Esme scanned the room and to her relief saw Cece sitting talking to a girl with crimson lips and a cloud of red hair teased and sprayed into a grand explosion. Stepping over legs and lounging bodies, she made her way towards her.
‘God, am I glad to see you,’ she said, bending to give her a hug.
‘Oh. Esme. Hi,’ she said, like she was surprised to see her. It wasn’t the welcome she’d expected and certainly didn’t match her own relief in finding a familiar face in this sea of strangers.
‘When did you get here?’ she asked.
‘A while ago. This is Vicky. She’s a trapeze artist. How fucking cool is that?’
There was no reciprocal introduction and Cece went back to talking to Vicky.
Esme tapped Cece on the shoulder.
‘I’ve got to get to Oliver’s private view soon. I hope you’re going to come. It’ll be really cool.’
Cece didn’t even glance at her.
‘I got the vodka and fags. Gave them to that butler. I mean, who has one of those at our age? Is this David’s parents’ house?’ asked Esme as she watched him holding court across the room.
‘Who’s David?’ said the redhead, looking at her with blank eyes. ‘I thought this was Dan’s place?’
‘No, David is Dan’s friend. He told Dan to invite a bunch of mates,’ Cece explained impatiently.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still cross about the other night?’ said Esme.
Cece looked at her and laughed.
‘Why would I be? It’s not the first time I’ve got shit-faced and it won’t be the last.’
‘Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?’ said Esme, at a loss to know why Cece was giving her the cold shoulder.
It seemed that her friend’s head had been turned by the allure of the cool crowd and that she was in no mood to be extracted from this party to go with Esme, despite the hip crowd she anticipated to be at Oliver’s show. Esme wondered whether she had only been invited for the booze she could bring. Or did Cece want an opportunity to show she felt that Esme had let her down at the viewing?
With a rush of relief, she spotted Dan sitting on the floor amongst a circle of friends. She left Cece, navigating the room and its rapid descent into debauchery, people openly snorting cocaine, smoking expertly rolled joints and foregoing glasses to drink straight from the bottle.
Dan appeared slightly the worse for wear but looked all the better for it. The light sheen of sweat on his skin made it seem like he was dripping with unbridled masculinity and sexual desire.
‘Esme!’ he hollered, kissing her full on the mouth then dancing to the barely audible music. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glimmered with heightened excitement.
‘Do you want a line?’
Esme had never done coke. Never even been in a situation where it was on offer. She didn’t feel like starting now.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said, pouring what she hoped was vodka into her empty glass from a decanter nearby.
Dan smiled and said, ‘All the more for me.’
Was Cece on coke too? Did this explain her distance or was she still angry that Esme had tried to dispatch her from the gallery? She’d tried to help so it was unfair that Cece might blame her for wandering off before Esme could find her.
‘Come and join us, Esme! We’re about to start a game of strip poker.’
She knew she’d need to get going to Oliver’s soon, but before she went, she was determined to show Cece she didn’t need her to have a good time. She was quite a dab hand at card games, having played endlessly with the Culcairn children at the castle. The others looked off their trollies so it was likely she’d be the stronger player and the game would eat up the time before she had to leave and avoid being left alone with no one to talk.
‘The rules,’ announced Dan. ‘Socks, tights and underwear count as clothes but I’m afraid jewellery doesn’t. The player with the best hand doesn’t have to take anything off but the rest of us do.’
Esme would only have to lose her shoes and dress before she was down to her bra and pants. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
As if reading her mind, Dan clapped his hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he said, putting an arm around her and resting his chin in her hair. Esme didn’t pull away, liking this move of intimacy. ‘Now. Let’s play poker!’
He took a long toke from a joint then passed it to her. She watched the smoke, more dense than plain tobacco, curl lazily upwards. Not wanting to appear square in front of Dan she took a puff and held both the smoke and her cough down.
Dan dealt the cards with dexterous speed.
Esme lowered her cards, hiding them against her chest.
The first round was quickfire and she came out of it having surrendered one shoe.
