There was a note.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Something’s going on. Those students...’

  ‘Like the Manson family, huh?’ I wasn’t joking. I knew next to nothing about them, yet they spooked me. ‘Should we tell the police about that skull card?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I’ll handle it.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s some kind of death threat?’

  ‘They’re rich students. How could they be a threat?’ The more he talked, the less worried he seemed. ‘It’s a stunt,’ he said. ‘A bad joke, that’s all.’

  I wondered if I should tell him about the contract John Adams mentioned, but it seemed too freaky. ‘Where do you think Jez went?’

  ‘Screwing,’ Sam retorted. ‘He’s found a Y.’

  I laughed and that set Sam off. Maybe it was a release of tension, I don’t know, but we just kept laughing. It went on for a good couple of minutes, tears-to-the-eyes stuff. When we were done, Sam bent forward, as if he were about to throw up.

  ‘I was laughing,’ he said, ‘really laughing.’ He sounded amazed. ‘I’d love to meet people who didn’t care who I was.’ There was such a sad note in his voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind if they hated me. At least it would be real.’

  ‘You can be yourself with me. I hope you know that.’

  He gave me a smile and I was thrilled by just how warm it was.

  ‘Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t work him out, but one thing I knew was here was an invitation I didn’t have to think twice about.

  ‘I�
��d love to.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see you at eight.’

  We spent the rest of the time talking about my business. I showed him my brochure, praying he wouldn’t be as contemptuous of it as Teri, Tamsin and Tommy Miller. He grabbed it, glanced at it for a few seconds then took out a pen. He went to the contents page and started scribbling. Thrusting it back at me, he chuckled. Next to every item, he’d written, alternately, ‘Horseshit’; ‘Bullshit’. At the bottom of the page it said, ‘You gotta have more than this, Limey chick.’

  But I didn’t. I needed a bigger vision, better events, better clients, better everything. Yet I started giggling and, crazily, it felt great.

  Soon we were back in London and in all the hectic bustle of the capital my worries about the Millionaires’ Death Club seemed idiotic.

  As he got out of the car, Sam leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  Reflexively, I put my hand up to where his lips had touched. I was dumbstruck for a moment. I realised I was grinning like a lunatic.

  *****

  That evening, I put on my most expensive dress – a champagne-lace, floor-length gown. I’d gone heavy on the make-up and thought I was looking particularly glam. In the taxi on the way to the Sargasso, I wondered what sort of mood Sam would be in. I hoped Mencken and Jez were elsewhere so that I could be alone with him.

  Reaching the hotel, I encountered a pack of paparazzi. Doormen were struggling to hold them back. Stepping forward, I was shocked to find myself the centre of attention with photographers wildly snapping my picture.

  People were shouting things at me but I ignored them. The doormen had a list of approved names and said there was a private party going on. I relaxed, thinking that was why the paparazzi were here. Apart from those attending the party, only hotel residents, and people invited by them, were allowed in. I was impressed to see my name near the top of the list. Well done, Sam.

  Inside, I took a deep breath. Lots of people were hanging around in reception and I wondered who was having the party. I headed for the restaurant and, as I walked in, I was greeted by the maitre’d who directed me to a quiet corner table. Annoyingly, Jez had resurfaced and was sitting there with Sam. He was laughing and brandishing some piece of paper in Sam’s face.