The Millionaires' Death Club Page 21

  ‘Already taken care of.’ He explained that he’d hired the Aggiornamento – the castle hotel by the lake where we’d had our picnic. A costume supplier was providing the period outfits while the hotel would take care of the food and drink. There would be music too – he’d hired a small orchestra to play Vivaldi throughout the evening. As a final touch, a gondola would patrol the castle’s moat, full of water diverted from the lake, allowing guests to go for a romantic trip round the castle.

  I was impressed he’d done so much work in such a short time, and all without a PA, manager or agent.

  *****

  We arrived at the Aggiornamento at 7.30 pm and were met by an excited manager who immediately requested an autograph from Sam for his daughter. All of the staff were buzzing. The orchestra had already arrived, set up their equipment on the stage in the ballroom and were busy now tuning their instruments.

  The ballroom had wonderful oak panelling, several glittering crystal chandeliers, and a red carpet fit for royalty. A throne was prominently positioned at the side of the ballroom. No doubt Sam wanted to give Zara a taste of her own medicine, but I feared he’d be the one swallowing it.

  We went outside and listened to the gondolier practising his scales. It was an ideal evening for punting – sunny and cloudless – but I felt queasy. Sam was planning a moonlit gondola ride with the witch, wasn’t he? They’d travel round the moat, under the castle’s great stone battlements, and Sam would probably imagine himself as a noble knight about to tremulously receive his beloved Lady’s favour.

  ‘Perfect,’ Sam said, clapping his hands.

  His plan was that Zara and the others would arrive for a champagne reception. A feast would be served at 9 o’clock, then there would be a masked ball, and guests could pop out at any time for a gondola trip.

  The costume I’d chosen for the evening was a Venetian courtesan’s, which managed to make my boobs look surprisingly voluptuous. I don’t know what Casanova looked like but I could well believe it was something like Sam. In his rakish cavalier hat and blue satin coat with white frills, he was simply mind-blowing.

  When he glanced repeatedly at the clock, I asked him exactly what time the Top Table had said they would be here.

  ‘Maybe traffic’s bad,’ he said.

  Half an hour later, still nothing.

  ‘Plenty of time.’ Sam forced his mouth into a rigid smile.

  The manager spoke to him and I overheard something about the chef being worried about the food.

  ‘Everything’s paid for,’ Sam snapped.

  Several times he grabbed his mobile phone and punched in a number.

  ‘Any luck?’ I asked.

  ‘No answer. I’ve left messages.’

  Nine o’clock came. Nothing. No sign of anyone, apart from some hotel guests wandering in and out and staring curiously at everything. At least the orchestra was playing, the music vaguely drowning out the misery.

  I went outside and gazed at the entrance to the park, searching for any sign of the Top Table. I shouldn’t have bothered. I imagined them in the mansion laughing themselves hoarse at the increasingly pathetic messages being left by Sam.

  Back inside, Sam was slumped on his throne, gazing at the orchestra, a glass of red wine dangling precariously in his hand. I’d never seen anyone so dejected, a king without a kingdom. I don’t think the waiters and bar staff could believe what they were seeing. The gossipometer was off the scale, the whispering like the sound of locusts.

  I went over and held Sam’s hand. He seemed close to tears.

  ‘She gave her word,’ he said. ‘She fucked me right up the ass.’ He groaned. ‘Why does she hate me so much?’

  ‘We can turn this around, Sam.’ A crazy idea had come to me. It was nuts, but I had to try. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  I hurried over to the manager and told him what I intended to do. He was reluctant, but I think he felt he owed Sam a last chance. I told him to have the chef serve the feast in thirty minutes and to get the bar ready for business. Then I drove to the largest pub I could find nearby. Unfortunately, it was slap-bang in the middle of a grim housing estate.

  The Dog’s Bollocks looked like…well, it wasn’t where ladies went, shall we say. I pushed open the door and everyone at the bar turned round. I expected to hear pigs squeaking and see a retarded kid in the corner expertly playing a beaten-up banjo.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that the posh cow off that dumb TV show?’ someone muttered.

