The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  ‘Impressive receptionist they assigned to me, huh?’ he said in a soft Californian accent, a bit like Jim Morrison’s. ‘I’ve hired this whole suite for two weeks at their top rate. You’d have thought they’d give me the best. If we were in the States, they’d hear all about it. But when in Rome, right?’

  He didn’t look or sound anything like the monster Adams had portrayed.

  ‘We’re not all like that,’ I said then quickly shut up, fearing he might have caught sight of my incriminating CCTV footage.

  A framed picture of Sam Lincoln hung on the wall behind him. I couldn’t help smiling and felt myself relaxing. In the photograph, Sam’s hair, a little longer than usual, was styled just so. He was standing on a beach in front of a beautiful turquoise sea. He had on khaki shorts, and a gorgeous black shirt that made his misty blue eyes seem bluer than ever. With a sexy trail of stubble, an immaculate jaw-line and a cute nose that made him look boyish, he was achingly hunky. Whenever I saw him, my favourite novel came to mind. The Great Gatsby was the only literary book I studied at school that I actually finished. I just loved all those Jazz Age flappers and their fabulous parties. Above all, Jay Gatsby was the most gorgeous and romantic man imaginable. When I first saw Sam clean-shaven, with his hair groomed, I thought he’d been stolen from my imagination: he was exactly how I pictured Gatsby.

  ‘That was a pretty impressive courier you sent,’ I said. ‘But why did all the others have to come with her?’

  Mencken gave me an odd look. ‘Others? The courier was called Ted: one of those rent-a-mouth Cockneys, if you know what I mean. In his forties, I think. I gave him the envelope myself and told him to deliver it to the address shown in your brochure.’

  ‘But it was some statuesque motorbike chick who handed it over, and she found me in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Really?’ Mencken shrugged. ‘Well, who cares? You got it and here you are.’ Standing up, he motioned to me to follow him. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the lounge on the top floor. Not even my office in LA has views as good as these.’

  *****

  The view was as breathtaking as Mencken promised: an uninterrupted 360-degree panoramic view of London, according to a tourist leaflet I picked up. I imagined I was in a sci-fi movie as I walked around, my jaw suitably slack. Up here, you could imagine you lived in the clouds, with the stars for company. I was so close to being where I wanted to be, with the type of person I’d always dreamt of. I’d die if I blew this.

  ‘Two Black and Blues, Misha,’ Mencken said to a pretty Asian waitress with blonde streaks in her raven hair. We sat down at a beautifully elegant, tinted glass cocktail table next to a wide window giving us a terrific view of the London Eye.

  Misha returned moments later, carrying the drinks on a gleaming silver tray. She put down the tray, smiled flirtatiously at Mencken then lovingly handed him his drink, tenderly brushing his fingers. As for me, I was the beneficiary of an icy stare as my glass was thumped down in front of me.

  The drink, unlike the service, was impressive – a layer of black vodka floating on top of blue curacao – but I was slightly irritated that Mencken hadn’t offered me any choice. ‘You didn’t just bring me up here for a drink,’ I tried to appear sophisticated and sound confident.

  ‘You’re here because I have a problem.’ Mencken leaned back in his seat. ‘What do you think my shrink says my issue is?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘Not the guessing type, huh? Well, let me run this past you. My wife left me twenty-five years ago to move in with a plumber. According to my therapist, I’ve been traumatised ever since. I mean, what does it say about me that a plumber’s a better option?’

  I’d picked up somewhere that whenever someone talks weird stuff, you should reply with an open question. ‘What do you think of your therapist’s analysis?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve told virtually no one what I’ve just told you.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘Who cares? It’s just talk, isn’t it?’

  I couldn’t work out if this man was the biggest fake I’d ever met, or the least. That’s the most dangerous type, of course. I sat back in my seat, crossed my legs and wondered if I was showing too much leg or too little. It was easier thinking about that than trying to work out Mencken.

