Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  ‘Awright, darlin’,’ Sheri said, air-kissing Max’s cheeks as she led her through to her sitting room.

  Max had sat on Sheri’s sofa several times. Each time she admired the surprising taste with which the flat had been decorated, with wooden floors, cream sofa and chair, matching cream walls and a huge brown rug as a centrepiece.

  The surroundings said a lot about Sheri. Yes she was an airhead, caught up in the hedonistic world of celebrity. Having developed a dependence on coke – a few years back it was once a week, now it was most nights… and days – making money from sex stories had become an obsession, with Sheri feeling it was the only thing that validated her. But beneath it all was a reasonably intelligent young woman. In a different life she would have gone to college or university and had a good career. She would also have had a natural beauty untouched by the surgeon’s knife.

  As Sheri sat on the floor like a child, with her knees under her chin, Max noticed how awful she looked.

  With sunken eyes framed by dark circles and the remnants of last night’s heavy eyeliner, she had aged ten years from the Sheri the world knew. The brazen, perfectly made-up girl with huge boobs and dripping in bling looked a mess this morning.

  As if reading her mind Sheri said: ‘I feel awful, Max. Not been to sleep – so much coke I was buzzin’ all night. You want a coffee?’

  Max said yes and Sheri, unrecognizable from her kiss-and-tell pictures in a baggy navy tracksuit, disappeared into her kitchen.

  ‘Thank God you ain’t brought a photographer, Max. I’d have said no,’ Sheri shouted through to Max. ‘I’ve got some right nice shots from a lads’ mag shoot a few months ago. You can use them, yeah? I don’t want no snapper taking pictures of me looking like this.’

  ‘Should be fine, Sheri,’ Max assured her as Sheri placed two steaming mugs of instant coffee on the small table beside the sofa.

  ‘Ready to start?’

  ‘If you’re ready to pay,’ Sheri said automatically. She was in the grip of the familiar paranoid comedown of a cocaine hangover.

  ‘You know the score, Sheri. I’ll get you as much as I can. If there are great details it will make the front page, then you’re looking at up to ten grand. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  Sheri looked reassured. As she clasped her mug of hot coffee, the shaking seemed to subside.

  They both knew the questions and answers inside out. Stick to complimenting the star – huge penis, rampant appetite for sex – and they rarely sued.

  As Kirk Kelner was a single man, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain from the world knowing how hot he was in bed. His film company would be happy with the publicity; his female fan base would grow. And so would Sheri’s bank balance.

  Max tied her long brown hair back with the elastic hair-band she always wore on her wrist, crossed her tanned legs and clicked on her tape recorder.

  ‘Tell me how you met Kirk, Sheri.’

  ‘Well, Wednesday’s a good night at Kabaret club in the West End so I went along to meet me mates.’

  ‘And Kirk was there?’

  ‘Yeah, he was at a private table that was roped off.’

  ‘So how did you get to meet him?’

  Sheri cast her mind back to the night before. She knew the security man guarding the club’s VIP section – a tiny area with four private booths. She couldn’t remember his name, but he was in his mid thirties with a beefcake build and tanned face,

  When he told her to get lost she politely reminded him that he hadn’t been so quick to get rid of her when she’d given him a blow job in the staff toilets a few months back – in return for instant access to the VIP enclosure where football players were celebrating some victory.

  The guard narrowed his eyes and took her in.

  ‘Fuck, it’s you. You’ve changed your hair. Listen, my boss is here tonight. I can’t let you in.’ A slow smile crept across his face. ‘And, sadly, I can’t escape for some fun.’

  ‘I wasn’t offerin’,’ Sheri retaliated. ‘Now let me in before I tell your boss how you swap favours for oral.’

  The guard was suddenly deadly serious.

  ‘Shit. You bitch.’ With that, he lifted the red rope to his left and let her in.

  Sheri suddenly snapped out of the flashback. To get in the paper she had to paint a far more glamorous and romantic picture of what had happened.

  She smiled at Max. ‘How did we start talkin’? There was an instant attraction as soon as our eyes locked. Kirk is unbelievably sexy in the flesh. He took one look at me and told the guard to invite me over to his table.’

