The Millionaires' Death Club Page 4

  ‘Which is?’ My voice had become reedy.

  ‘You’ve been placed on our high-risk register.’

  High-risk register? ‘OK, this year hasn’t been great. Things are slow right now, but the summer season’s only just started. I could…’ Truth was I needed a big hit soon. There was no disguising that business was dire and I had a scarily big overdraft. My luxury Mayfair apartment was the real killer but a move to the sticks was unthinkable. I couldn’t function without a prestigious address. I often used my apartment for introductory drinks and little soirees. The notion of dragging clients out to some godforsaken place like Hammersmith…the very thought!

  Graveson stared at me. ‘Do you really believe you’re cut out for this kind of job?’

  What was he on about? I was presentable, I had a nice accent, I’d been to Roedean. I was even an ex-celebrity.

  ‘You strike me as strictly second division,’ he said.

  I couldn’t believe I was stuck in Hounslow in an industrial rabbit hutch full of ageing disco stars listening to the cheerleader of the undead telling me I was second division. I guess when you’re sitting in the losers’ lounge the last thing you want to do is admit it. I once crossed paths with a depressing IT Director who said ‘snafu’ all the time. Situation normal – all fucked up. That pretty much summed it up.

  ‘I can’t see any big star ever asking for your services,’ Graveson said. ‘Can you?’

  Well, I dreamt about it every night. Wasn’t that good enough?

  ‘Miss York, you have a fortnight to pay off half your debt. If you fail, we’re pulling the plug. No further monies will be advanced to you by Far Havens Financial Services and your situation will be passed over to our Recovery department for appropriate action.’

  I think he could see that his words had bounced off my head, hit the ceiling and scattered meaninglessly around me. If it had been someone else, I might have thought he was putting me on, but Graveson plainly wasn’t the joking type.

  ‘Frankly, I have little doubt you will be declared bankrupt within weeks. To be clear, your landlord will evict you, the bailiffs will seize any goods that can be sold, and the only shopping you’ll be doing from then on will be strictly of the window type.’

  My body temperature was plummeting. So, shitcreek had finally arrived. In a matter of days, I’d be surrounded by discarded pizza boxes and empty bottles of gin as I stared forlornly at the poster of Sam Lincoln in my bedroom. My life was disintegrating. I had two weeks to find fifty grand or I’d be drinking snafu au lait in the losers’ lounge for the rest of my life. And gorgeous Sam definitely wouldn’t be joining me there.

  Chapter 5: Stick ‘Em Up

  ‘I‘ve got it – a heist! That’s the fastest way to get the big bucks you need. We could wear Bonnie and Clyde gear. I’d look great in a beret and a maxi-skirt, with a Tommy gun slung over my shoulder.’

  Jane, apart from being my closest friend and a worryingly enthusiastic fan of gangster movies, was also my self-appointed career adviser. She could be relied on for less than practical suggestions, but at least she always gave me her shoulder to cry on. It was just as well she had a job in PR because that meant that after hearing my meltdown news she’d been able to leave work early (‘Work? – what’s that, dahling,’ as she liked to say in her best Marlene Dietrich accent) and take me to our regular wine bar to drown my sorrows in the traditional liquid manner.

  She was wearing a blue tartan outfit that made her look like a Scottish airhostess. Tall, slim, big-busted with flowing auburn hair and large green eyes, her main feature – according to her – was a set of pouting lips that men found irresistible. We’d known each other since schooldays but I’d never personally observed this lip effect. Breasts yes, lips no.

  Unfortunately, Jane had managed to drag along one of her tedious colleagues. Becky Rogers – a mousy creature with fat ankles – was a shrill Sussex girl with a penchant for Burberry. Today, she sported a Burberry jacket with matching mini-skirt, high heels and handbag. When she uncrossed her legs, I was unfortunate enough to glimpse Burberry knickers. Well, at least she wasn’t commando. Small mercies, I suppose.

  ‘Gangster chic is brill,’ Becky announced. ‘We could be Reservoir Bitches and go on a robbing spree all over the South-East.’ As she started to bray hysterically, she attracted the attention of two City types standing at the bar drinking tequila, vodka and Red Bulls. Jesus, TVRs – so passé.

