You probably don’t remember me. I had the copy of Heatwave that you signed. I was so faint from queuing all night that I didn’t have a chance to say what the album means to me . . .
Next time you are in Japan please visit my town. Me and my sister love you. I want to be a singer . . .
Can you write my daughter a letter? Last June she was diagnosed with lupus. She is in hospital now and it would make her very happy. . .
He heard boots on the stripped floorboards of the living room. A lot of people, moving fast, coming towards him. Belsey eased the door closed. Then he heard Amber’s voice.
‘So here they are. My babies,’ she said. ‘This is what they’ll look like.’
There was some discussion.
‘Let’s try one with you picking it up,’ a man said.
They were filming right outside the door.
Belsey waited. After ten minutes they began setting up another shot.
He sat down on a box of nutritional supplements. It was a curious feeling, hiding in Amber Knight’s house. The world’s media was focused on the place and he was secret within it, sheltering in the eye of the storm. He picked up a bottle of CocoVodka with a note attached: ‘Amber, we think you’ll love this new concept . . .’
He opened a sachet of the nutritional supplement and poured it into the new coconut-flavoured vodka sensation. He unwrapped a gluten-free energy bar, sat with his back against the door, read the fan mail and drank.
4
THERE WAS SOMETHING CALMING ABOUT hearing the crew clear up, the entourage rush about, the whole operation wind down. Belsey waited until it was silent, then waited for the silence to deepen. He wanted a clear exit out. No Amber, no release forms. He rested his eyes and dozed for a bit.
By the time he tried the door his phone said 7.30 p.m. The ground-floor lights were off. Grey twilight shrouded the swing seat and the piano. The house felt empty. Belsey crossed the living room then stopped, listening to the floors upstairs.
No one.
He imagined Amber out on the town, fulfilling her responsibilities to glamour. Eating sushi, drinking champagne. He couldn’t imagine her arriving back any time soon.
He walked upstairs, found the kingsize bathroom, urinated, washed his hands and face. There was a small, golden gramophone amongst the body lotions: AMBER KNIGHT: BEST POP VOCAL ALBUM. He lifted it, put it back.
He sat on the edge of the bath.
He really hoped Mark Doughty wasn’t killing anyone. Out there in the lonely world, with his aspirations to fame and his latent chemistry degree. He’d email his security advice to Milkshake Management. Maybe he’d put an anonymous call in to Kentish Town CID. Not that it would be taken very seriously. He didn’t expect to be thanked.
Amber’s voice broke the silence.
‘No, that’s not what she said to me. She said it was Conor she was worried about – what might happen to him. She’s just not dealing with it . . .’
She was walking across the living room. In a second she would see the light from the bathroom at the top of the stairs.
‘Ask her. I don’t know.’ It was a phone conversation. She was alone. ‘Yes. Tonight. I’ve got to go now . . . Yes, OK.’ There was a big sigh, then footsteps into the hallway. Belsey eased himself to his feet and went out onto the landing. The steps stopped.
‘Hello?’ Amber called, voice uncertain.
Belsey considered escape.
‘Hello?’ Amber called up again.
‘Hey,’ Belsey called brightly. ‘It’s me, Nick, the security guy. Just finishing off.’
He saw her anxious face, peering from halfway up the stairs. She wore a cropped T-shirt and leggings. She still had her hair and make-up from the filming.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just some final checks.’ He walked meaningfully towards a window and took hold of its handle.
‘When did you get these window locks installed?’ Belsey asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are they connected to the main alarm system?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you’d gone.’
‘I didn’t want to leave these unchecked.’
He rattled the handle. She stared at him – a little like he was mad, but not scared or disbelieving any more.
‘OK.’
She went back downstairs. He took a breath. Felt momentarily the dizzy thrill of being alone with Amber Knight in her darkened mansion. Went down.
Amber sat cross-legged on the living-room sofa, staring at her phone. She had a wine glass and a half-full bottle of Stolichnaya on the table in front of her.
‘Sorry about that,’ Belsey said. ‘I’m off now. Good to meet you.’
She looked up.
‘Where are you going?’ She didn’t sound angry. Sad, maybe. What a lot of house to be alone in. There was something melancholy about all that glass, looking onto darkness. He wondered if she’d locked it. Wondered how full the bottle had been.
