The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  I was so good at telling the singing vaginas anecdote that I’d begun to believe I must have been the one who created it. It seemed wrong that it could ever have existed independently of me. The four men began to hee haw and it was obvious they’d be retelling it for years to come, boring everyone to death at their opera societies and golf clubs with sweet Sophie’s tale of heavenly pussy music.

  Now they were all staring at me in a certain way. It’s sadly true that some of my clients are determined to get me to sleep with them, usually when it’s five o’clock in the morning and I’ve taken them back to their hotel after a wild night of partying, or as wild as it can ever get with accountants. Their hands reach out to grab my bum, they tell me how much fun I am, how sexy my laugh is and how they’ll give me a special bonus if…well, you can guess the rest. Above all, they plead with me to help them re-enact my operatic anecdote, and I always give the same reply: that they’ll need years of singing lessons before that could ever happen.

  As if.

  The smile never leaves my face as I repatriate my clients’ roving hands. I’m excellent at my job – well, some of the time – but I’m so fake that if I ever actually did go to bed with any of them my fake orgasms would probably be real. And, if you think about it, that’s one hell of a trick.

  Anyway, having got the reaction I wanted, I started to lay it on thick. I reminded the Wall Streeterati that the largest sexual organ is the brain and they were particularly well hung in this department. How they loved that! As we passed Grape Street, I said it used to be called ‘Gropecunt Lane’ because prostitutes used to congregate there. I mentioned there was a word in Portuguese that meant ‘throw the woman against a wall and fuck her like a lizard.’ I breezily proclaimed that this was the type of wild lovemaking I enjoyed. Chance would be a fine thing! Fortunately, none of them asked me what the Portuguese word actually was. I say fortunately because I didn’t have a clue if there really was such a word. When I first heard of it – from a sleazeball footballer who’d just returned from a match in Lisbon – I didn’t ask either. I tried to look it up in a Portuguese dictionary, but couldn’t find anything that came close. I mentioned it to a Portuguese client once and he laughed so much I thought I’d have to call an ambulance. I hope the word exists; otherwise we’d all be lesser people living in a lesser world. Besides, I can’t believe a dumb Chelsea player could have invented it.

  I told the Wall Streeters that stunning babes would fall at their feet once they were in the nightclub, and I said it so skilfully that I think they believed me, and I half believed it myself. Of course, the reality was that they’d be forking out for ‘professional’ company, unless my ultimate secret weapon – the British Olympic synchronised swimming team – were in the club tonight, in which case it was the clients’ lucky day, and mine too, because the heat was definitely off. Satisfaction well and truly guaranteed.

  Ballum-Rancum really was once one of the most fashionable nightclubs in London. Now the action had moved on, but a faint smell of bygone glories lingered. A certain type of person still came to the club, unable to accept that no one had told them the party was over. Old paparazzi who couldn’t hack it anymore hung around looking for snaps of a has-been who had been in the days when they were still hungry for long-lens scoops. They lowered their cameras when they saw my clients emerging from the limo. I could hear them sighing and I imagined a faint wind blowing through cobwebs. That image entered my head whenever I thought of where my life was heading.

  One of the paparazzi had second thoughts and half-heartedly pointed his camera at me. Now, the first rule for a successful entertainment consultant is that you must know where to stand when you’re having your photograph taken. Actually, what I mean is you must know who not to stand next to. If you stand next to a fat or an ugly person, scientists say you will appear less intelligent, less attractive and less successful. My problem with this is that if I have my photo taken next to a woman more beautiful and thinner than I am then I’m convinced I’ll appear fat and ugly in comparison, and that will make my companion seem less intelligent, less attractive and less successful etc – so we’re not exactly doing each other any favours, are we? I guess that’s why I appear on my own in most of my pictures.