  I glanced around in irritation. The bar – The Last Reel – was a converted warehouse with cherry-wood floorboards, rough brick walls and stylish furniture in assorted chocolate, plum and raspberry. I always felt like having fruit salad and ice cream when I came here, but not today. Graveson had ensured I was on a major downer.

  I couldn’t believe Jane had given her colleague a full briefing on my financial woes. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Becky could offer constructive advice, but the only helpful thing she’d done so far was buy the first bottle of white wine. The alcohol had gone straight to her head, judging by the way she was giggling and throwing flirtatious hair-flicks at the two City Slickers, or Shitty Lickers as I preferred to call them on account of their well-known feeble sexual technique.

  ‘Magic bus time again, huh?’ Jane said.

  She was right – my mythical bus was exactly what I needed now. Fifty grand in a couple of weeks? Impossible.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Jane said. ‘You could do an outrageous novelty act that people would pay thousands to see. How about your own version of the singing vaginas? We could team you up with one of those hunks from that pop-opera group from X-Factor.’

  I smiled indulgently.

  ‘The singing whats?’ Becky spluttered.

  As Jane explained, I couldn’t help fidgeting. I had a nagging feeling there was something important that I ought to be thinking about. Too much damned alcohol had frazzled my brain.

  ‘Gross,’ Becky said, making a gagging gesture as Jane finished off the anecdote.

  What had I forgotten? A get-out-of-jail card hopefully.

  ‘Sophie, won’t your parents lend you some money?’ Becky said. ‘They must be rich if they could afford to send you to Roedean.’

  Images of my schooldays drifted into my mind like rolling fog. Ah, dear, sweet Roedean. My parents had decided that because the school was in such a beautiful location on the Sussex Downs, it was the perfect setting for a ‘genteel’ young lady. Not so perfect when I was expelled at 16, of course.

  I still remembered the letter sent by the head teacher to my parents. It said I’d fallen under the spell of a troublemaker and was naïve, gullible and suggestible to a dangerous extent. I apparently had no moral backbone and was easily led astray by more dominant personalities. That wasn’t the end of it. I was allegedly fascinated by the wrong side of the law, naturally aligned myself with undesirables and had amoral tendencies. I dreaded that they might mention what had happened to my sister as a mitigating factor, but there wasn’t a word about it. I couldn’t have stomached her being dragged into it. The comparison.

  ‘Sophie still maintains she did nothing wrong,’ the letter concluded. ‘She hasn’t cooperated with our investigation. This is unacceptable to the governors of this school. Therefore we have no option but to expel Sophie.’

  It seemed a bit harsh when my only offence was helping my best friend get in a bit of bonking with her fit boyfriend. Jane had embarked on a major pash with a farm-boy from a local village and it was my job to help with the cover-up. I still didn’t know how we were rumbled. Anyway, what did I do that was so wrong? OK, I secretly watched a few times but that hardly made me amoral; more of a voyeur.

  Strangely, my dad told me he was proud of me for not betraying my friend, even though I could have saved myself if I had.

  ‘Don’t forget, the world hates a snitch,’ he said. ‘People of good breeding never break the bond of honour with their friends.’

  I think that was the last time he was ever proud of me. He didn’t like it that
after educating me so expensively I ended up as nothing better than an office temp. Partying was all I was good at and that’s how I eventually came to the attention of the tabloids, especially when I had my brief liaison with Leroy. Some of them called me an IT girl. Often, they changed that to SH-IT girl and claimed it was a spell-check error.

  ‘Er, Roedean’s a touchy subject,’ Jane whispered to Becky. ‘Let’s just say Sophie doesn’t see much of her parents these days and leave it at that.’

  Much? Not at all. They were distinctly unimpressed with my party antics. My mum was in the WI and my dad was well connected with the local church, playing the organ at the weekly Sunday bore-a-thon. I’d become a permanent embarrassment to them. Monarch of the Jungle was the final straw. So, the answer to Becky’s question was that the family money trough had long since dried up.

  In the circumstances, there was only one thing to be done. ‘Champagne,’ I said, frantically waving at the nearest waiter.

