The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  Fucking journalists.

  It took me three fantasy cigarettes to calm down, but the imaginary smoke made my eyes water. I was a conwoman, a horrible cow in every way.

  The main door opened and I heard the click clack of stilettos. Two voices – unmistakably Teri and Tamsin’s – boomed out.

  ‘She’s just so vulgar, darling,’ Teri brayed. ‘I mean, you’d think she’d have some class, being a Roedean girl and all that, but she’s such an oik. Her clothes are ghastly, her make-up awful, her sense of style – how shall we say – more Primark than Prada.’

  ‘Well, her sister was the special one, of course. Such a tragedy. Ophelia would have been so embarrassed by how her little sister turned out. If she’d still been around, she would have taken Sophie in hand and sorted her out, made her one of us.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Teri agreed. ‘It’s the one thing that makes me feels sorry for Sophie. Otherwise, I wouldn’t give her the time of day.’

  I stubbed out my non-existent fag and started to stew. I couldn’t believe I was having to listen to this toxic tittle-tattle. Should I storm out of my cubicle and stop the bitch fest in its tracks? But I was too gutless. To top it all off, I loathed hearing about my perfect sister, and, even worse, I missed her so much. Would she really have been ashamed of me? I could never live up to Ophelia. I’d always be in her shadow, smothered, blotted out, erased.

  I waited for Tweedledum and Tweedledee to leave, and tried to think positive thoughts. Unfortunately, all I got were negatives. I was particularly dreading the meeting with my bank that they’d insisted on scheduling for nine am the next morning. 9 am? Did such a time really exist? Their letter said lots of other things, but I couldn’t bear to read it all. At least I didn’t have to worry about my clients. Cathy and her crew wouldn’t let them stray far.

  I left the cubicle, touched up my makeup, tipped up my chin, and sauntered into the main foyer with magnificent fake nonchalance. I stood in front of the club’s proudest memento, a large photo of Hollywood heart-throbs Sam Lincoln and Jez Easton opening the club. It was thanks to them that the club became the place to be seen for a few vital months. Even though that was almost two years ago, the club still traded on its link with the two superstars.

  I always stopped to stare at the photo because it was so exciting to think that Sam was once in this club, standing right here. He was my number one fantasy hunk. Well, every woman’s, I suppose, given that he was Hollywood’s hottest star. I had been a fan ever since I saw him butt naked in The Eye of Sumatra: me and three billion other women, I guess. It was love at first sight for all of womankind. It didn’t do any harm that he had no kit on, of course. Talk about a perfect body; slim, athletic, a six-pack, just the right amount of muscle, buns to die for and a swinging dick that didn’t scare the horses, but made you tingle in all the right places.

  Having A-list stars like Sam as my clients would answer all my prayers, but, right now, I had more chance of making the two Ts’ frozen foreheads wrinkle than of getting anywhere near a god like Sam.

  ‘I’ve met him,’ a voice said.

  I spun round and found myself in the company of a tall, skinny man with a shaved head, wearing a beautiful navy-blue Italian suit and an open-necked black shirt. He smiled and introduced himself as John Adams, head of Captain Toper Records, a major independent label with a track record of spotting new talent.

  ‘So, is he divine?’ I loved hearing snippets about Sam.

  ‘He’s a cunt.’

  I was momentarily stunned. How dare he talk about Sam like that? ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sure you know all about cunts,’ Adams said in a way that I didn’t like at all. ‘I met Lincoln at an MTV awards ceremony. He didn’t have a clue about music. Spent the whole time saying he was fed up, and moaning about how nothing got him juiced anymore. Like I say, a real pain in the arse.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear he speaks highly of you too.’

  ‘I’m not the only one he’s pissed off. Word is there’s a contract out on him.’

  I stared hard at Adams’ face to spot any telltale signs that he was having me on, but he actually seemed serious. ‘You mean the Mafia’s going to bump him off just because they think he’s a jerk?’

  ‘Oh, nothing so crude. This is a unique contract. There are no gangsters involved. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘In what way?’ This baffled me. A contract where no one got hurt, was that what he was suggesting? By people who were the reverse of gangsters? What?

