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‘This place is awesome!’ she’d squealed, wide-eyed, suddenly seeming her age as she had thrown herself down onto the bed, the pure silk and goose eiderdown making a satisfactory whoosh as she impacted onto it. ‘You some kind of face around here?’ Candy had enquired, intrigued. ‘Seems like everyone can’t do enough for you …’
Tom had smiled with a hefty display of false modesty.
‘Welcome to my hometown, honey,’ he’d laughed, throwing himself down on top of her, pushing her legs apart as his hands began to explore her young, tight body. ‘Welcome to Vegas. Playground of the rich!’
Tom had always enjoyed the physical release he experienced during sex, the rush of endorphins as he came, flooding his body and brain with dopamine and other feel-good chemicals – in fact he was addicted to it, but as with any kind of addiction, it was always such a transient, fleeting state, void of any real depth, the ultimately short-lived high making way for the inevitable crashing low.
Tom had only ever felt that deeper level of connection with a woman once in his life before, the kind of connection that transforms sex into the act of making love; the kind that touches you deep inside, leaving you with the feeling of having grown closer to another human being. Although the intensity of it had frightened the crap out of him, he had never since been able to replicate such a feeling with anyone else, though it would be fair to say he had certainly given it his best shot over the years.
As Candy loudly came for the fourth time that afternoon, Tom kept one surreptitious eye on the Louis Vuitton holdall next to the bed. It wasn’t too late to do the right thing and bank it, his voice of reason told him as he threw her around the bed like a rag doll – this one liked it on the rough side. But the other voice inside his head, the one that always seemed to lure him into trouble, was already attempting to talk him out of it. It’s just a little game of cards, it whispered to him, seductively, one that would allow you to double your money and make good your end of the deal with Jack.
No one played Five Card Draw like Tom Black; he’d been notorious in his day, a charming trickster who’d outsmarted the pros, even with the worst hand imaginable. Hell, not even Lady Gaga could read his poker face.
The internal phone unexpectedly rang, causing a post-coital Candy to jump.
Tom rolled off her spent young body and picked it up. He was convinced this one was a lucky talisman. He could see it in her eyes. When he won big tonight he’d treat her to a little spree in Gucci and Victoria’s Secret. Give her something to really scream about.
‘Tom Black.’
‘Tom! Jesus buddy! It’s been a while … they told me you were in town! How the fuck are you …?’
It was Marvin Katz, manager of The Player. The pair went way back to when Tom was a ten-dollar slots guy and Marvin was making his name on the tables, something of a player himself, or at least he would have everyone believe.
‘Jesus, how are you Marv?’ Tom stood naked, placing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he began to pace the room. ‘I hear you’re the big cheese these days … good for you buddy,’ he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. The Marvin Katz he’d known back in the day could only just about manage to string a coherent sentence together, let alone run a chic, quality establishment like The Player.
‘It’s good to hear you, Tom,’ Marvin said, in his nasal New York accent that hadn’t seemed to soften with the passing of time. ‘I hope the guys have been looking after you with the comps so far … listen, whatever you want Tom, champagne, a limo, hookers … you just let me know, OK?’
‘Thanks Marv,’ Tom glanced at Candy who was now busy helping herself to the contents of a deluxe heart-shaped box of Godiva chocolates. ‘I appreciate it,’ he said, wondering just how far his offer of such generosity might stretch. Like a few milliondollars’ worth of generous.
‘The guys tell me you’re looking for a big game, Tom.’
‘That’s right, Marv. I’m hoping you can hook me up.’
‘We’ve missed you, Tom,’ Marvin said with a healthy dose of sycophantic smarm that Tom immediately saw straight through.
‘Hey! Have you seen this?’ Candy’s shrill LA accent cut through the conversation like a shard of glass as she held up the glossy, gold-embossed menu card, her eyes wide and her exposed tits standing to attention like torpedoes. ‘It says here we got our very own butler, 24/7, like, you gotta be shitting me?’
Tom heard Marvin guffaw.
‘I take it you won’t be needing any extra services tonight then?’
‘Oh I don’t know, Marv … the night’s young,’ Tom reposted.
‘Yeah, but not as young as the broad I’ll bet,’ Marvin shot back, and Tom forced himself to laugh. Marvin Katz wasn’t nearly as amusing as he thought he was, but if laughing at Marv’s lame attempts at humour meant he would look into sorting him a game, then he’d suck it up all day long.
