Chapter Thirteen
‘Lexy! Over here!’
‘Lexy! Big smile, love!’
‘Lexy, show us some leg, babes? Come on now!’
Although the paparazzi were yelling encouragement and demands at Lexy, it was entirely unnecessary. She was turning and posing like the pro she had been for nearly twenty years, showing off the spectacular ombré jewel-toned sequinned mermaid-tailed dress that clung to every single curve of her body. It had a low boatneck at the front, the start of her cleavage just visible, her firm toned shoulders rising from the sapphire sequins at the neckline: behind, it plunged almost to her buttock cleavage in the deepest of Vs, revealing the elaborate tattoos coiling over her back incorporating the names ‘Frank’, ‘Laylah’ and ‘London’, cleverly designed to cover up the previous tattoo of her name wrapped together with Jamal’s.
From deep blue, the ombré shaded into purple, fuchsia and burnt orange. This was a very deliberate choice: it meant that the last colour, flowing in a train over the red carpet, actually coopted the carpet itself into becoming part of her outfit, orange ripening into scarlet. Lexy had planned this effect with the designer. She wanted the photographs to go viral, so that social media, the weekly magazines, the gossip and fashion blogs would anoint her the unquestioned queen of tonight’s event. This was an awards ceremony entirely for reality TV shows, which were now enough of an industry to have their own annual awards ceremony. Lexy was presenting one award, and nominated in multiple categories.
No wonder she had spent weeks intensively planning how to dazzle the viewers and outshine every other participant: it had been a campaign conducted with military seriousness. Jay had piled her hair on the crown of her head so that it wouldn’t distract from the blinding dress. Extra pieces had been added to its natural abundance, creating a positive tower of elaborate Greek-goddess-style curls. Her make-up was so heavy that Caroline found it positively eerie. Vast amounts of Jane Iredale mineral foundation and powder, layered with hydrating spray, rendered Lexy’s skin so even and perfect that she might have been her own waxwork in Madame Tussaud’s.
Nathan and Lexy had decided on a faux-natural look, which always required more make-up than a heavily stylized one. Lexy’s eyelids were shaded as thoroughly as if she were starring in a silent movie, her cheeks equally contoured. Earlier that day she had visited Skin3 for a top-up CACI treatment, the electric salad forks applied to great effect, and her jawline was taut as a drum, her cheekbones standing out in superb relief.
Caroline, standing in the cordoned-off VIP section at the head of the red carpet, just outside the theatre where the events ceremony was being held, snapped some shots on her mobile to show her friends and housemates. Her contract meant that she wasn’t allowed to post anything about Lexy on social media, but she could at least show off in private. Even on the small screen of her phone, Lexy looked phenomenal, the dress outlining her toned hourglass figure. The rainbow sweep of the sequins was unforgettable; Lexy would only be able to wear it once. Naturally, the designer had given her a huge discount in return for the publicity.
Lexy had her hands on her hips now, her weight on her back leg and her torso slightly twisted – the classic model’s pose that made her body as slender as possible, slimming her waist for the cameras. Turning, she looked over her shoulder, both giving a spectacular view of her tattoed back and demonstrating that she could not possibly be wearing a bra. The sequins clung pornographically to her high, firm buttocks.
‘Fuck me, she’s hot!’ said a man beside Caroline. ‘I like older women, me. They shag like rabbits and they’re up for everything. Give me a MILF every time.’
Caroline glanced sideways and almost jumped when she saw who it was: Deacon, one name only needed to identify him, a boy-bander who had recently jumped ship in a spectacularly scandalous fashion, walking out of the Japanese leg of their tour with a stream of tipsy interviews about how singing in harmony with his four bandmates was crippling his artistic integrity. He was supposed to be recording his much-anticipated solo album, but the gossip blogs and tabloids reported that his real current occupation was having sex with glamour models while cramming as many recreational drugs as possible up his nose or down his throat.