  ‘And how did things progress?’

  The truth was that Sheri asked Kirk whether he minded if she joined him and two male friends while she waited for a mate.

  Through his beer-and-champagne-goggled eyes Kirk had smirked as he took Sheri in. Huge tits, like overripe watermelons, were almost totally on display, spilling out of a black PVC corset that was teamed with a black denim miniskirt barely covering her pert arse. Her orange fake tan made her look bronzed and toned in the dim light of the club.

  Winking at his pals, Kirk had slurred his approval and asked the waiter to bring another glass so she could share their rosé Taittinger champagne.

  Sheri made it clear who she was interested in, homing in on the movie star and ignoring his pals.

  Sharing a dirty joke, she discreetly took his hand and placed it carefully under her skirt. Kirk’s eyes suddenly came into focus and brightened as he felt her smooth damp pussy. Excusing herself to go to the ladies, she told Kirk to follow so they could leave.

  That was what actually happened, but who wanted to hear the callous version of how she marked her man and got him? Sheri pushed her hair behind her ears as she readied herself for the airbrushed version, the one both she and Kirk would rather the world read.

  ‘Progress? Well, we chatted for hours about his career. He was such a gent and treated me to lovely champagne. We had so much in common and I felt he was crying out for company. Even the sexiest man in the world gets lonely sometimes and he’s had such a hard time. Kirk insisted his chauffeur drop me off so I got home safely. But as soon as we were in the car we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.’

  ‘And then you went back to his hotel?’

  ‘Yes, we were like animals. Sometimes he was full of passion, sometimes so tender and loving.’

  In truth, Kirk had barely been able to make it to his penthouse suite at the Dorchester, stumbling all the way. Drunkenly they entered his room and she led him over to the biggest bed she had ever seen. It was covered in the finest white Egyptian cotton.

  Sheri undressed him quickly, realizing he was so drunk he could crash out at any second. But she kept his attention by pulling her enormous boobs over her PVC corset. Slipping out of her skirt, she stood before him in her thigh-high black leather boots with her corset around her stomach.

  Kirk sat up, grabbed her breasts and stared at them intently. With an expert efficiency, she manoeuvred herself on top of Kirk to straddle him. His medium-sized cock already hard, he entered her, his eyes rolling skywards as he let out a groan of pleasure. Kirk never once looked at Sheri’s face, transfixed by her gravity-defying breasts.

  Grinding down on him, she lifted herself up before plunging down, sitting upright and throwing back her blonde mane of extensions alluringly, in case he looked up from her breasts. He was full of desire, transfixed by her. And yes, Sheri was making Kirk bloody Kelner feel this way, she thought. But barely a minute had passed before Kirk let out a loud grunt and flopped his head on the bed, signalling the end of their session.

  Sheri took a sip of her coffee then smiled at Max.

  ‘His lips were so soft and kissed every part of my body. I still have tremors when I think about how he made me feel. Like I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. After hours of foreplay he entered me. I have to say he’s a big movie star in every way. He was insatiable and we made love non-stop throughout the night. His bod
y is incredible – rippling with muscles. Kirk is all man.’

  Sheri stopped and sighed.

  ‘He poured champagne all over my body and licked every drop off, making me squirm in ecstasy. I came at least ten times. Eventually, our bodies spent, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.’

  ‘And in the morning, what happened then?’

  In the morning what really happened was that while Kirk had snored off the booze, Sheri had lain awake for hours, buzzing from the cocaine she had taken for courage to blackmail her way to Kirk Kelner. She was also buzzing from perhaps her biggest conquest yet. The footballers she’d slept with had netted her between £2,000 and £5,000 here and there. But Kelner was a global superstar. She would make a fortune – from Max then from some magazine for a follow-up.

  Around 10 a.m. Kirk had woken with a start as his alarm buzzed.