‘You kill me, Marvin,’ Tom chuckled, rolling his eyes at Candy, who giggled as she popped a truffle between her glossy blow job lips. ‘Let’s have a drink together later, celebrate my big win.’
‘I like your confidence my friend,’ Marvin replied dryly, with forced good humour. Some things never changed. Tom Black had always been a cocky little English fucker; way too big for his size nines, that was his problem. Gamblers like Black might think they’re the shit, but the house always won at the end of the day; they were just too fucking arrogant to want to believe it.
‘Leave it with me, Tom. I’ll put the word out, see who’s in town.’
‘I appreciate it Marv … And make mine a Bourbon on the rocks … a large one yeah?’ he added before hanging up.
Tom felt the first trickles of adrenaline stirring inside his guts, the kindling of that euphoric rush he always got right before a game. He’d played for money in the past, big money too, but nothing in this league … it was a heck of a lot of green that wasn’t even his to gamble but as far as Tom was concerned, what choice did he have? He’d given Jack his word he would get his share of the money and Tom’s fierce pride meant that he’d rather skip town than lose face in front of his friend. Tonight there could be no room for error; it was shit or bust.
CHAPTER 11
Walking through Portobello Road on a beautiful summer’s afternoon, Ellie Scott struggled to think of another place in the world she would rather be. It was Friday, market day, and the whole place was alive with tourists and shoppers perusing the eclectic mix of antique shops whose contents spilled out onto the pavement like a giant treasure trove. She loved the paradox of Portobello, the glitz mixed with the grime; struggling artists and buskers sitting alongside media moguls, wealthy fashionistas and banker’s wives. There was something uniquely unpretentious about it and it reminded her of the streets she had grown up on as a child.
Hearing her iPhone beep inside her white Birkin, Ellie dipped a manicured hand inside, blindly searching as she became sidetracked by a vintage Vivienne Westwood corset dress in a boutique window. She hoped it was Tess; call it a mother’s instinct, but Ellie felt an unsettling sense of unease that her daughter might be in some kind of trouble. But it wasn’t Tess. It was Victoria messaging to say she was already on her way to the charity event at the Cobden Club where they were due to meet. It was to be the third social event she’d attended that week and Ellie wasn’t entirely enamoured by the thought of yet another afternoon of making polite small talk with vastly over-privileged women, who she suspected cared more about making their hair appointments than they did about the charity du jour. But this was her life now, and had been for the past two decades. The polo, Glorious Goodwood, Cannes, the Henley Royal Regatta, Ascot, Glyndbourne, not to mention all the hundreds of other global events and private charities Vince was a patron of – she accompanied him to all of them. Always impeccably dressed, always impeccably polite and if she was brutally honest, always impeccably bored shitless … sometimes her jaw physically ached from it all. But what could she do? Her husband topped the Forbes rich list every year, and with money and position like that came great responsibility.
Victoria Mayfield was already at the Cobden Club by the time Ellie arrived and had helped herself to a Kir Royale and a small plate of sushi before squirreling herself away at a small table at the back of the room. Looking around her, she surveyed the scene of gossiping, overly preened society women with a heavy heart. The last thing she felt like doing was socialising. That morning her period had arrived, regular as fucking clockwork, just as it did every goddamn month. Victoria greeted her monthly cycle like a personal affront; Mother Nature sniggering at her inability to do what came naturally to most women. It was all just so unfair; Lawrence, her husband, had been home more than usual this past month preparing for a big trip to South Africa where he was due to film a documentary and, ensuring the extra time they’d had together had not been wasted, she was convinced this month would be the month she’d finally see that line turn blue.
‘Jesus Tor, not again!’ Lawrence Mayfield had smiled wearily at his wife as she’d led him into the bedroom for the third time in less than forty-eight hours. ‘You’re wearing me out!’
‘And you’re complaining?’ she’d replied, giving him a mock-disdainful look as she tore off her Agent Provocateur underwear in haste, eager to get down to business. Lawrence Mayfield had inwardly sighed. He enjoyed nothing more than making love to his wife. After all, she was beautiful and he adored her, but not like this, not on demand; it was all way too forced and unspontaneous, not to mention deeply unromantic. His wife had become hell-bent on producing, to the point of obsession, and Lawrence was seriously beginning to doubt her mental state. There was a darkness to Tor now; places inside her mind he knew he could no longer reach. And the worst thing of all was that he had not a goddamn clue what to do about any of it.