It was dark outside, but the Klieg lights illuminating the red carpet and VIP area gave Caroline as good a view of Deacon as if it had been broad daylight. He was even more handsome in real life than in his pictures, but he also looked more trashed. The phenomenally blue eyes had a red tinge to their whites, while his breath smelt of alcohol. His famously shoulder-length hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week; he ran his hand through it, staring greedily at Lexy, causing it to stand up in the unmistakeable way that happened when the roots were oily. He was wearing a nylon shirt, unbuttoned to display his narrow pecs, and its collar was distinctly grubby.
Even in this unwashed state, Caroline, like most of the female and quite a proportion of the male population of the country, would have jumped at the chance to have sex with him. But Deacon’s attention was focused entirely on Lexy; as she finally started to move up the carpet, approaching the VIP area, she gestured at Caroline, indicating that her ghost-writer should join her at the main doors.
Deacon turned to look at Caroline. As those amazing eyes met hers, she froze, feeling like a rabbit desperate for the snake to eat her up.
‘You her assistant?’ he asked, and behind him, his publicist glanced over at Caroline in pity, because if Caroline had been slimmer and more glamorously dressed, Deacon would have asked if she were Lexy’s publicist instead.
Caroline’s dark blue silk dress, trimmed at the neck with silver embroidery surrounding big clear fake stones, had been purchased at Monsoon that morning with Riz’s help. It was perfectly suitable for a sidekick to wear to a smart event, as were her three-inch matching heels. However, the publicists were not wearing Monsoon, which probably didn’t even make sizes small enough to fit them. They were dressed in black, to differentiate themselves from their flashily clad clients, but they were just as slim and well-groomed. Their little silk frocks were suspended from flimsy chains strung around their necks or shoulders, and under them they wore equally flimsy Cosabella lace thongs, rather than the M&S high-waisted slimming knickers into which Caroline had sweatily wrestled herself a couple of hours ago.
‘I’m helping Lexy write her book,’ Caroline managed to answer. Deacon’s stare was still paralyzing: it was as hard to move her lips as if she’d just been to the dentist and the Novocaine had not worn off yet. ‘Helping Lexy write her book’ was the agreed-upon answer if anyone asked why Caroline was shadowing Lexy. After all, not even Lexy’s most ardent fans and supporters would expect her to write a novel all on her own.
‘Oh yeah? Cool,’ Deacon said with an utter lack of interest. ‘Fuck, she’s got a killer pair of tits.’
He followed Caroline out onto the red carpet, not having bothered to walk it himself. In his currently rebellious state, he had declared to his publicist that he was ‘over all that cheesy shit’. But now he stood there, ogling Lexy as she swept towards the main doors, looking her up and down as if she were a cow coming to market. Lexy, delighted at having captured the attention of a twenty-four-year-old who was currently considered one of the sexiest young men in the world, added an extra swing of her hips and a slow fluttering wink as she glided up to him.
‘Hi,’ Deacon said, with the air of a man who, for several years, had only had to utter this single word for anyone he wanted to fall at his feet.
‘Isn’t it past your bedtime?’ Lexy responded magnificently, and Caroline, who felt that she would have melted like the Wicked Witch of the West under a bucketful of water if Deacon had unleashed that ‘Hi’ on her, admired Lexy at that moment more than she could possibly say.
‘My bedtime’s at dawn,’ Deacon retorted. ‘After shagging some lucky woman five times in a night. Could be you, if you play your cards right.’
‘Mmn, so you’re going to wake me up, what, four times just so you can come in ten seconds each go?’ Lexy said, her perfectly outlined eyebrows rising as far as they could. ‘That sounds like a lot of fun for me, doesn’t it?’
Other attendees, hearing this exchange, giggled appreciatively, but Deacon was not a whit deterred. If anything, he looked even keener on getting into Lexy’s knickers.
‘Wow, you’re so sassy! You’re like, MILF on fire!’ he exclaimed, and instantly looked thoughtful. ‘Mmn, that’s a song title. I’m going to write a song about you!’