  I reached into my pocket for my purse. As I took it out, something fell on the floor. In a flash, Jane snatched it up. It was the card I was given at Trafalgar Square.

  Jane read it aloud: ‘Sophie York. Winner or Loser? One-time opportunity.’

  Winner or loser? According to Graveson, there was only one answer to that.

  ‘It’s a fake,’ I announced. ‘That bastard Tommy Miller set it up. I bumped into him last night. He’s on my case for some reason.’

  ‘Tommy Miller doesn’t have the class,’ Jane answered. ‘This card is really high quality. It’s bona fide, I’m certain.’

  She handed it back to me, and I held it up to the light. The gold letters were entrancing. They seemed to be genuine gold leaf. There was no question it was beautifully crafted. It did seem improbable that Tommy Miller could have produced something so stylish, and I’d never totally convinced myself that he and the Captain Toper guy John Adams knew each other. But did that mean it genuinely was an invite to a soiree thrown by a Hollywood big shot? Maybe, somehow, I’d come to the attention of the right people and I was being welcomed into the in-crowd. My magic bus arriving at last?

  ‘You can still make it to The Gherkin,’ Jane said, glancing at her watch.

  I wasn’t surprised the card appealed to Jane with those gangster instincts of hers, but I hadn’t signed up with her criminal fraternity just yet. Besides, I’d told my American clients I’d see them off at Heathrow. I didn’t have to, but it was bad form not to, and, besides, what about the tips?

  ‘I’m picturing the guy who sent you this,’ Jane went on. ‘He’s an eccentric millionaire, a recluse who suddenly wants to party. One of your clients told him how fabulous you are.’

  ‘It’s probably from a crank,’ Becky said sniffily, taking the card from Jane. ‘It might even be a kidnapper. Who knows, maybe a serial killer?’

  Gee, thanks.

  ‘Come off it, Becks,’ Jane said with a snigger. ‘Since when did serial killers work in The Gherkin? She slammed back the rest of her champagne and smacked her lips with satisfaction. ‘Emphasise the positive, Sophs. Here, I’ll give you another theory.’

  Sitting back, she cupped her chin. ‘He’s a distinguished older man, rich and self-confident, someone who gets off on pulling people’s strings, always looking for new blood for his glamorous operations. He’s an A-lister who deals only with the best. He wants to find out if you’re the right stuff.’

  ‘What about a Hollywood producer?’ I ventured.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Becky spluttered into her wine.

  I was sure she was weighing up whether she should sneer openly at me or try for a more subtle form of contempt.

  ‘No offence, Sophie,’ she said offensively, ‘but the idea of anyone from the A-list being seen dead with someone like you…I mean it just couldn’t happen.’

  Bloody hell, what was so wrong with me? I’d tell Mr Hollywood my singing vaginas anecdote and he’d use it on the Jay Leno show. Just wait and see.

  ‘Why don’t you come out and say it,’ I said. ‘You think I’m second division.’

  ‘Are we talking football now?’

  ‘You don’t think I can hack it, do you?’

  ‘Well, if this is legit, why is this person, or these people, being so secretive? What have they got to hide?’

  ‘Don’t be a misery, Becks,’ Jane intervened.

  ‘But Becky might have a point.’ Jeez, I couldn’t believe I was agreeing with her. I just didn’t trust that invitation though, nor John Adams, nor Tommy Miller.

  ‘Sure, Sophs, do nothing and you’ll be safe,’ Jane said, raising her hand as though she were stopping traffic, ‘but you might have missed the best thing ever. Could you ever forgive yourself? Besides, after what that dreadful little banker told you this morning, do you have a choice?’

  Graveson’s words flooded back in blood-spattered Technicolor. I had to raise serious money fast and I didn’t have a clue how to begin. Now I had this mystery invitation promising me a one-time opportunity.

  Jane glanced at her watch again. ‘Well, babe, if you’re doing it, you have to do it now.’

  Chapter 6: Finding the Devil

  I wondered why the glamorous secretary with a 1950s beehive hairdo was studiously ignoring me, despite obviously having absolutely nothing to do. She spent all of her time texting on her mobile and occasionally staring appreciatively at her well-groomed fingernails. The Gherkin’s 33rd floor reception area was easily big enough for a party, but there was no sign of any A-list soiree.