As the cards were dealt again, she looked at her hand and was sure she could win, saving her dignity for another round. ‘I’ll raise you.’
The guy opposite regarded his cards with a quiet, steady look. His eyes were glazed, his pupils contracted but they were as cold as steel and gave away nothing. Blank and unblinking; a spaced-out waste of space. She would crucify him. He extended his hand, nails ringed in dirt and put the chips to match hers.
‘I’ll see you,’ he slurred.
A tiny smirk appeared in a flash and Esme knew she had been too quick to dismiss him. He’d got her.
Clutching her cards, she kept her breath even as she unwillingly put her hand on the table: a five alongside a pair of aces and two queens.
Mr Grimy Slimeball raised his eyebrows and she squealed in triumph.
‘Well done, Esme,’ cheered Dan.
‘A fair hand,’ conceded Slimeball.
Esme grinned, elated that she was still in possession of her dress, when he put his cards down and she looked at them, furious.
A straight. One more shoe and it would be her dress. The greasy little fucker had beaten her. He sat back to watch the rest of the players take off the requisite item.
A pretty, dyed-blonde undid the buttons of her shirt with the slow suggestiveness of a burlesque performer, even though she had a kerchief around her neck and was still in possession of her trousers and shoes. Dan started humming ‘The Stripper’ and, rising to the moment, blondie swung her blouse around her head then released it into the room. Everyone cheered and she stood up to take a bow, shaking her shoulders and rotating her fingers like nipple tassels. Show-off. Esme downed her drink and held it out for anyone to refill whilst simultaneously taking a long drag on another joint.
In that moment, she decided she would not be outdone. The melodious song playing softly mesmerized her and cloaked her discomfort. The drink and the joint had enveloped her and smothered her shyness. Standing up, she slowly untied her dress. First, she popped a shoulder and then revealed a flash of thigh. She leant forward and pushed her breasts together then flicked her long hair back. She felt the eyes of the room on her and the guests’ slow clap as she moved and swayed, but it was Dan she was doing the striptease for, holding his gaze with seductive intent. As the dealer, Dan was the only member still fully dressed and he was goading the near-naked Esme by yelling, ‘OFF. OFF. OFF.’ Out came the second shoulder then an arm, which she ran her fingers along. She wiggled her bum and allowed the dress to slide over her body to the floor, landing around her feet. Licking her teeth, she stepped out of the pooled cloth. Someone wolf-whistled and another whooped, ‘Encore!’ She finished with a bow and sat back down as gracefully as the whirling room would allow.
He dealt again and Esme looked at her cards. Diddly squat. Nothing and everything that would force her to take her bra off but she was now so stoned, she didn’t care. Oliver and his photographs could wait a while longer. The great Bill Cartwright’s money would keep the doors open. One more drink, one more round of poker.
Chapter Nineteen
Esme awoke to soft snoring in her ear and the weight of an arm and a leg across her stomach and thighs. Whoever it was spooned her ba
ck and stank of booze, their body warm against hers. She lay rigid, hardly daring to breathe let alone roll over for fear of seeing who it was and waking them. Opening her eyes, she was in a room she didn’t recognize. Not the bedside table, weighed down by books. Not the satin sheets or the velvet curtains. The pillows were huge and expensively soft.
Nothing was familiar. Desperately trying to piece together the night before, fragments came and retreated; wide eyes, contorted faces, jaws clenched, skins oily with sweat. People clapping. Red lipstick. Red hair. Red wallpaper. Hearts and diamonds. Nakedness. Had it been hers? She felt her breasts. Still in their bra and her dress was on but open. She remembered cards. A creepy man leering at her. Slow dancing, her arms waving and hips undulating. She felt the sickness of self-loathing in her gut. Strip poker. Someone stopping her from taking her underwear off and Esme shouting at them. Shame shot through her. Christ, what had she done, or not done, for that matter? All she knew was that she needed to get up and get out. Fast.