‘If you write anything about me with MILF in the title,’ Lexy said, sweeping past him, ‘I’ll personally make sure you never have the ability to become a DILF. Think it over very carefully.’
As she walked away, her sequin-covered buttocks twitched as effectively as Marilyn Monroe’s black satin ones in Some Like It Hot. Legend had it that Monroe had cut a quarter-inch off one heel of her shoes in order to perfect that sexy, slightly uneven sway; whether that were true or not, Lexy had no need for any help to shimmy as effectively as a Vegas showgirl.
‘Wow,’ Deacon said devoutly to no one in particular. ‘D’you think she’d mind me calling her a cougar in a song?’
‘Um, could I get a selfie?’ Caroline asked, her heart in her mouth as she produced her phone. But when might she get this amazing opportunity again? No way was she going back home tonight saying she’d met Deacon without having proof!
‘Yeahsure,’ Deacon said automatically, leaning his head into hers and flashing a grin with the speed of a man who has done this millions of times. Caroline principally noticed how dirty his hair smelt, but in the photographs he looked sexy and dishevelled, his smile full of naughtiness. Caroline was the rabbit again, now in the headlights of the flash: her eyes were wide in shock, her jaw sagging unflatteringly, her head at a weird angle.
Still, I have photos of me with Deacon! And I can filter them a bit so I look better . . .
She pulled a small notebook out of the cross-body bag slung across her chest. Again, this was a fashion no-no; the publicists were carrying clutches or tiny Chanel bags on chain straps, not sensible leather mini-satchels. But Caroline had to bring her notebook everywhere when she was with Lexy, as her employer was liable at any time to come out with quick-witted banter and killer putdowns.
Swiftly, she scribbled down the exchange between Deacon and Lexy. Then she scrambled to follow Lexy, who was being escorted up the curving staircase to the Grand Circle bar, the designated VIP area; on a lanyard around Caroline’s neck was a coveted Access All Areas pass, so that she could shadow Lexy wherever she went. Fans who were hanging around in the corridor, desperately craning their necks to see their idols inside the bar, shot Caroline jealous looks as a bouncer glanced at her pass and stood aside to let her in.
Her first impression of the crème de la crème of current reality show cast members gathered together was not, as she had anticipated, of sparkling, shiny glamour, but of the almost overwhelming amounts of naked flesh everywhere she looked. It could almost have been a pool party in Marbella. Lexy’s bare back was one of the most restrained displays of skin on show.
There were women with dresses cut down to their navels in the front and their buttock cleavage in the back, and others in two-piece outfits that stopped just below their breasts and started again just above where their pubic hair would have been, if they had any. There were skintight jumpsuits with cutout panels in areas so explicit, Caroline couldn’t imagine how they could maintain any privacy at all; miniskirts so short that it was equally impossible to picture the wearer sitting down; and skirts slit literally up to the mons veneris. Most of the fabrics were just as shiny and metallic as she had expected, but the bare skin itself, moisturized with gold-flecked oil, gleamed even more.
And of all the flesh, it was the breasts that shone the most. Most were big, round and self-supporting, obviously fake; but a minority of the women – mainly the slim, posh girls – had opted either for what were known by plastic surgeons as ‘mini boob jobs’ – small teardrop-shaped implants under the pectoral muscle – or fat injections to plump them from an A to a B cup. There were multifarious ways to show off the results of the surgeries: cleavage, side boobs, even under-boobs in tops with sheer fabric just below the nipple, so that the whole lower swell of the breast was clearly visible.
Caroline quite literally did not know where to look. There were tits everywhere she turned. With considerable relief she noticed a woman wearing a tailored red trouser suit, but a few seconds later she realized there was nothing under the jacket but a gold body chain that seemed, from the way it was hanging, to be threaded through a pair of pierced nipples down to the pierced navel before wrapping back around the woman’s waist. And when the suit-wearer turned to take a fresh glass of champagne from a waiter, Caroline saw that there was no back to the jacket – just a lattice of more gold chain. Porn stars probably dressed more discreetly at their awards shows.