  As he turned to face her, Sheri took in for the first time how utterly beautiful he was. Like a Greek God wrapped in the white sheet. She could just make out his rippling stomach muscles under the cotton.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ he croaked. ‘Erm, listen, this is a bit embarrassing but I can’t remember a goddamn thing. What’s your name?… Right, Sheri, babes, I don’t mean to be rude but my manager will be here in ten minutes. Can I give you some money for a taxi? Thanks, honey. Would you mind leaving, like, now?’

  Sheri looked at Max with a dreamy smile. ‘In the morning Kirk woke me with fresh coffee and a croissant. We kissed tenderly before I had to leave. Maybe I’ll see him again but he works so hard I’ll understand if we don’t. Whatever happens, neither of us will forget that amazing night for the rest of our lives.’

  After a pause to make sure Sheri was finished Max smiled, clicked off her recorder and drained her mug.

  ‘Great! Thanks, Sheri. One more thing. Did you remember to get evidence? It’s so complimentary he’ll never sue… but better to be safe.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I took a picture of us at the club on my mobile. And one of him sleepin’ with me next to him. Oh, and one of his dick – couldn’t resist.’

  As Sheri showed her the pictures, Max couldn’t help laughing. ‘OK, Sheri, that should be fine.’

  The next morning, Sheri was delighted to see the front page of the Daily News.

  WORLD EXCLUSIVE: SHERI: KIRK IS THE BEST I’VE EVER HAD (AND SHE’S HAD A FEW)

  Today glamour girl Sheri Jones lifts the lid on her night of passion with Hollywood heart-throb Kirk Kelner.

  In an explosive interview Sheri, 28 (pictured, left, in raunchy lingerie), tells how the muscle Man of Steel 4 star:

  SATISFIED her like never before

  LICKED champagne from her famous curves

  WAS unstoppable in bed and carried on ALL night.

  Turn to page 7 for Sheri’s full story.

  Max was once again the toast of her paper. But as she stared down at the front page she was aware that the buzz she had once got was diluted. She dismissed the thought… Parties every night, mixing with stars, a huge salary and expense account. And she did love socializing and meeting new people, always seeing the fun in a party. The relentless free bars helped give her the confidence to speak to the celebs most people only got to glimpse through the pages of Heat or Grazia. Young, free and single. This was the time of her life to party hard and write celeb stories. And that’s what the public wanted. She was living the life… So why was she feeling so underwhelmed, so indifferent? Perhaps she just needed another great story.

  WHEN LUCY MET HARTLEY

  It was funny, Lucy considered, that when you were in those first magical months of a relationship, boredom vanished. All those times alone – tedious tube journeys, impatient waits for late appointments – no longer existed when your mind kept floating off to replay every detail from the night before.

  Lucy found herself thinking about the night she met Hartley just a few weeks ago, one Friday sometime after midnight at Annabel’s members’ club for London’s elite.

  It attracted a different crowd from the trendy celeb hangouts. There were more of the well-to-do blue-suit brigade than must-be-seen designer-label junkies.

  On the night Lucy had met Hartley, she had been for dinner at Nobu with Amy, her best friend from Oxford University, whose Kashmiri parents had gifted her the most exquisite looks. Lucy could never tire of hearing her soft but distinct Manchester accent, from the city her parents had moved to shortly before she was born. Amy, with her sparkling skin, shiny black bob and wide hazel eyes, had graduated with a First but had never taken up the high-salary job she had always imagined her degree would lead to.

  She had hooked up with a politics student called James de Vosse in their second year and now they were engaged. James was an old Etonian whose upbringing was poles apart from Amy’s. Somehow they seemed to work together but Amy had confided that she was worried about becoming a Stepford Wife like so many of the women in James’s set. Lucy was sure this would never happen. They had known each other for thirteen years and Amy hadn’t compromised who she was one bit. She had her own mind, roots and style, which would never leave her.

  After seeing off a bottle of Chablis over edamame, tuna sashimi and black cod, they giggled as they looked around the restaurant and tried to figure out what cupboard Boris Becker had chosen for his famous quickie with a stranger, which had lasted all of two minutes and resulted in his love child.

  Instead of winding down with green tea, they had decided on a nightcap at Annabel’s. Amy called James, who had membership, and asked him to phone ahead to ensure the girls were not turned away.