Victoria threw back her Kir Royale and swiped another from an attractive waiter. He was young, twenty-one at most, and she found herself blushing as she imagined herself naked on top of him, riding him furiously. Would his sperm be better than her husband’s? Would it swim harder, faster stronger, towards her willing eggs?
‘Tor!’ Ellie Scott was making her way towards her, two Kir Royales in hand and a beaming smile on her radiant face. ‘Wow! Check you out! You look amazing!’ Ellie said, kissing her warmly on both cheeks and standing back to admire Victoria’s choice of attire, a colourful, eye-catching Mary Katrantzou body-con dress that displayed her slim, curvaceous figure to its finest. It was somewhat of a departure from her usual demure and understated look.
‘I reckon if I didn’t know you were a happily married woman, Tor Mayfield, I would think that you were on a cougar hunt!’ Victoria gave a hollow laugh. Her friend had no idea just how close to the truth she really was.
‘So, how’s the book going?’ Ellie took a seat opposite her friend and glanced around the room at the sea of designer outfits and expensive handbags. ‘Ah, the book!’ Tor replied, swiping a soft-boiled quails egg and Beluga caviar crostini from a passing waiter and slipping it between her glossy Chanel nude lips. ‘Well, let’s just say it’s not exactly writing itself.’
‘Oh?’ Ellie placed her white Birkin on the table for maximum exposure. She’d been on the waiting list for the much-coveted bag for almost six months and couldn’t resist showing it off. She knew it was childish – it was just a handbag at the end of the day – but sometimes it was difficult not to become embroiled in the one-upmanship that was so blatantly rife at these types of affairs.
‘My publishers are on my case about it, but this one’s going to have to wait,’ Tor announced stoically, glugging more Kir Royale. ‘After all, it’s not like I’ve not made them a fuck load of money, now is it?’
This didn’t sound like Tor at all. She’d always been so highly professional, so dedicated to her writing and the loyal legion of fans that ferociously devoured her books.
‘And Lawrence?’
Tor drained the remains of her champagne flute and began to eye the Grey Goose vodka cocktails that were doing the rounds.
‘He’s off to South Africa soon, for six weeks, possibly more. Filming bloody elephants …’ She paused for a moment and looked up at Ellie with a doleful expression, adding quietly, ‘… And I’m still not pregnant.’ For the briefest moment she wondered if she might confide everything in her friend, divulge the secret little plan she’d recently been cooking up in her head, but Tor knew that to say it out loud meant making it a reality and she wasn’t sure she was quite ready for that yet.
Ellie slid her hand across the table and placed it on top of Tor’s.
‘Oh honey, I’m so sorry,’ she said with genuine regret.
Tor swallowed down a lump as sharp as glass. She knew that Ellie meant it, that she above all others most understood the pain and disappointment that had become a seemingly permanent fixture in her life these last couple of years. After all, they had spent a long time under the same fertility doctor, a man who had been hailed as a so-called miracle worker, yet so far had been unable to work his magic where she and Lawrence were concerned. Or the Scotts, for that matter.
‘Your husband’s sperm count is seriously diminished, Mrs Mayfield,’ Doctor Fouad had gently reminded her during her last, and final visit. ‘I’m not saying it’s impossible – I believe nothing is impossible – but I am saying that it is very unlikely that you’ll ever conceive with your husband again.’
With your husband. Those words had haunted Victoria ever since.
‘There’s still hope,’ Ellie said in a bid to pull her friend out of her obvious black mood. ‘You’ve got to keep trying, keep believing. You’re still young …’
Tor gave a derisive snort as she drained the remains of her fourth Kir Royale. All that sweet cassis was beginning to make her feel a bit nauseous now, but to hell with it. On the fertility drugs, she had never imbibed more than one glass of fizz on a special occasion; fat lot of good it had ever done her. She was sick of remaining positive and ‘turning the frown upside down’ as Lawrence was always reminding her; she wanted results, not kind words. You couldn’t love and feed and nurture kind words. ‘Anyway,’ Tor straightened herself out before she unravelled completely. ‘How’s the venue search going? Found anywhere suitable yet?’
Ellie welcomed the conversation’s change in direction.
‘Now that you come to mention it …’ she said, beginning to explain all about the amazing old warehouse in Soho that Vinnie had found. ‘… It’s completely perfect – everything I’ve been looking for.’
Tor forced a smile; it was the only way she knew how these days.
‘So it’s all systems go!’ she said, mustering up her best excited face.