The sprinkling of male guests present were either gay men enjoying the show, or straight men really enjoying the show. Hard-partying casts from Essex and Liverpool mingled with footballers’ wives from Cheshire and posh girls from Chelsea. As with their smaller breasts, the last category preferred a more natural look, but all that meant was that they were wearing less obvious make-up, their hair was more subtly streaked, their boob jobs the mini ones: their heels were just as high, their clothes just as revealing as those of their fellow reality stars.
There was a definite hierarchy at this gathering. If you had your own show, you took precedence over people who were just cast members without their name forming part of the title. And if you were Lexy, with the highest-rated solo show in the UK, you were Head Bitch In Charge, to quote a slogan on one of her favourite T-shirts. As she stood in the glassed-off balcony overlooking the Haymarket below, a champagne glass in her hand, her glorious eyes flashing with triumph, she was surrounded by sycophants hoping for a guest appearance on her show and the daytime television presenters and gameshow hosts who were giving out the awards.
Just as Caroline reached the margins of the group around Lexy, she was pushed to one side so abruptly that she stumbled into a judge on a dance show. He whipped his glass away from her before she knocked into it, tsking loudly at her clumsiness.
‘Really, I didn’t expect people to be falling-down drunk already –’ he started with great disapproval, before drawing in his breath theatrically as he stared over Caroline’s head. ‘Oh my God, look who it is!’
As Caroline recovered her balance, she realized that a massive body in a black suit was blocking her view, clearly the person who had shoved her out of the way. His shaved head and visible earpiece proclaimed him to be either a bouncer or a bodyguard. More men dressed like him were crowding into the bar, clearing a thoroughfare through the centre, quite oblivious to the feet they were treading on and the guests they were strong-arming into each other. There were some protests, but they were drowned out by the gasps as the Clisters present registered the completely unexpected arrival of the most famous A-list reality personality in the world. Precipitated to fame by an infamous sex tape, Silantra was now the star of the hugely popular TV show Sugar Girls, which purported to be an accurate representation of her life and that of her two sisters, Shanté and Summer.
‘It’s Silantra!’ the dance-show judge wheezed, almost unable to speak from excitement. ‘Oh my God, and she’s wearing Vivienne Winter’s pearl choker!’
This was the legendary piece of jewellery – a pearl and ruby choker with an enormous pear-shaped gem hanging from the centre – known as the Medici Pearl. It had been worn by both Catherine de’ Medici and Mary Stuart before eventually being gifted to the film star Vivienne Winter by her lover, Randon Cliffe. Silantra and her husband, the rapper Lil’ Biscuit, had purchased the choker, along with two tiaras and many other pieces, in a private sale before the auction of Vivienne’s extensive jewellery collection on New Year’s Eve last year. The total raised by private sales and the auction itself had been three hundred million dollars, Caroline remembered, and Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra’s purchases had made up a sizeable proportion of that sum.
No wonder she’s surrounded by bodyguards! she thought, squeezing sideways as best she could to sneak a glimpse of the notorious reality star. Just that pearl alone must be worth an absolute fortune!
Silantra was proceeding down the passage her bodyguards had cleared for her as if she were a queen, nodding from side to side at the enthralled onlookers, a faint smile on her face, as if she did this every night of the week and was frankly rather bored by it. This was the simple truth. It had been years since she had bothered to work a crowd: she was so famous by now that all she needed to do was show up. She had also popped a couple of Xanax, which contributed to the slightly glazed expression in her eyes. This was her trick for maintaining the serene, angelic expression which was necessary to balance out the slutty style in which she usually dressed.