  ‘What the hell kind of dress is that?’ another voice said.

  I ignored the abuse and tried to maintain my dignity despite being dressed as an eighteenth century prostitute. ‘Listen, everyone, spread the word,’ I said. ‘There’s a fancy-dress party at the Aggiornamento. Free food, free bar, free costumes. And a superstar will be there. I can’t tell you his name. It’s a surprise.’ I don’t know why I said that last bit. It sounded good, I guess.

  ‘Will we be on telly?’ a shaven-headed man shouted from the pool table.

  His friend slammed down his cue. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s doing.’

  ‘Make sure you bring your girlfriends,’ I shouted as I left the pub, praying for some kind of civilising influence.

  I drove back to the Aggiornamento and asked the manager to let in anyone who turned up. I guaranteed that Sam and I would cover all expenses, including the bar bill that was likely to be huge. The manager hesitantly agreed.

  When I went inside the hall, the waiters were busy laying food on the tables that had been set earlier for the Top Table. Sam was still on his throne. He had a crazed look in his eye as he listened to another depressing classical piece and I thought he was on the verge of vomiting. He alternately grinned and grimaced, then began chewing his fingers. Finally, his head slumped against the back of his throne, his hand covering his face.

  ‘I should have known she wouldn’t come. She’s so far out of my league.’

  I was incredulous that one of the most famous men on the planet, as handsome as any Greek god, adored by millions, could be talking this way.

  Moments later, the manager came in carrying a black envelope addressed to Sam. ‘A motorcycle courier just delivered this,’ he said, handing it over.

  Sam tore it open and snatched out a card. I saw his hands trembling then he let it drop to the floor as though it had scorched his fingers.

  I picked it up and was instantly livid. A cartoon showed Sam dressed as the Pope, riding on an ass that had a photo of my head stuck on it. Along the top it said, ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’ A caption at the bottom said: ‘The Pope of Fools makes his annual pilgrimage to the Feast of Asses.’

  I tore it up and scattered the pieces over the floor. ‘Come on, Sam, get up. It’s time to party.’

  ‘What do you mean? They’re not coming.’ His head lolled backwards. ‘They’ll never come.’ Unsteadily, he got to his feet. Two empty bottles of red wine were lying beside the throne.

  I took his hand and dragged him into the toilet. ‘Come on, splash some water over your face.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Sam’s voice had faded to a pathetic croak.

  There was a commotion outside. Instantly, Sam was alert. He rushed out, his eyes wide.

  ‘It’s not Zara,’ I yelled.

  He stared in confusion as the hordes from the housing estate swept into the banqueting hall, a whirl of cackling and guffawing. Everything they said was ‘fucking hell’ and ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’ Some of them sat down to eat while others just grabbed whatever they could lay their hands on. The food was devoured within minutes. Then they hit the bar. The staff seemed stunned at what was happening. The manager tried to stay calm but couldn’t conceal his agitation.

  Sam watched with a kind of perverse fascination as the locals swarmed around him, slapping him on the back, saying things that I’m sure he couldn’t understand because of their strong accents.

  I had wondered how ordinary people would deal with a Hollywood megastar in crazy circum
stances. Now I knew. They get really excited for a while, stare like they’ve forgotten how to blink, rush around like buzzing bees and then, finally, totally ignore him. Apart, that is, from the women who have a crush on him, who always stay within a couple of feet, too frightened to get close, too starstruck to move too far away, like porcupines huddling together in the cold.

  One of the locals told me he was a DJ and knew how to operate the music-desk standing unused behind the orchestra. There was also a drum kit, guitars and several other instruments. I went onto the stage and told the orchestra to stop playing and pack up their gear. They were welcome to stay for the party, but we were having a change of music.

  ‘Listen up, everyone,’ I yelled into a microphone. ‘Can we all give a big London welcome to our very special guest – Hollywood’s finest, Mr Sam Lincoln.’ I waved at Sam. ‘Come on up here, Sam.’

  He stepped forward amidst a raucous cheer, climbed onto the stage and took the microphone from me.