  He smiled in an odd way. ‘Ah, that would be telling.’ His smile grew even creepier. ‘Of course, if you want to get near Lincoln you have to get past the biggest bastard on earth – Mr Harry Mencken.’

  I didn’t like this Mr Adams at all. I pointed at my badge for The Bleak Morts. ‘Here’s a hot tip for you,’ I said. ‘These guys are sensational. A&R men are all over them.’ I took it off and pushed it into his palm.

  ‘Hey, thanks, I’ll check them out.’ He wouldn’t let go of my hand. ‘One good turn deserves another. I have a very special tip for you. Mencken is having a soiree in The Gherkin tomorrow. You never know who might be among his guests.’

  For a second I was taken aback, then I stuck my hand in my pocket and brought out the card the courier gave me in Trafalgar Square.

  Adams glanced at it and shrugged. ‘Oh, you already have an invitation.’

  ‘So, this is kosher?’

  ‘You must have friends in high places. Those things are like gold dust.’

  ‘You know me,’ I answered, but I was baffled.

  ‘Careful what you wish for,’ he said, peering at me. ‘If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you never know what you’ll find.’

  Asshole, I muttered under my breath and made my escape, clutching my card. To think I’d almost thrown it away. Now I was seriously intrigued.

  When I reached the top-floor bar, I was delighted to see the synchronised swimmers and Wall Streeters in happy union. They were sitting at a circular table – swimmer, banker, swimmer, banker, all the way round – with bottles of Krug scattered between them. That meant my evening was over, bar the goodbyes and arranging for hooking up tomorrow for the fond farewells – and large tips, hopefully – at the airport.

  I went over and spoke to my clients and they gushed all over me, saying how wonderful the evening had been and what amazing luck it was to find the British Olympic synchronised swimming team here.

  Cathy winked at me and I could tell she wanted a private word. I leant over and she whispered, ‘Hey, are you having a reunion?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Come on, Sophie – I saw you talking to Tommy Miller earlier.’

  ‘No, I was speaking to John Adams.’

  ‘Who? I’m talking about the guy you were chatting with before you went to the loo.’

  ‘You mean the journalist?’

  ‘Journalist? Oh, Sophs, you’ve let him do another routine on you, haven’t you?’

  ‘Tommy Miller?’ I repeated. The name still meant nothing to me, but slowly…bloody hell! Tommy Miller was even more of a nobody than I was. One practical joke at a Manchester United game when he managed to sneak onto the pitch disguised as the referee was his sole claim to fame. Somehow, that got him onto the Monarch of the Jungle, but it didn’t save him from being voted off on the first day. If I were F-list, he’d be lucky to make row Z of the why-the-hell-is-this-person-famous parade. I was amazed Cathy actually remembered him. After all, I was on the same show and I’d completely forgotten him.

  I’d been outfaked by a bigger fake than I was. Jesus, were there no real people anymore? Then I realised something else. The mystery card must be a fake too. Adams and Miller were probably in on it together. In the kingdom of fakes, anything that’s not fake isn’t just unlikely: it’s impossible.

  Chapter 4: The Debit Side

  ‘Miss who?’ the receptionist said. ‘OK, take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.’

  I wondered h
ow I’d come to be in an industrial estate in Hounslow, one of the shabbiest parts of London. I was wearing high heels, a white blouse, a black pencil skirt with matching fitted black jacket, and was feeling far too power-dressed for this kind of place. The letter I received the previous morning said if I failed to present myself at the offices of Far Havens Financial Services at the appointed time ‘serious consequences will follow.’ So here I was, coping as best as I could with the strange world of 9 am.