This evening, however, her beaded minidress was much more demure than usual. It was not just a transparent net dress onto which a handful of beads had been sewn in clusters, but positively opaque, made of red silk that clung to the curving contours of not only her breasts but her stomach. Silantra and Lil’ Biscuit had announced their pregnancy, as they had put it, a month ago; she was four months along now, and clearly blooming.
‘I had no idea she was coming!’ the dance-show judge breathed worshipfully. ‘Such a coup!’
Silantra’s hair, which was done in a dramatic arrangement of fine braids woven around each other into wider plaits, some piled on top of her head, some cascading down her back, was currently blonde, her contact lenses emerald green. Her eyes were, as always, fringed with fake lashes made from mink fur, lashes which fluttered charmingly as she acknowledged a comment her escort made to her. This was Darrell Rose, the one-time presenter of Who’s My Date?, the show on which Lexy had shot to fame, whom she had seduced as one of her strategies to keep her name in the news.
That had been nearly twenty years ago. Darrell was fifty now, a very well-preserved fifty, with thick pepper-and-salt hair and a body toned by endless rounds of golf with TV executives. His suit was impeccable, but he wore no tie, his shirt collar a little open to show off his smooth youthful neck: he had recently had a discreet tuck and jowl lift, and wanted to show off the results.
‘Silantra, Empress of Reality TV – meet your leading British subject, Lexy O’Brien!’ Darrell announced in his famous hail-fellow-well-met tenor, deliberately pitched to carry over the hubbub that was accompanying Silantra’s entrance.
The group around Lexy had fallen back to gawp at Silantra: Lexy, revealed in her ombré sequins, glittered gloriously. Behind her, the dark London night with its streetlights and stars was the perfect background to set off her rainbow dress.
‘Thanks, Darrell,’ she said sweetly, quite understanding the dig that her ex-boyfriend had taken time to hone. ‘That makes you the butler, does it?’
Caroline, who had managed to shove her way through the crowd by ruthless force combined with urgent mutterings that she worked for Lexy and needed to join her, had a very good view of the frown that crossed Darrell’s handsome face at this retort. Lexy was already edging him aside as she took Silantra’s hands and dropped a pair of perfectly-judged air kisses just above Silantra’s cheeks; no contact, naturally, as they wouldn’t dream of smudging lipstick or powder.
‘It’s cool to meet you,’ Silantra said, which for her was the height of enthusiasm. She looked Lexy up and down, her smile widening, and Lexy, like many unsuspecting women before her, suddenly realized that Silantra was conveying not just approval of her appearance, but a distinct interest in seeing what Lexy looked like without her dress.
‘You too!’ Lexy said, nothing of this revelation showing on her face. ‘And what an amazing surprise – I don’t think anyone knew you were coming to the awards ceremony, right?’
She looked around her at the awestruck faces, utterly taken aback by the arrival of this über-celebrity, and had her response. Any pretence of coolness had been abandoned; the clicking of phone cameras was as loud as crickets on a summer evening in Tuscany.
‘And congratulations!’ Lexy continued, glancing at Silantra’s small bump. ‘You must be over the moon!’
Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra structured their entire lives around the constant requirement to provide content for their fans and the media. Having decided it was time for them to have a baby – rumours were spreading about their sexual orientations, rumours which happened to be absolutely true – Biscuit and Silantra had had research conducted which revealed that their fans would prefer a female baby to a male. Silantra had been delighted by this, picturing herself dressing a little girl in specially made outfits that were miniature versions of her own.
So gender selection had been duly performed. Biscuit and Silantra were having a daughter.
‘Yeah,’ Silantra said rather flatly, even as she cupped her belly in the traditional proud-mother pose. ‘It’s very cool.’
Having seen Silantra on screen, lively and animated, Lexy was taken aback at her lack of affect. She did not yet know that Silantra only came fully to life in a few specific situations: on camera, planning scenes for her show, promoting her financial interests and having sex. Nonetheless, Lexy continued, with the graciousness of a queen welcoming a foreign dignitary on a state visit:
‘It’s fantastic to have you here! Are you presenting an award?’