‘Honestly? I’ve no idea where I’m going.’
‘How long are you paid for?’
‘What do you mean?’
Amber took a deep breath. ‘I need a favour. I sent them all away. I couldn’t take it. And now I’m stuck.’
‘You’re stuck.’
‘I need to get out. Badly. I mean, I need to not be here. Not be sitting here alone. There’s a thing, in town. I thought I wasn’t going to have any security. I didn’t think I was going to go.’
‘Right.’
‘And, you know, I’m worried about this stalker,’ she added.
‘I think you’re right to worry.’
‘I can pay overtime,’ Amber said. And she suddenly looked tearful, as if something had broken. ‘I just don’t want to be here.’
‘You’re asking me to accompany you?’
‘Literally for two hours, there and back. And I’d make it worth your while.’
Her expression was blank again now – another rapid change.
Belsey tried to think of any reason he shouldn’t. He made a show of checking his phone, as if it connected to a life.
‘Sure,’ he said, nodding. ‘That’s possible.’
‘You could do that?’
‘For two hours, why not? What’s the event?’
‘It’s a launch, an after-party thing – for Beluggi. I mean, they’re old but they’re doing bags now. It won’t be very special. Fashion people, cocktails. It’s being run by a friend of mine. I’m meant to be an ambassador, you see.’
‘I see. Well, it sounds fine.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ Amber ran a knuckle beneath her eyes. ‘I’ll get dressed and order us a car. Wait there.’
Belsey took a seat on the sofa. She needed a chaperon. An entourage. Was that it? He got up, checked all the doors and windows were locked – for real this time. He saw someone in the garden, the reflected ghost of himself. He tucked his shirt in.
Amber has a schedule. What I’d appreciate is, if she goes anywhere that isn’t pre-arranged – I mean, by Karen or myself – you let me know.
He took the schedule out of his back pocket. No mention of tonight’s party. He was still mulling this when Amber came downstairs in a very short, tight blue dress.
‘Is it OK?’
‘Yeah, it’s definitely OK.’
She spun. It was backless. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Amber glanced at her phone. ‘He’s here. Let’s go.’ She grabbed a black leather jacket. ‘What’s your name again?’ she said.
‘Nick.’
‘Nick, I really appreciate this. You’re a life-saver.’
5
A MERCEDES E-CLASS WAITED ON the pristine gravel of Amber’s drive. Tinted windows. A silver-haired man stood beside it in uniform, Shield Executive Cars stitched across the breast pocket. He opened a passenger door for Amber, eyed Belsey cautiously.
‘Sit in the back with me,’ Amber said.
They slid in.
‘Are there still people outside?’ Amber asked the driver.
‘One or two.’
Amber bent over her knees, assuming the crash position. The driver leaned out, pressed a button and the gates opened. Belsey sunk down into his seat. He heard camera clicks as they turned fast into the road. At the next corner, Amber straightened and turned to peer through the rear windscreen. The driver adjusted his mirrors, glanced back. They weren’t being followed.
The car relaxed. Belsey pushed back into the cool leather seat. He cut a look at his companion. Up close, in the unexpected light of a Mercedes interior, her face was smaller than he’d thought, the features larger on it. Maybe it was just that she looked real. Her eyes were almond-shaped and emotionally opaque. Hooded, it seemed, though they were wide open. Her hair contained every shade from burnt caramel to pale blonde.
She looked focused, almost nervous; legs crossed, a silver clutch on her bare thighs, phone dangling a Chanel charm. Her engagement ring bore a rock of yellow diamond the size of a grape. He couldn’t tell if their silence was awkward. Presumably security guards didn’t initiate conversation. Amber stared out of the window as they left Camden. Then she turned and studied Belsey.
‘Where did you get that ID card? Of the stalker?’
‘His bedroom.’
‘His bedroom? Where does he live?’
‘Herbert Street. It’s towards Kentish Town.’
‘Did you meet him?’
‘No. He’s gone missing.’
‘Oh great.’ She swung her phone up. ‘Herbert Street,’ she said, typing it in. Her nails were silver, tiny crystals set into the varnish. ‘Jesus, that’s right by me. Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure.’