  I’d travelled here by Tube and was amused to see stickers for Ligger’s band The Bleak Morts plastered everywhere. I’d smiled when I found myself tugging my ear – Ligger had well and truly anchored me! But I wasn’t smiling now. I cursed my former business mentor Peter Henson for condemning me to this Hounslow hell. Several months ago, Henson abruptly sold his business interests to Far Havens and left the country, though one gossip column said ‘fled’ might be more like it. All I knew was that his little empire was now in much less well-scrubbed hands. My quarterly meetings in prestigious offices in Regent Street were well and truly over. The VIP treatment had been replaced by anonymous, computer-generated, urgent summons to this grim, pre-fabricated block of concrete, or plastic or whatever.

  The walls were covered with timeless slogans such as Get it right first time every time; There is nothing permanent except change; Not revolution but evolution; Total Quality Management; We respect each other; We are creative; We are loyal; Our vision is…blah blah; Our mission statement is…snore. Best of all was: We are always happy.

  Bring back Peter Henson! I didn’t care if he was a crook. I first met him when he came to one of my parties. He told me he was a venture capitalist running an incubator business. I’d looked dozily blank and he’d laughed and explained that it was a collection of small start-up companies that he’d taken under his wing. He was nurturing them until they could be floated on the Stock Market to generate a whacking great profit for him. Now he was looking for a business in the luxury entertainment field. He wanted a charming service, emphasising the personal touch, that he could recommend to wealthy clients. Ultimately, he wanted to replicate the service in every British city. It sounded good to me and three months later, thanks to the business plan he put together for me, Beauté du Diable was up and running.

  ‘Miss, er…please come this way.’ A man in a shiny grey suit stood at the far doorway and beckoned me through. He had a face that appeared to lack the muscles necessary for smiling.

  It depressed me how few people recognised me these days. For a few weeks back in my Monarch glory days, everyone knew me. My face was plastered over every tabloid, albeit usually accompanied by asses’ ears, a dunce’s cap, or assorted comical vegetables. Now all that attention had gone. I was anonymous, a nobody, a big fat zero. It’s funny but if everyone else ignores you, you sort of start to ignore yourself too.

  I got up and followed the shiny-suit man into a small office. In front of him was a framed photograph of, I assumed, his wife and two children standing outside a dreary church. Yuk!

  ‘Well, Miss Yoker, I’ve gone through your accounts and…’

  ‘It’s Miss York, actually. Sophie York.’

  He looked at me as though he’d just discovered I’d burned his house down.

  ‘You’re not Miss Jenny Yoker?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘So what are you doing in my office?’

  ‘But you…’

  ‘We all have to take individual responsibility.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re here about arranging a loan for quarter of a million pounds, using your holiday home in North Wales as security…’

  ‘No, I’m here about arranging an extra fifty thousand…’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? I never deal with anything below a hundred.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Remember, Miss Yoker, personal responsibility. It really isn’t good enough.’

  I stood up then stomped back to reception and explained there had been some mistake.

  The receptionist gazed at me for several seconds before muttering, ‘Not Miss Yoker?’ several times as though it were some religious chant. ‘Are you sure?’

  I breathed in hard.

  She got up and sauntered out of the front door. For a moment, I thought she’d abandoned me and gone for lunch in a nearby Grotsville café. A few seconds later, a man came in and sat down in her seat.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. He had a narrow mouth that looked painted on. ‘I have no record of any appointment.’

  ‘I have the letter right here.’

  He glanced at it then handed it back. ‘Let me look you up on the computer.’

  I waited expectantly, but all he did was glare at me.

  ‘Your appointment was with Debt not Loans,’ he said eventually. ‘You’ve been sent twelve letters in the last three months. Debt is through the main doors and on the right. I should point out that this organisation does not appreciate time wasters.’

  When I followed his directions, I found myself in a vast call centre filled with scores of bland, featureless little booths sectioned off by clip-together partition walls in a dreary blue-grey colour. An army of people dressed in 1970s disco gear populated the booths. They were yelling at each other in what sounded like Polish or Russian, or perhaps it was just estuary English. Every now and again, someone screamed and squeezed a klaxon horn, making everyone else stop to clap.