Sliding from the nameless person’s embrace she tried to stand but her brain felt burnt-out and her legs stiff and cramped. She turned to look down at the person who had slept behind her. It was Cece. She was naked from the waist up, her face smeared with make-up. Dan lay the other side, his chest exposed under the slippery sheets. Esme made a half-hearted attempt to wake Cece with a gentle prod but she was completely out. She thought about leaving a note but the urge for flight was stronger. What time was it? A glance at the light seeping through the curtains. Panic ripped through her. Oliver’s show. Missed. Lost to the night.
Her shoes lay on the floor by the bed and she picked them up and tiptoed out of the room. She needed to pee and went to find the loo. Lifting her dress to pull down her pants she was horrified to realize she had none on. It was then she remembered allowing the poker-playing creep to kiss her. She could taste the furry plaque coating his teeth, feel his hands venturing under her knicker elastic. She remembered slapping away his hand. They had been in this bathroom but her underwear was nowhere to be seen. Although she was reassured they hadn’t gone the whole way, the agony of humiliation spread through her. She just had to find her bag and then she’d be gone.
The scene in the next room was carnage. Bodies were strewn across the drawing room. Broken lines of white powder and rolled-up notes, pieces of tinfoil and dirty spoons scattered the surfaces. Empty and broken bottles were everywhere, as though washed up on the tide of immorality. It looked like something from a nightmare.
Who were these people and how could they live like this? More to the point, how could David allow them into his house? Esme was disgusted by the whole night but she was even more disgusted with herself. It was seedy and revolting. Depraved but not deprived, which made it even worse. And she had been a willing participant. She wanted to throw up.
She picked her way over slumbering corpses, her eyes flicking into every corner, searching for her bag. The creep was on his back, unconscious in the middle of the carpet. Someone had emptied the contents of an ashtray onto his chest, which was rising and falling gently, covered with butts and ash. She pushed him softly to see if he was on lying on her bag. It had to be somewhere. She rewound her movements, retracing her steps and then remembered that she’d left it in the hallway. Relief swept over her. She ran down the stairs and searched through the coats on the stand.
‘Looking for these?’
The butler had appeared, silently, holding her handbag by its strap with one finger and the Harrods bag dangling from his other hand.
‘Are you and your prawns leaving? They’ll smell if they hang around for too long.’
Shame washed over her again reddening her cheeks. How much had the butler seen?
‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said. He looked at her with disdain.
Oh, Christ the money. Dread sucked the blood down to her feet. She put a hand out for a solid surface to keep her upright. She was a child again, waiting in fear of being caught out by her parents for something she may or may not have done. She didn’t dare open the bag to check its contents under the gaze of the butler. Her brain scrambled for excuses to tell Oliver. The truth was too embarrassing. She had missed the show for what? A horrid, sordid night that she could barely remember.
A stream of black cabs passed by, like buses arriving in clusters, but none had their light on. She prayed to the patron saint of lost things for a taxi to appear and fast. Although the invite-only launch party had been and gone last night, she’d still be able to see the exhibition today before it was open to the public this evening and in hopefully have her pick of Oliver’s work.
‘Dear Saint Anthony, please find me a cab.’
No sooner had she uttered ‘Amen’, when a cabbie stopped at the zebra crossing and she hopped in.
‘Oh, thank goodness you turned up.’
‘Where you going, miss?’
‘Farringdon Road, please.’
The driver was ancient with a creviced face that mapped out years of smoking. He wore a flat cap dusted with a dusting of fallen cigarette ash on its brim. Her father always said that women and people wearing hats in cars were terrible drivers. She was glad she was learning to ignore many of his similar pearls of wisdom. She sat back and breathed a sigh of relief to be on her way. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was even a good thing she had missed the party? It would have been full of people and now she’d be able to view his photographs in peace and select the best with Oliver’s focused guidance.
She looked at the meter and then checked her purse to make sure she’d have enough for the fare. Unzipping her wallet there was barely enough for a coffee, which she desperately needed.
‘Fuck.’
She’d have to break into Bill’s money and pay him back. Digging to the bottom of her bag, she fished out some loose notes and counted. Fifteen pounds. Shit. She dived back into the mess and tipped everything out and peered inside. Empty. Nothing. The rest of the cash had gone.