  ‘Am I the best dressed guy in here or what?’ he said. Already, he’d recovered some of his Hollywood sheen. Maybe it was a reflex response to being in the limelight.

  This time there were loud jeers from the men in the hall. Sam smiled. ‘And what do the lovely ladies think?’ Huge cheers and wolf whistles drowned the catcalls.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll give twenty dollars, uh, pounds to everyone who puts on a costume. There’s a stack of this gear at the back of the hall. And a hundred pounds goes to the girl with the best costume.’

  More cheers then a frantic change of clothes. People just stripped off and slipped into the costumes. In seconds, everyone was striding around like characters from a TV costume drama, clutching their twenty-pound notes. All the time, more alcohol was guzzled.

  ‘Let’s get this party started,’ the DJ shouted. Within seconds, he had club music pumping out, and the dance floor was jammed with eighteenth century party animals.

  Sam and I were still on stage, watching in amazement. Not for long. A young guy grabbed me and swung me down onto the dance floor. Two girls took Sam by his arms and launched him into the midst of the revellers.

  I could see that Sam was starting to enjoy himself, or think less about Zara, and maybe those amounted to the same thing. We danced like crazy for about an hour until I noticed that someone had discovered the guitars and the rest of the music equipment. Soon, we’d collected a band – a bass player, a guitarist, a saxophonist, two fiddlers, a drum machine, and a pretty singer. The DJ handed over to the band and a moment later we were being treated to a hi-energy mixture of country, folk, rock, and jazz.

  At one o’clock in the morning, Sam was good-naturedly manhandled onto the stage. ‘Sing us a song,’ everyone roared.

  ‘I have something to do first,’ he said, taking the microphone. ‘I promised a hundred pounds to the lovely lady with the best costume.’ He turned to the singer, gave her a kiss and handed her a bundle of notes. It was a popular choice. The girl blushed furiously but managed to give an extravagant curtsey.

  Sam applauded along with everyone else. ‘You people have been fantastic.’ There was no mistaking his sincerity. ‘You know, people like me…sometimes…well, we find ourselves in a bubble where the real world stops showing up…we, um, get disconnected from regular folks.’ He hesitated, struggling for the right words. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that you guys have given me the best night I’ve had in a long, long time. I really mean that.’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  There was a mighty cheer as he whispered something to the makeshift band. A second later, I heard the opening bars of New York, New York. Doing a good impersonation of Sinatra, Sam got everyone singing along with his hometown anthem. They formed into lines and kicked their legs into the air in perfect synchronisation.

  I’d never seen Sam looking so relaxed and happy. After what I’d witnessed in the last few days, it was a miracle. His tortured body language had vanished and he was back to the charismatic star we all loved.

  He was lifted shoulder high and carried in triumph round the hall. Everyone slapped him on the back and told him how cool he was. Then they put him back on his throne. This time, he actually looked like a king.

  Just then, the hotel manager made an appearance. He told me it was time to wrap everything up. The houselights came up and I went onto the stage to thank everyone for coming along and making it such a special night. I asked them to leave their costumes at the side, and wished them all a safe journey home. They trooped out, laughing and joking, no doubt already putting this night at the top of the roster of local legends. I’d never forget it either.

  I changed back into my clothes. Sam was still on his throne, but now he was asleep and snoring. His hat had fallen off and I couldn’t help smiling. I cleaned him up, wiping some dribble from the corner of his mouth. I brushed his hair and wondered how many women would give anything to be doing this. I wished so much that things had turned out differently between us.

  I nudged him awake and managed to get him to his feet. We both staggered off upstairs. ‘Good party,’ I whispered, as we swayed back and forth.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘that was a party, all right.’

  *****

  When I went to Sam’s room next morning, I was surprised to see that he was clean-shaven, looking neat and tidy in his regular clothes. He’d made his bed and his costume was folded on top.

  ‘Some Casanova, huh?’ he said.

  ‘Everyone loved you, Sam.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sat down at the edge of the bed. ‘That was a unique night. It would never have happened without you.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ I said, smiling broadly. I was so proud.