  He set in motion a Newton’s cradle positioned in the middle of the glass table. ‘They say that life isn’t measured by how many breaths we take, but by how many moments that take our breath away. Some people will pay any price for those breathless moments.’ Reaching out, he stopped the pendulum. ‘I’m one of those people.’

  I didn’t know how to react and just smiled.

  ‘I have the wealth to take my search anywhere.’

  I didn’t doubt it, but how did he think I could help? Sure, I was an entertainment consultant, but not for people like him.

  ‘What do you think the most important thing is for the rich when they have all the money and status they could ever desire?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t think of anything.

  ‘Ultimate pleasure,’ he remarked. ‘That’s what everyone wants. The difference is that some people are for real. They mean it, they want it, they’ll fight for it. Some of us are prepared to do anything to get it.’

  ‘You really mean anything, don’t you?’

  ‘People like me must have pleasure, Sophie. Simple as that.’ He stared out of the huge windows. ‘My therapist says I’m an obsessive. I take everything to extremes. I say I’ve never met a successful person who wasn’t all of those things. She says I’m not happy. I say I’d be miserable if I were poor and a failure.’

  ‘So, how’s she helping?’

  ‘I’m not looking for help. I’m seeking fellow travellers.’ He ran his finger round the lip of his glass. ‘I can’t bear thinking that there’s something out there – maybe the greatest experience of them all – and I’m not getting my share. Shit, I could die and my last thought would be that I’d been robbed of that priceless thing.’ He sat back. ‘When I was last in London, I read that newspaper article you featured in, the one about extreme pleasure. That’s what got you on my list.’

  At last, something that made sense. ‘True,’ I said, ‘I want pleasure, as good as it gets.’

  Mencken nodded. ‘That’s right. As good as it gets, and even better.’

  Was I making a good impression? I felt things were going OK, but there was a peculiar undercurrent.

  ‘I noticed you looking at my picture of Sam Lincoln earlier,’ Mencken said. ‘Do you know how much his Oscar goodie bag was worth when he got his nomination for best supporting actor last year? One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’ He whistled. ‘Not bad, huh? Here’s another interesting fact about him – he’s insured for a hundred million dollars per movie. If he died during film-making, that’s how much I’d collect.’

  This conversation was off the main road and I wasn’t sure where it was heading. I loved hearing stuff about Sam, but not how much he’d be worth dead.

  ‘Do you know what Sam’s most famous catchphrase is?’ Mencken asked.

  Everyone on the planet knew the answer to that. I sometimes used it myself. ‘All the way,’ was Sam’s response to the question, ‘How far are you going?’ It featured about twenty times in the hit road-movie The Ends of the Earth about the adventures of a conman – played by Sam – who hitched rides from various gullible tourists as he made his way from New Mexico to the southernmost tip of Chile in search of a mysterious flower called Kalukas that supposedly reversed the ageing process. I repeated the catchphrase to Mencken.

  ‘All the way,’ he echoed then took another sip of his drink. ‘That’s how far I’m going.’ His face had become hard, almost sinister. ‘In or out, Sophie York?’

  *****

  I sat looking at the black bar of soap in front of me. When I’d said yes to Mencken, he’d reacted by taking out this small soap bar, covered in scented tissue, from his pocket and placing it in th
e centre of the table. Then he just stared at me. That was over a minute ago.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked when the silence had become creepy.

  ‘Do you know how to keep your mouth shut?’ Mencken said. ‘Accidents can happen to people with big mouths. Capiche?’

  John Adams’ warning leapt into my mind and I suddenly felt a desperate urge to pee.

  ‘Ask around,’ Mencken said. ‘Fucking with me isn’t a smart career move.’

  The pressure in my bladder built incredibly rapidly. I thought I might have an ‘accident’ at any moment. I was actually in quite serious pain.

  Mencken gestured at the soap. ‘A fat guy messed me around once. Let’s just say he’s thin now.’

  I didn’t understand. I didn’t think I wanted to.

  ‘Have you ever seen a liposuction operation?’ Mencken said. ‘It’s amazing what they can do with the fat they extract.’