‘Yeah, I think,’ Silantra said, glancing at Darrell. ‘I came in on Thursday to film the Graham Norton Show, and then I’ve been doing, like, personal appearances and promoting my shoe line and my maternity wear drops next month – this is, like, a sample –’ she looked down at her dress – ‘so they asked me to come along tonight and I hadn’t got this dress on camera yet, so it seemed like a good idea. We’ve been tracking preorders and they’re, like, through the roof already.’
Lexy blinked not only at this frankness, but at the fact that Silantra had suddenly blossomed into full animation at the mention of the money she would be making from her maternity line.
‘That dress looks amazing with your choker,’ she observed.
‘Yeah, I had it made to go with it,’ Silantra said casually. ‘I love your dress! I bet it photographs amazingly.’
‘It was especially designed to work on the red carpet,’ Lexy said.
‘Very cool,’ Silantra said. ‘I saw some episodes of your show on the plane. It was fun.’
‘Oh thank you! I love yours too!’ Lexy said, as a waiter sidled up to Silantra proffering a champagne glass.
‘It’s nonalcoholic, madam,’ he said deferentially.
‘Shit,’ Silantra said gloomily, taking the glass. ‘I hate not being able to drink.’
‘I had a glass of wine every other day when I was pregnant with Laylah and London,’ Lexy said. ‘I talked about it a lot in interviews. It’s different in Europe – we’re okay with pregnant mums having a bit of wine every now and them. Some people didn’t like it but I had a great hashtag – #mumsneedwine – and it was really popular.’
‘You’re so lucky,’ Silantra sighed. ‘I like totally cannot be seen to have any alcohol at all. I’d lose half my sponsors, plus the TV advertisers.’
‘I need to whisk Silantra away now,’ interrupted Darrell, who had been visibly fretting at the bond that had swiftly formed between his charge and his ex-girlfriend; he had hoped for instant rivalry instead. ‘We’re taking her to the Royal Box and doing a big reveal after my opening monologue.’
‘Ooh, opening monologue,’ Lexy echoed mockingly. ‘I didn’t realize this was the UK equivalent of the Oscars! It’s a fucking reality show awards ceremony, Darrell. There’s a Best Bum on TV award, for Christ’s sake. And one for Most Drunken Fall.’
Silantra sniggered.
‘That’s funny,’ she said. ‘You’re funny. Will they, like, show the drunken fall clips? I love that kinda stuff on YouTube.’
Darrell, puffed up like a turkeycock with rage, put his hand on Silantra’s back to guide her away.
‘I’m having a little afterparty afterwards at my hotel,’ Silantra said directly to Lexy over her shoulder. ‘The St Pancras Grand. You wanna join?’
‘I’d love to,’ Lexy said with great enthusiasm; she’d promised Frank that she would come straight home after the awards ceremony, but surely he would understand that this networking opportunity could not be turned down.
‘My team’ll talk you through it,’ Silantra said, as her bodyguards once more parted the Red Sea of the bar crowd to shepherd her through.
‘Huh,’ Lexy muttered to Caroline, who had managed to make it to her side as the VIPs flooded away from her to get a look at Silantra. ‘That sounds weird, right? Why not just “My team’ll tell you where it is?”’
‘I don’t know,’ Caroline said, still goggling after Silantra. ‘But you were brilliant.’
‘Thanks!’ Lexy grinned at her, then bent over to whisper in Caroline’s ear: ‘And guess what? I’m pretty sure she wants to fuck me!’
Caroline nearly dropped her champagne glass. She was by now almost as familiar with Lexy’s sex life as Lexy herself, and no same-sex encounters had featured in the extremely lengthy litany of Lexy’s paramours.
‘You’re not going to – I mean –’ she stammered, her brain racing. Was Lexy hinting that she might be about to cheat on Frank?
‘’Course not!’ Lexy said cheerfully.
But the night was young still, and it turned out that she had spoken far too soon.