  ‘Christ, what did I become?’ he said, rubbing his temples. ‘I was as much of a snob as her.’

  ‘Not anymore,’ I said.

  ‘Those people last night...’ He gave a big smile. ‘It was great fun, wasn’t it? I’ve had it with fakes. It’s time to get back in touch with real people.’

  ‘So, what’s your plan?’ Even as I asked, I knew the answer.

  ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I’m getting a flight tonight.’

  He came over and gently clasped my face before giving me a tender kiss on the nose. ‘I really do like you. It’s just that…’

  ‘I know,’ I blurted, and turned my head away. But I didn’t know.

  He picked up his costume. ‘I guess there’s going to be a helluva dry-cleaning bill.’

  As he headed for the door, I was thrilled in a bittersweet way. For all I knew, he was walking out of my life forever, but at least he was safely out of Zara’s clutches. You’re back to your old self again, I thought, as he gave me a final, twinkling smile.

  A Hollywood star.

  Chapter 30: Soul Auction

  Sam flew home that evening. In the following days, everything went quiet. I had no further contact with the Top Table, and The Millionaires’ Death Club didn’t put in any mysterious appearances. As for NexS, there wasn’t a whisper. The strange thing was that Mencken didn’t contact me about it. There was nothing from Jez or Sam either. I put no effort into finding out anything more.

  At a further meeting with Far Havens Financial Services, I was able to persuade Graveson that good times were about to roll. He had seen stories about Hollywood’s hottest stars and me in the newspapers and grudgingly acknowledged that the publicity had raised my profile big time. So, I was now gleefully clutching the slack he’d cut for me.

  Frankly, I cashed in on my time with the stars, using it in my promotional material. Well, I figured Sam owed me that much. I wasn’t the only one making hay in the sunshine, or whatever the expression is. The bellboy at the Sargasso turned out to be an aspiring journalist and he wrote an article on the behaviour of celebrities at the hotel, mentioning Sam and Jez in particular. It wasn’t flattering, but it didn’t do them too much damage either, making them seem more complex than how they were nor
mally portrayed. He said that sometimes they were extrovert and chatty and at other times so shy you’d think they were terrified of people. ‘They skulked around a lot,’ he said. ‘They were unreal, not like normal people at all. I couldn’t connect with them.’ His last remark was the most telling: ‘The funny thing was that the look-alikes were much easier to get on with. They were far more believable than the real thing.’

  One of the Paris Hilton look-alikes couldn’t resist spilling what had gone on at the lap-dancing club, and managed to rustle up some dodgy digital pictures. Again, it didn’t do the actors any harm; just added to their sexy bad-boy reputation.

  So, business picked up dramatically. I went back to showing a good time to financiers and rich tourists, eager to hear my tales of Hollywood and to enjoy some kind of weird, second-hand contact with the stars, while I awaited the arrival of bigger, more glamorous fish. But in a strange way I felt as though I’d reached the top and the only way from here was down. Lawrence Maybury said something along those lines in his suicide note. It was odd, but I felt I could understand him now.

  Weeks went by. I read in gossip columns that Sam and Jez were constantly feuding on the set of their movie, but Mencken was reported to be delighted. Every scene crackled with tension – perfect for a thriller.

  As far as I knew, the members of the Top Table went back to their studies at Oxford. I pitied their poor lecturers.

  I continued with my occasional habit of going to Sotheby’s. One day, there was a particular buzz thanks to a previously unknown Boucher painting, discovered in some eccentric French aristocrat’s chateau, coming to market. It was estimated that it would sell for about five million pounds. I’d been a fan of Boucher ever since I decided one of the nudes he liked to paint looked a bit like me. He made their bottoms look fantastically sensuous. I thought this newly discovered painting might reach as high as eight million given that it was a particularly good example of Boucher’s over-the-top Rococo style.

  The bidding had got to six million when I felt something nudging my shoe. I glanced down and noticed an auction programme wedged between my feet with something scribbled on it. I picked it up and squinted at it.