  I stared incredulously. Does it say in the small print that every dream trip must take a jeepers-creepers detour to hell? I had to get to a toilet. I didn’t care if Mencken was a fully paid-up member of Serial Killers Anonymous, I was going.

  ‘You’re finding it hard to take in, right? Don’t worry about the details. Just know that things like this can be done and people like me can do them.’

  ‘I need to, uh,’ I said like a little girl, squeezing out each word. I prayed it was obvious I was referring to the loo because I couldn’t say another thing. All my energy was focused on controlling my bladder for a few more vital seconds.

  ‘It’s on the left.’ Mencken gave me an unsettling smirk.

  I scuttled away, reached the loo, slammed the door behind me and did my business, almost dying with relief. Then I sat there, numb. What in God’s name had just happened?

  I breathed in hard and tried to compose myself. The loo was on an epic scale; all marble, mirrors and every luxury trapping imaginable. I prayed there was an alternative exit that led to anywhere other than back to Mencken, but that was the one feature it lacked.

  ‘Come out.’ Mencken pounded on the door.

  Jesus, he’d followed me. ‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ I mumbled. Did I have any choice?

  ‘Make sure you wash your hands,’ he said.

  I wanted to throw up. Had he really turned a rival’s fat into a soap bar? I went through the motions of tidying myself up, washing my hands – minus soap (yuk!) – splashing water on my face, combing my hair. Then I opened the door, wondering what would happen if I told Mencken to stick his freaky mind-game up his arse. Would I just call for a cab as though nothing had happened?

  ‘I’m on the trail of something unique,’ Mencken said.

  I was amazed that he was acting as though everything was normal. If this was how he treated his ex-wife, no wonder plumbers were so irresistible.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll need to arrange a few extra sessions with your therapist.’ I turned towards the elevators, but Mencken blocked my path.

  ‘OK, that was a shitty thing I did.’

  I thought he was about to deliver a grovelling apology, but it didn’t arrive.

  ‘I misjudged you. I should have realised you were a businesswoman. You need celebrity endorsements, right? I can get those for you. I’ll open the doors that have always been closed to you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Are we cool?’

  Cool????? I was dumbfounded but I saw my hand reaching towards his. I wanted to tell this creep where to get off, but my treacherous hand was prepared to do the precise opposite. ‘I guess so,’ I heard myself saying as my hand gripped his. What had just happened?

  ‘So, what exactly are you looking for?’ I barely recognised my own voice.

  ‘It’s called NexS.’ He spoke as though the word had incredible meaning.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘I only found out about it a week ago at a party in Beverley Hills. I met a student who’d hooked up with the entourage of a hot new English director. He was real intelligent, a good-looking kid with one of those plummy accents, like yours. Said he went to Oxford University. He claimed a bunch of people at Oxford had discovered the secret of ultimate pleasure. They’re an elite club and they go somewhere in London each summer to perform a weird ceremony. A woman – a goddess, according to him – is behind the whole thing. The guy started rambling, but I remember he said “NexS” repeatedly. He refused to tell me what it was and the party broke up. Next morning I tried to find him, but he’d gone. I never found out his name.’

  So, Mencken wanted me to discover if there was any truth in this urban legend. Mr Obsession had another obsession to pursue. I shook my head. ‘I don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘You’re perfect for this job. You’re an attractive girl, you’re connected and you know the London party scene. If NexS exists, it will find you, and when it does I want you to give me a call.’ He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a neatly folded cheque. ‘You’ll be fifty grand richer. That’s sterling, of course.’

  I blinked in amazement. Fifty Gs? Deliverance.

  ‘Oh, and two others will be involved with the project.’ Mencken unwrapped a mint sweet and popped it into his mouth. ‘They’re both well known.’ A curious grin flickered over his face. ‘In fact, they’re two of the most famous men in the world.’

  Hundreds of celebrities’ faces spun on reels in my mind, like in a Vegas slot machine. ‘Who?’ I blurted.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Mencken answered. ‘They need their privacy. That’s why I needed to make sure you wouldn’t go opening your mouth.’