  The veteran paparazzo took the picture. He shrugged, and I shrugged back. Hey ho. I knew the picture would never show up anywhere, but I still wondered how I looked. Had I gone to seed? It was only four years ago that I was a regular in the magazines. Hardly anyone recognised me now even though I looked exactly the same, but I might as well have had a face-lift and a body transplant, or a face transplant and a body-lift, for all the recognition I got. Even on the rare occasions when someone remembered me they always said, ‘Didn’t you used to be somebody?’ I’m only 23, for Christ’s sake.

  As I was about to enter the club with my clients, a smiling guy sprang out of a doorway. He was about my age, wearing a leather box-jacket, and a pork-pie hat. Green felt-tip-pen marks were scrawled on his left cheek. He handed me a badge advertising a band called The Bleak Morts.

  ‘Never heard of them,’ I said.

  ‘They’re hot,’ he replied in a fake Cockney accent. I could tell it was fake because it sounded exactly like a male version of the fake Cockney accent I sometimes used ‘Get in before the crowd,’ he said. ‘They’ve just signed a mega-deal.’

  ‘Where are they playing?’

  ‘Invitation only. When the time’s right, I’ll let you know.’

  I smiled at him because I realised he was a phoney: there was no band, no gig, no mega-deal. He must have known I’d twigged him because he gave me a knowing wink. I contemplated sticking out my tongue in that uniquely seductive way of mine then thought better of it after my earlier disaster. Instead, I took the badge from him, pinned it on my lapel and said I was looking forward to the gig.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Sophie. You?’

  He grinned mischievously. ‘I’m Ligger.’

  I had to laugh at that. ‘You mean you hang around backstage, pretend to be the best friend of stars, and eat and drink all their goodies?’

  ‘Sophie, you know me so well I want to marry you.’ He took my hand and planted a romantic kiss on the back.

  I felt myself blushing. There was something about him I really liked.

  ‘I bet I can make you remember me forever,’ he said. He leaned over and gently tugged one of my earlobes.

  I stared at him, baffled – and quite turned on.

  ‘That’s called an anchor gesture,’ he said. ‘If ever you tug that ear in the future, you’ll automatically remember me. You won’t be able to help yourself. I’m in your life now and there’s nothing you can do about it. Scary, huh?’

  ‘Do you do this with every girl you meet?’

  He smiled. ‘No, you’re the first, and the last. It’s a one-time deal for the girl of my dreams.’ He tipped his hat at me and I was sure a little part of me had just fallen in love. I thought of giving him a hug, but instead I snatched his hat and put it on.

  ‘Well, that’s my anchor gesture,’ I said and sauntered off with my new headgear.

  Inside the club, the staff were as professional as ever and, as I signed in my clients, we all nodded at each other in that comradely way we’d cultivated over many months. After all, we were all in the same game: faking away like there was no fake tomorrow, pretending our clientele were ice-cool in Alex, or something like that. We were so phoney we thought making phone calls was the ultimate phoniness, just because the words sounded the same. The girls were all dressed in Christina Aguilera leather chaps and tiny knickers à la her legendary Dirrty video. As for the guys, they were Latino hot in tight Mariachi outfits.

  The club had four floors: a wine and champagne bar at the top, a spirits, cocktails and beer bar in the basement and two dance floors in between, one for ‘classic’ tunes and the other for contemporary stuff. I always took clients to the classic floor since most apparently believed time stoppe
d, inexplicably, around 1981.

  As we reached the dance floor, I was overjoyed to see the Olympic synchronised swimmers in the centre of the action, performing a dry-land version of one of their most spectacular routines to Abba’s Dancing Queen. They were all wearing low-slung hipster jeans, showing off their sparkling gold thongs, which matched their twinkly bikini tops. Of course, things being the way they were, they were not real Olympians, had never been near a synchronised swimming event and, quite possibly, had never even been in a swimming pool.

  A year ago, Cathy, their leader, was bemoaning with her three friends why they could never attract wealthy men who would treat them to the finer things in life. The problem, she realised, was that they had no unique selling point. The remedy, naturally, was to fake one. Perhaps synchronised swimming wasn’t the most logical choice but it seemed to tune into something deep in the male psyche. Men, somehow, couldn’t resist the allure of synchronised swimmers. Perhaps they imagined four naked, beautiful girls with gorgeously toned and tuned bodies, performing elaborate synchronised sexual manoeuvres. And what better than Olympic competitors? The biggest lies are so much more believable than the small truths. I think Hitler said that.