  I was already shaken up having spent ten minutes in the lobby explaining to a security guard that I had a genuine appointment. There was no mention of me on the clipboard that he was clutching to his chest as though it were the Ten Commandments, and that meant I apparently didn’t exist – not anywhere. He kept looking through me as if expecting me to vanish, thus resolving his clipboard issue. Eventually one of his colleagues rang reception on the 33rd floor and I was finally allowed through. Now I was enduring the secretary from hell or, more accurately, Sheffield.

  Her phone rang and she leisurely answered it before putting it down again with well-rehearsed slowness. Staring out of the window, she said, ‘Mr Mencken will see you now.’

  ‘So it really is Harry Mencken?’

  ‘You don’t expect me to know clients’ full names, do you? The agency would have to pay me twice as much for that kind of thing.’

  God, a bona fide slacker. She seemed so lazy that I felt on a par with some Polish labourer working sixteen hours a day. I walked past her, turned the corner and discovered a sleek black door with a shining silver nameplate. ‘Harry Mencken,’ it said. ‘Producer.’

  I stared at the words. The Harry Mencken – who, according to John Adams, might well be the Devil Incarnate. I didn’t know whether I should be running for my life or falling on my knees in grateful prayer. A movie producer was the real deal. And he knew Sam Lincoln…

  Sam Sex God Lincoln.

  Christttttttt!!!!!!!!

  Got to play it cool. I had to act as if I met A-listers all the time, as if it was second nature for me to mix with movers and shakers. If I could pull this off I’d be made, but how could I show a movie boss a good time? It’s one thing putting on a show for accountants, but showtime for Hollywood’s finest has a degree of difficulty of ten. It’s a toe loop, followed by a double klutz and triple salco. Double klutz? Jesus.

  I fled to the loo – conveniently positioned next to Mencken’s office – but only managed a dribble when I got there. Then it was time to face the mirror test. Instantly, I regretted what I’d chosen to wear.

  Because it was such a nice day, I’d grabbed a red tartan miniskirt from my wardrobe (which would allow a flash of skimpy, see-through knickers if circumstances permitted, I’d thought in my lunacy); a black printed T-shirt showing Audrey Hepburn looking impossibly cool in the party scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a silver necklace and black leather biker boots with three inch heels – taking me to an impressively legg
y 5’10”. Urban chic was how I liked to describe my look. My dark brown hair, with a few red highlights, was trendily messed up with putty, and eye-drops were making my hazel eyes gleam. Best of all, I’d lost a few pounds lately and was looking quite slim at just under nine stones. I decided to give myself an overall score of 7.5 out of 10.

  I came out and stood in front of Mencken’s door once more, geeing myself up for the best client presentation of my life. Two maintenance men sauntered past and started sniggering. One of them extravagantly patted his backside. Flustered, I moved my hand down the back of my skirt, gingerly checking that all was in order. My hand came to a stop. Things were definitely not in order. My skirt was tucked beautifully into the back of my knickers. I turned away in horror, convinced my face had managed to define new shades of red: a perfect ten on the embarrassment Richter scale.

  ‘Give the guys a wave,’ one of the guys said, pointing up at a CCTV camera.

  I desperately sorted myself out, fumbled open Mencken’s door and almost fell into a palatial, air-conditioned office with a glistening, black-tiled floor. Light flooded in through vast, spectacularly curved windows. There were several exquisite pieces of furniture, including an arctic-blue leather sofa. And there was Harry Mencken himself, sitting at a mahogany table with an expensive silver laptop, with a trio of golden statuettes on a thick marble shelf behind him. Three Oscars! Wow. I was scarily impressed.

  Mencken had a perma-tan and swept-back, thick dark hair with flecks of grey. Dressed in a cool, designer linen suit, he had a chunky gold bracelet on his left wrist. Fit and trim, he was one of those men who was probably over fifty but managed to look twenty years younger. A country club type. He was more than just handsome for an older man. He positively glowed. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned to me to sit down.