  ‘I understand client confidentiality.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but you’ve never had clients like these. It’s my job to keep shysters away from them.’

  ‘I’m not a shyster.’

  ‘You’d better not be. I’ll be introducing you at the Sargasso hotel tonight. Do you know it?’

  ‘Sure, I live ten minutes from there.’

  ‘OK, see me in reception at eight o’clock.’ He stared at my miniskirt and frowned. ‘Get yourself glammed up.’

  ‘I like you, Sophie, but I’m not convinced yet,’ he said as he escorted me towards the elevator. I’m going to ask you to do something tonight, a final test.’ He glowered, using one of his finest Hammer Horror stares. ‘Something potentially embarrassing.’ The elevator doors swished open. ‘If you pull it off, I can promise you the ride of your life.’

  *****

  I must have been in shock when I stepped out into the lobby. For a minute, I didn’t get why all the security men were glancing at me and chuckling into their sleeves. The clipboard guy who’d hassled me earlier pointed at one of the security monitors as it replayed some recent footage.

  ‘Nice arse,’ he said.

  Then I remembered.

  Chapter 7: The Silent Treatment

  A cab dropped me at the Sargasso. As Mayfair’s newest five-star hotel, it was creating a buzz. Its façade, designed like a huge metallic butterfly, was spectacularly bathed in evening sunlight. As I entered reception for my meeting with Mencken and his two mystery companions, several men leered at me. Oh well, a positive sign, I suppose. I wondered if my parents would be proud if they could see me now. I was kidding myself, wasn’t I? They thought everything I did was an insult to the memory of my sister.

  I searched for a mirror. I’d taken Mencken’s advice and dressed to impress. My backless designer dress in a beautiful shade of burgundy definitely fitted the bill. I’d bought it that afternoon on a credit card that hadn’t maxed out just yet, though it was teetering. While I was trying on the dress, a couple of girls stared at me as though I was a movie star they didn’t quite recognise. When that happens often enough, maybe you start believing you’re the real thing. These days with all the Reality TV shows, it’s hard to know where fake celebrities end and real ones begin. Fake’s the new real, I guess.

  Gazing at myself in an elegant, full-length Louis XIV mirror, I wondered if the hotel delib
erately used a distorting mirror for the ‘comfort and convenience’ of its patrons because I was looking slimmer and more glamorous than I ever had.

  When I found Mencken, he was relaxing on a white leather sofa. Rising to greet me, he leaned forward for a kiss, but I shrank back. I’d never be comfortable with him again.

  ‘You’re looking beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I have to give you some ground rules,’ he said, inviting me to join him on the sofa. He told me that at all times I must be good fun and ignore any bad behaviour by the two men he was about to introduce me to. I was to keep my mouth shut about everything I witnessed. He also produced a confidentiality agreement for me to sign. ‘Come on,’ he said after I’d scrawled my signature, ‘time to earn your daily bread.’

  He guided me towards the hotel’s main bar. With its bamboo floor and camphor-wood walls embellished with Art Deco designs, it was pure style. The perfect place for a civilised drink.

  Clusters of hotel guests were whispering and pointing; a couple of fat women surreptitiously filming with their camcorders. Ahead of them stood an entourage of advisers and bodyguards.

  ‘You know the number one rule of PR,’ Mencken said, ‘You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.’

  My heart was thudding so hard I could hear it inside my head. I was dying to know who the two celebrities were. Was one of them Sam? Jane would need to book herself on a jealousy management course for a month of Sundays if she ever heard I’d met Mr Eye of Sumatra himself.

  ‘I think I need to go to the loo,’ I said. I thought Mencken would snarl at me and fish out a fresh soap bar, but instead he was surprisingly nice.

  ‘You can do this, Sophie.’ He gripped my hand then steered me to the rear of the bar where there was a quiet booth, almost out of public view. As I turned to face the occupants, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, my knees nearly buckled.