  The girls swept their hair away from their faces and tied it back in ponytails, vaguely making them look as though they were wearing swimming caps, and somehow that was sufficient for them to look the part. So, rich men were now falling over themselves to seduce them.

  Cathy and her friends weren’t strikingly beautiful; their bodies were shapely but not exactly athletic; their personalities were nothing remarkable. But, in the fake world, who was looking, and who cared? In the fake world, they were the most desirable of women because they were members of the British Olympic synchronised swimming team. They had learned that the only way to become who you want to be is to fake it. Personally, I think Cary Grant summed it up best when he said: I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be until finally I became that person. Or he became me.

  Recognising a kindred spirit, I befriended Cathy and arranged to steer a constant supply of my rich clients in her direction. Now, I pointed my Wall Streeters her way, knowing everything was going to be fine. I could relax.

  Yeah, right.

  Chapter 3: Conning the Conmen

  Glancing up, I saw Teri Flint and Tamsin Creswell heading towards me across the dance floor. My direct competitors, they were trying to squeeze me out of the entertainment-consultancy business, but I was determined not to let those peroxide bitches beat me. I stared at their spooky, Botox-assisted faces with their frozen smiles that looked as though they’d been transplanted from the undead, and their overdone red lipstick from the Coco the Clown school of make-up, and tried to find my most nonchalant expression.

  ‘Hi, Sophie,’ they said, in that completely phoney way of theirs. They were wearing identical designer dresses – silver creations that hung in an odd, lifeless way.

  ‘Hi, Teri and Tamsin,’ I answered with equal phoniness.

  ‘Hey, nice coat,’ Teri said. ‘Has the season at Butlins ended now?’

  They did a twirl for me, revealing that their dresses were backless and plunged all the way down to their bums; in fact, several inches lower. Neither of them was wearing even a hint of underwear. Jesus, they must have been at least 29. Mutton, lamb etc.

  ‘Still pulling that dreadful synchronised swimming scam?’ Teri said.

  ‘We don’t see you around too much, these days,’ Tamsin chimed in. ‘Business not so good?’

  ‘At least I can still afford knickers.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Tamsin retorted. ‘White lace with stretch. Three for a tenner from M&S.’

  Damn. I couldn’t believe I’d had to stop shopping at Agent Provocateur as part of a feeble economy drive.

  ‘Look what I picked up.’ Teri brandished a copy of the brochure that I gave to potential clients. ‘Do people actually swallow this?’ She flicked to the introduction and started reading my blurb aloud in a mocking, squeaky voice:

  ‘Hi, I’m Sophie of Beauté du Diable and I’m here to make sure you have the best time while you’re on vacation here in sensational London. I’m the princess of pleasure, the queen of quality, the empress of ecstasy. I’ll arrange all your fun for you; open those secret doors that only the connected can access. In no time at all, you’ll be in the centre of the hottest action, surrounded by the rich and famous, rubbing shoulders with the brightest stars. My many satisfied clients know exactly what I offer – the most unforgettable night of your life.

  ‘Don’t worry about the party list – with me by your side, you’re already on it.’

  ‘The princess of pleasure,’ Teri repeated with a witchy cackle.

  ‘Who in their right mind calls their company Beauté du Diable?’ Tamsin said. ‘I don’t even know what that means.’

  ‘Devil’s Beauty, actually.’

  ‘Black magic orgies, right? Is that your secret ingredient?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ I resisted the temptation to stick my tongue out at them.

  They smirked, started doing synchronised swimming gestures with their hands and went away giggling, breast-stroking their way through the throng of dancers.

  A few minutes later, my night had managed to get worse. A fat guy with a small head, red bulging eyes and creepy little chalk-white hands cornered me.