‘Provided we win the auction,’ Ellie interjected.
‘Well, surely being married to a billionaire property developer must have its perks.’
Their giggles were interrupted by a horse-faced blonde woman wearing a Jil Sander paisley skirt suit that did absolutely nothing for her robust frame.
‘Ladies,’ it was Lady Davinia Sexton-Lloyd, one of today’s hostesses, and arguably one of the most prolific gossips this side of the Thames. She was married to Lord Sexton, a bloated old buffoon whose name suited him.
‘Lovely to see you, Davinia,’ Ellie stood to shake the woman’s diamond-encrusted hand. ‘I trust you’re well.’ It was all the opening Davinia needed as she plonked her cumbersome bulk down to join them.
‘Marvellous, darling,’ she replied, displaying a little red lipstick and canapé between her teeth as she smiled brightly. ‘You know how busy it is at these events; I think I need to clone myself.’ Ellie balked at the very idea. ‘—And this is …?’ she turned to Victoria, precariously placing her copy of HELLO! magazine on the glass table which had been lavishly decorated with scented Jo Malone tea lights and tiny Swarovski scatter crystals. No expense spared for the orphans of Uganda.
‘Victoria Mayfield – a very good friend of mine.’
‘The Victoria Mayfield?’ Davinia looked impressed. ‘Of Mirror, Mirror fame?’
‘The very same,’ Ellie sang, giving Tor a surreptitious wink.
‘Well, Victoria, this is a pleasure,’ she gushed, her gaudy Bvlgari jewellery rattling as she shook her hand vigorously. ‘I’m an avid reader of all your books. Took Mirror, Mirror with me to Courcheval last year, couldn’t put the bloody thing down.’ Tor thanked her politely, finally releasing her hand from the woman’s vice-like grip.
‘It’s been a week from hell, I tell you,’ Davinia placed a palm over her shiny botoxed forehead, ‘trying to organise this lunch on top of Seaton’s wedding. I ask you,’ she rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation, ‘I really should’ve gone into events management you know,’ she turned to Victoria. ‘Seaton’s my son,’ she explained as an afterthought.
Tor looked at Ellie with an expression that begged the question, Seaton Sexton? She called her son Seaton Sexton! ‘He’s getting married in Monaco next week and there are still a million and one things to organise. I mean, he’s left everything to me and his father – good job we’ve still got all our faculties!’
Debateable, Tor silently thought as she watched Lady Seaton throw her head back with a roaring laugh. ‘Kids eh? You know how it is?’
Victoria shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Actually, two years ago I found my baby girl dead in her crib and now my husband has crippled sperm so, no, actually I don’t know ‘how it is’ and probably never fucking will!
‘Tell me, are any of the glossies going to cover it?’ Ellie interjected, in a bid to steer the conversation back towards Lady Sexton’s favourite subject: herself. Davinia’s delight at the opportunity to brag was almost palpable.
‘Funny you should mention but yes! They’ve even given it a plug in this week’s issue of HELLO!,’ she said, the magazine miraculously falling open to the well-thumbed exact page in question. ‘‘An exclusive peek behind the scenes at Lord Seaton Sexton-Lloyd’s wedding to Florence Corbett-Wellesley!” It’s marvellous isn’t it?’ she gushed with such pride that Ellie thought the woman was about to explode.
‘I take it she won’t be using her full name,’ Tor smirked, the Kir Royales loosening her tongue. Lady Seaton shot her a sideways glance but Ellie missed it, her attention having been caught by the news story opposite. Loretta Fiorentino. Jesus, there she was again! And this time there was no mistaking her. The small photograph showed her standing outside a church dressed in a jet-black couture dress, unmistakably McQueen, her enormous comedy breasts spilling over the top like rising dough. She was holding a small Chihuahua underneath her arm as though it were a clutch bag, its tiny face peering out at the camera. The headline read: ‘Widow Grieves for Top Plastic Surgeon Husband as Muldavey Rumour Mill Continues …’ Ellie stared at the face of a woman she had once, a long time ago, thought of as a friend, and felt a tight knot of nausea form in the pit of her stomach.
‘Terrible business, that,’ Davinia remarked, having clocked Ellie’s interest in the story. ‘Poor Miranda. She’s an old friend of the family’s actually,’ she pulled her mouth into a thin line, pleased to be able to make such a topical namedrop. ‘Says there that she’s going after Hassan’s wife for a spot of compo for the disastrous mess he made of her face …’
‘Serves the old bitch right,’ Ellie shot back, forgetting herself. Just the sight of Loretta’s face seemed to rancour far more than she had expected. Davinia’s eyes widened, her gossip antennae twitching wildly.