Her heart began to beat like a gloved fist against her ribs. She felt a horror so intense it yanked all hope from her. Swept clean of delusion now, desperation boiled through her hangover, reducing it to a glaze of concentrated panic. Her hand returned to the innards of her bag, feverishly searching for the money that she knew wasn’t there. Trying once more to piece together the events of last night she was sure she hadn’t told anyone about the cash. The only person who knew about Oliver’s show was Cece, or maybe she had mentioned it to Dan? Could one of them have taken the money to look after it? Or the butler… God, this was beginning to sound like a farce. The trouble was, this was reality. She had left her bag unattended for any one of the partygoers to help themselves.
‘Stupid, stupid idiot,’ she said out loud.
‘’Scuse me?’
‘Sorry. No. Nothing.’
She glanced at the bleak part of London she was travelling through. Her despair deepened at the sight of nondescript office buildings and she suddenly felt wretched, empty of everything other than the desperate need to get to Oliver’s. She fiddled with the belt of her dress, coiling and uncurling it repeatedly.
The traffic was appalling. She slipped the partition window to one side, releasing the driver’s fag smoke through the gap.
‘Sir? Could we take another route? Perhaps through the back streets,’ she asked, knowing that he would be selectively deaf or come back with the sarcastic retort of someone who wanted to retire but a nagging wife at home kept him behind the wheel.
‘Ah… another passenger who has done the Knowledge. Which way do you want to go?’
Esme had no clue and sat back in her place.
‘It’s OK.’
But it wasn’t OK. Her fears were gaining momentum with each passing mile.
They travelled along the Thames before turning northwards into an industrialized part of town that reminded her of Camden without the people. Most of the buildings looked disused with tall windows running along the first floor and seemingly no way to get in. She had given the drive
r the street number but there appeared to be none.
‘Is it a studio?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure but yes, it probably is. My friend is a photographer.’
‘Well, the only studio on this street is Lemonade. The entrance is down the side there – look,’ he said, pointing to a narrow alleyway with fire escape steps climbing up the side of the building.
This must be it, hoped Esme and paid the taxi man, leaving her nothing to get home.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
As the cab pulled away, she stood and looked up and could see there were spotlights set into a brilliant white ceiling stretching along of five of the windows.
She began to climb the stairs but after a few seconds felt light-headed and sat down, head between her knees. The heat was insufferable and sweat sprang from her scalp. She rucked her dress up to sit on the cold iron step. After a moment, she stood again and taking a few deep breaths, continued at a slow, grinding pace. On the first landing, she peered through the bevelled glass of a door and could see a silhouette moving across the room. She knocked and waited. There was the sound of a bolt sliding back and a peroxide blonde with a studded dog collar around her neck and heavily kohled eyes stood there. She was beautiful in a dominant, unapologetic way.
‘Hi. May I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Oliver Maxey’s exhibition,’ Esme said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The woman turned and shouted, holding the door, barring her way in and obstructing her view.
‘Ollie, there’s someone to see you.’
‘Is that Esme?’ he yelled back.
‘Are you Esme?’ said the woman, looking her up and down.
‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly feeling out of her depth. Esme wanted to say no and make a run for it. She was late, had no money and all her hangover-induced insecurities were hyper-sensitized as she compared herself to this alpha-female with a look of possessiveness written all over her face.
The woman stood to one side as an invitation to enter and Esme stepped over the threshold. Nothing prepared her for the interior – the highest, longest room she had ever seen, so bright and white she had to shield her eyes until they acclimatised. Vast black-and-white photographs had been placed between two sheets of Perspex with nothing to distract the eye from the pure majesty of each photograph. No frame, no sign of nails, hooks or hanging wire broke the illusion that they were hovering in mid-air. The impact and power of Oliver’s work was a throbbing visual baseline. A shot of rocket-fuelled adrenaline recharged her waning energy. Esme was stunned.
Summer in Mayfair Page 21