  ‘Hey, Sophie York,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’ I replied. He stared at me too long, so I switched on my bullshit detector.

  ‘I’m, uh, an old acquaintance.’

  ‘Sure you are.’ I tried to work out his angle. A conman? A stalker? Did almost-forgotten C-listers get them?

  There was a curiously pained looked in his eyes, as though I’d offended him. ‘OK, I’ll come clean. I’m a journalist.’ He didn’t look anything like a journalist, but what did they look like anyway? Apart from the rancid black hearts, obviously. ‘I’m doing a piece on…’

  ‘Let me guess – the London party scene.’ Six months ago, I’d been interviewed for an article for the lifestyle section of The Sunday Times. The article was called, ‘Extreme Pleasure: the Search for the Perfect High. (Adventures of modern city girls seeking their personal Xanadu.)’ I said to the journalist that everyone I knew was dissatisfied because they were certain others were having more fun. My ‘solution’ was to try as many exotic experiences as possible. Then at least you could feel you hadn’t missed out on anything. Trouble was, missing out was precisely what I was good at these days.

  ‘Nothing to do with that,’ the journo replied. ‘It’s your appearance on Monarch of the Jungle.’

  Shit.

  Everyone has done something they regret. For some, their regret is epic. I was invited onto the show because…well, I liked to call it a long story, but it was actually rather short – I shagged a boxer the night before his title fight, and when he proceeded to lose before the bell rang for the end of the first round, he had the cheek to blame me: the meaningless, rubbish bonk that cost me the heavyweight title, as he later describe it. So, instant infamy for Sophie. Anyway, I was too keen on the alcohol lavished on us by the producers and I stripped off and did a stupid disco dance in the middle of the jungle on a live broadcast. Being surrounded by long-tailed monkeys pulling down my skimpy shorts as I gyrated like a Bratz Doll on speed ensured I was tabloid front-page news the next day and for many days after. It was a slow news period, obviously. Ex-public-schoolgirl discovers where the monkeys hid their nuts, one caption read, rather cryptically.

  ‘I don’t like talking about that,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. A lot of people didn’t know why you were on the show in the first place. I mean, what had you ever done? If I remember right, you got expelled from Roedean, screwed some loser-man boxer and showed up at lots of parties. I don’t think that even qualified you as F-list.’

  ‘For your information, Leroy fought for the WBC world heavyweight title.’

  ‘Yeah, but he was knocked out in the firs
t round and vanished without trace. You dropped him like a brick – or is that prick? – straight afterwards, didn’t you?’

  ‘Leroy and I had a difference of…’ I stared at this obnoxious little man. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d co-operate. You know what happens otherwise.’

  In my boots, I was taller than he was, so I tried to look down on him as much as I could. ‘You people are scum. I don’t know how you can live with yourselves.’

  ‘Look who’s talking. All you do is take gullible bankers for a ride. With the prices you’re charging, you’d think you’d be offering something a lot classier than this dive. It was fashionable two years ago, but nowadays…’

  ‘Screw you.’ I was confident that no one had ever nicknamed this guy Funderella, and just as certain that nobody had hugged and kissed him after joyously announcing that he provided London’s best full slipper service after midnight. OK, I didn’t know what that meant exactly when a client said it to me, but I appreciated the thought anyway (I think!).

  He had a copy of my brochure and started waving it in the air. I was a parasite, he said, a rip-off artist, a snake-oil saleswoman, a 24-carat freeloading fraud.

  I knew what this bastard was really up to. He was doing one of those mocking articles about what happened to such and such non-entity after their brief spell in the spotlight ended. What sad, pathetic life did they fall into?

  ‘I’m not playing your dumb game. Print whatever you like.’

  Minutes later, I was sitting in the centre cubicle of the big loos in the foyer, having an imaginary cigarette. I couldn’t stand actual cigarettes, and, hey, they were banned in public places now anyway, but I found that holding two fingers in front of my mouth as if I were smoking was oddly relaxing.