  Once inside, Lucy found herself surrounded by the set she had become so used to at the magazine: the aloof group of girls who had known each other from birth. Most of them were born with a title, or would marry someone who could give them one. Their outfits ranged from understated black Miu Miu dresses decorated with a string of pearls, to long flowing skirts with tight angora or cashmere cardigans.

  ‘Do you think that, in the eyes of the law, wearing anything by H&M would be a crime?’ Lucy whispered to Amy at the bar, where they ordered two vodka martinis.

  Lucy looked so different to the other girls, like she’d just stepped out of a magazine spread, yet somehow she was also the most natural-looking woman in any room.

  Other girls provided the background to a scene in which she seemed always to be bathed in a radiant spotlight. Most enchanting of all was that Lucy seemed to have no knowledge of her magnetic presence. She was elegant and dignified but never cocksure or blasé.

  Lucy’s calf-length Matthew Williamson berry-pink-satin skirt clung to her curves in the style of a glamorous fifties star, and a crisp fitted white shirt from Zara was virtually indistinguishable from the new Prada range – even to the most cynical fashionista’s eye.

  A fashionable thick black belt which covered her entire midriff, matched with black Manolo heels, completed the flawless look.

  On the inside, Annabel’s was surprisingly similar to many clubs in cities up and down the country. After walking down a narrow corridor Lucy and Amy came to the square bar, where Hartley and his friends were gathered round an ice bucket of champagne. In front of the bar were cosy booths framing a dance floor.

  The mood was relaxed and low-key, the room bathed in dim orange light, giving an intimate air.

  Lucy knew exactly who Hartley was when she spotted him at the bar. She had read a piece in her magazine a few months earlier on the country’s most eligible bachelors and he had topped the list.

  Hartley lived in London, where he ran a charitable foundation, but spent at least a week each month in Scotland. Lucy’s own family lived in Broughty Ferry near Dundee; it was on the east coast, like Edinburgh, and was just over an hour’s drive from the capital. Of course, it was no wonder they hadn’t met before. They may both have boarded at English schools and called Scotland ‘home’ but their worlds were so different. Hartley probably didn’t have a single friend outside the blue-blooded set he had grown up with.

  Lucy
stood back and talked to Amy while a gaggle of girls tittered and vied for his attention. She noted that in the flesh this sought-after young man was rather attractive.

  He had the classic physical characteristics of the upper class. Standing at six foot, Hartley had dishevelled dark blond hair framing a cheery, rosy-cheeked face. His eyes held a boyish charm, and even the dim lights failed to hide a jovial twinkle. He reminded Lucy of a man in a grand painting – the kind you see in castles. He could have come straight out of the seventeenth century with an old-fashioned aura no amount of trendy clothes or haircuts would transform. He looked like he’d just finished riding on a chilly day and come inside for a whisky to warm up. Hartley’s clothes were the staple Ralph Lauren casual uniform of chinos, open-necked shirt, V-necked fine wool jumper and Missoni boat shoes, mirrored on his old school chums.

  Lucy thought he looked rather kind; but he was probably pompous, like so many of the over-privileged twits she’d met on the London fashion circuit, accompanying their stony-faced girlfriends who were on their fifth ‘gap year’ since leaving university.

  Lucy turned to chat to Amy, who was asking for fashion advice about an outfit to wear to an ex’s wedding. What girl wouldn’t want to look good enough to eat on an ex’s big day?

  Turning her full attention to Amy, Lucy assured her friend she would look nothing short of mouth-watering for the occasion and she had just the dress at home for her.

  Lucy’s indifference to Hartley, mixed with her natural beauty, attracted him. Within twenty minutes of her arrival, Hartley had introduced himself. This was most out of character for the Earl of Balmyle, who was used to sharing jokes with his chums or making polite chit-chat with the girls in their circle, most of whom he had known since he was a boy.

  Hartley was unpractised at the art of approaching ‘new’ people, preferring the easy comfort of old pals.

  ‘Hello, are you having a good evening?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good. I’m Hartley. Pleased to meet you.’