‘Someone you know, darling?’ she carefully enquired.
Ellie quickly closed the magazine.
‘Oh no,’ she lied, watching the look on Davinia’s face slip with disappointment. ‘She just reminds me of someone I once knew. Someone a long, long time ago …’
CHAPTER 12
Tess woke with a heart-stopping start, and for the briefest moment felt a sense of relief as she realised she was alone. But it was a fleeting state, and was soon replaced by a rod of ice-cold fear as it rapidly dawned upon her that she was not in her own bed. Her head was audibly pounding, a sickening, resounding throb either side of her temporal lobes, causing her vision to blur and the nausea in her belly to instantly rise to her throat.
Disorientated, she made to stand. It was then she felt the searing pain shoot through her body, sharp as a splintered arrow. Groaning, her joints felt brittle as glass, like her bones were about to shatter with her weight upon them and the soreness she felt down there caused her to wince aloud in pain. She felt as if she’d been hit by a truck and dragged for ten miles. Tess sat back down onto the bed and it was only then she realised that she was completely naked. Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was going on? Gripped by fear and panic, she hurriedly covered her modesty with a white bed sheet, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to piece her shot-to-shit memory back together again. The room was unrecognisable; rudimentary bare white walls and terracotta tiles, a double bed with a pair of small wooden tables either side of it, and a tiny shuttered window allowing only the thinnest sliver of sunlight to creep into the darkened room. She glanced at one of the tables in search of something to drink, her thirst was such now that she felt at the point of collapse, and was horrified to see that among the discarded empty bottles and wine glasses there was an assortment of sex toys; ugly, giant, life-like dildos staring back at her in an array of different shapes and sizes and colours. Rubbing her temples in angry frustration, she forced back tears as she desperately tried to locate her clothes, her bag, her phone, anything … And then she remembered; oh my God! Allegra! She was sure she had been with her friend the previous evening, but where the fuck was she now? And why was she here, in this room, naked and alone? It was as if someone had torn a page from her memory; it was all just a gaping black hole, and she had a gut-sickening feeling it wasn’t something she’d want to put on a postcard to her parents back home. Jesus, what the fuck had she done?
Burying her head despairingly in her hands, Tess heard voices approaching and instinctively threw herself back down onto the bed and feigned sleep.
‘Jesus, man,’ a male voice said. ‘She’s still sleeping … exactly how much of that shit did you give her last night?’
‘Too fucking much, probably,’ a gruff voice shot back. It sounded familiar, though she did not know why. ‘She’ll wake with one motherfucker of a headache, I can tell you that.’
‘And the rest …’
‘I told you I’d found us a wild one didn’t I?’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘They’re all the same those posh chicks … filthy little bitches, up for anything. All that dough corrupts them you know … turns them from convent schoolgirls into game little whores. I have to say though; this one gave a pretty special performance last night.’
The pair of them gave a chuckle that made Tess want to throw up. She could sense their presence from underneath the thin bed sheet and could hardly breathe through her terror.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
‘You think we’ll make top dollar on that video then … I mean, everyone loves to watch a good roasting don’t they …?’
Tears were escaping the corners of Tess’s eyes now. They’ll be gone in a minute she reassured herself. Then you can get your stuff and get the fuck out of here, fly home and forget any of this shit ever happened, right? Only she didn’t need to forget because she couldn’t actually remember in the first place, and judging by what she was hearing, it was probably just as well.
‘Nah, I’ve got something better in mind for this one,’ the familiar voice said. ‘I did some research, found out who she is …’
‘What, is she, like, famous or something?’
‘Her pops is none other than Vincent Scott my friend …’ the voice sounded triumphant.
‘Vincent Scott?’
‘Fuck me, Fabrizio, anyone would think you lived in a fucking cave under the sea. Vincent Scott … of Great Scott Properties,’ Tess heard the antagonism in his voice and it scared her. They knew her father’s name … this was bad; really fucking bad.
There was a slight pause.
‘And?’
‘And you fucking prick, he’s a billionaire. One of the richest dudes in the whole of fucking Europe!’
The other voice began to laugh then, a horrible manic chuckle that suggested the owner was a little unhinged.
‘Bingo!’ it said.
‘Bingo indeed my brother; bingo in-fucking-deed.’