  In one corner, several of the staff were dressed in an assortment of revealing nightwear and were playing a game that looked like it might degenerate into an orgy at any second. I’d heard about a new craze among schoolchildren called daisy chaining whereby each kid had to connect with the genitals of the person next to them in the circle while each schoolgirl chanted, ‘He loves me, he loves me not.’ I think these grown-ups were trying to keep up with the latest craze, but they kept falling over in a heap.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned round I encountered a middle-aged man with a serious dandruff problem, but that was the least of his worries – he was dressed as John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever.

  He shot me a furious look. ‘Come off it, the memo said everyone. You know what happens to non-team players.’

  ‘I…er…I’m looking for Debts.’

  He shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t be helping you since you’re not playing the game, but it’s in the corner over there.’

  I hurried away before he tried to make me join in and soon found myself in another reception area, this time unstaffed. An electronic sign said, ‘Please take a number. Do not enter until your number is shown.’

  Irritated, since no one else was waiting, I snatched a ticket from the dispensing machine, sat down and picked up an internal company magazine. The first article gave the history of Far Havens Financial Services. Apparently, it began as a debt recovery agency then rapidly expanded by buying up a psychic TV channel, a soft-porn premium rate chat line, a lap-dancing club, a Lithuanian bank, a Latvian estate agency, a Russian ‘Protection’ firm and, last and definitely not least as far as I was concerned, a small portfolio of businesses collected by one Peter Henson. Although I liked to call Far Havens a bank, I think that was rather stretching things.

  Number 61 flashed up on the board and at last I entered the Debt department.

  The office was large and modern. The man sitting behind the maple table wore a designer black suit and a pink shirt with crimson tie. Beneath his early-stage comb-over, two black eyes stared out with all the compassion of a Great White shark.

  ‘I’m James Graveson,’ he said. ‘Your business is one hundred thousand pounds in debt.’

  ‘I’m Sophie York.’

  ‘Do you think we don’t know who our customers are?’

  ‘There’s no way I’m in that amount of debt.’

  ‘We’ve been sending you weekly statements. The last time you met your scheduled repayment was over six months ago.’

  ‘It’s a bad time,’ I said feebly. ‘The terrorist
scares and…’

  ‘Your apartment in Mayfair costs seventeen hundred pounds per week,’ he interrupted. ‘You have a Renault Clio V6 255 sports car. Then there are your well-used accounts with Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and Versace, to name just the top three. Your accounts show that you have a surprising number of “business contacts” on monthly retainers.’

  ‘Those are my spotters. I need good lookouts in the big hotels and top bars to get my share of the juiciest clients arriving in London. It’s a business expense.’

  ‘Right now, Miss York, you scarcely have a business.’ He picked up a summary sheet, licking his lips with all the creepiness of Dracula’s most loyal attendant. His face wrinkled, as if he’d sucked on something sour yet strangely delicious. ‘I see you’re one of the clients that the reputable Mr Henson bequeathed to us.’

  He started talking about break-even points and business projections and blah de blah. I wasn’t following, but I think he said my apartment was costing £100,000 pounds a year, all told. My total annual outgoings were…did he actually say a hundred and fifty grand? Had they reinvented maths on the planet he lived on? I was apparently supposed to have an average of three or four clients per week to stay afloat. Come to think of it, wasn’t that what Henson told me too?

  ‘Mr Henson anticipated that you would have fifteen to twenty clients per week, bringing in a healthy profit and allowing you to expand, but…’ Graveson squinted at his sheet of paper. ‘Your total number of clients for the whole of this year has been – let me see now – a veritable legion of, ahem, thirty-seven.’

  I rolled my eyes. Entertainment consultancy wasn’t some baked beans production line. It was art. Someone like Graveson could never understand. My business revolved around pleasure, extravagance, dreams – the things that no doubt sprinted fast in the opposite direction whenever he showed his tedious face. I felt like telling him to get the express plane back to his ancestral home in Transylvania.

  ‘You suffer from SSS,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spontaneous Spending Syndrome. It means you’re psychologically unable to save. You live for today and ignore whether or not you can fund your lifestyle. When times are good you spend freely, refusing to save a penny. When times are bad you spend just as freely. These considerations have had an inevitable consequence.’