Amber leaned back, groaned. She disappeared into her own head again. A moment later she snapped out of it: ‘This is good of you,’ she said. She patted Belsey’s thigh. She left her hand there when she’d finished patting, looking away from him, back out the window.
‘No problem,’ Belsey said.
Her hand slipped from his thigh and lay upturned on the seat between them. He opened a window.
‘Maybe keep the window closed,’ Amber said. He did as he was told. Amber hit a button and the air con sighed into life.
‘So where’s your fiancé?’ Belsey asked.
‘Guy’s finishing a hotel,’ she said to the tinted glass. ‘He’s in New York for a few days. There’s nothing he can do.’
‘That’s a shame.’
But he’d lost her again. Regent’s Park sped by. Belsey watched her reflection in the glass. Prescription meds, he speculated. Lucid but detached. Good state of mind to cruise through London in a blacked-out Merc. Let’s see where this goes. In a car, going to a club. Hardly out of his comfort zone. The worst that could happen to him was already happening, far away in his own life. It wasn’t happening here and wasn’t going to be made any more unpleasant by a night out.
Amber checked her phone again, then threw it onto the seat.
‘Never let a company sponsor your wedding.’
‘There are several reasons why that’s unlikely to be a problem.’
‘It’s crazy,’ she said, her eyes back on the passing streets. She pronounced each word slowly to the glass: ‘It’s all so fucking crazy.’ She turned to him. ‘Did you see Terri Baker today?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was she doing?’
‘Rifling your drawers.’
‘Can you keep her away from the house?’
‘I doubt it. Your PA says Terri’s on-side.’
‘Yeah? What else did she say?’
‘Not much.’
‘What did she say about me?’
Belsey hesitated. ‘It’s obviously an exciting time, with everything going on. You know – the perfume, the wedding. She wants you to be all right.’
Amber nodded, unconvinced. They passed Great Portland Street. Belsey saw police he recognised, West End night patrol, picking up coffees from Subway. He felt a dark joy uncurl in his stomach like adrenalin. The Merc was outrunning his sense of disbelief. They glided across Oxford Circus, cool as a state funeral, then cut into Mayfair. Amber watched the streets grow narrow and exclusive.
‘What do you think life is for?’ she asked. She didn’t look at Belsey. It was only when he’d been contemplating the answer for a few seconds that she turned. Her face was calm, quite beautiful.
‘I don’t know.’ Which was the honest answer. She looked away again. A few seconds later the car began to slow.
Amber flipped a panel in the back of the driver’s seat and checked her face in a mirror. Outside, street level had become embassies, boutiques, luxury hotels. Belsey wondered if he should sharpen his look. Before the thought was completed they were pulling up on a small street at the back of Shepherd Market. No obvious club – just a red rope, a small tree in a pot, and two tall men in long grey coats.
‘Where are we?’ Belsey asked.
‘Loulou’s.’
He’d never heard of it. The rope was unclipped before they were out of the car.
‘Evening, Ms Knight. Sir.’
The security nodded, smart and serious. Amber took Belsey’s arm as they passed through a doorway with steep steps leading down. They appeared briefly in the mirrored walls as they descended, an odd couple. But not without allure. Then someone pulled back velvet curtains and they stepped into the party.
Even with the laughter and music, you could sense awareness rippling through the crowd. The club was full and dark; a burnished, intimate darkness beneath ornate ceilings. A man with a grey moustache appeared from amongst the other guests, kissed Amber and shook Belsey’s hand as if genuinely delighted to see him. The crowd parted and they were ushered through to a secluded area at the back.
‘Amber!’ people cried. A mini VIP party was underway. There were a lot more kisses and handshakes, women in designer dresses and men in partially buttoned shirts.
‘This is Nick,’ Amber said.
‘I’m just security,’ Belsey kept saying. It became a double-act: This is Nick. I’m just security. He suspected a convincing security guard wouldn’t be doing what he was doing, which seemed to be gratefully receiving a mojito to start with.
‘I didn’t order it,’ he told the girl who gave it to him.
‘Do you want it?’ she laughed, and continued on her way. That was simple. Magical even.
‘I don’t usually drink on duty,’ he told someone.
‘Go on.’
He clinked glasses. He kept to the edges and managed to avoid the official photographer. The ice buckets also kept to the edges. Some had Bollinger champagne, some had Cîroc vodka with shot glasses in the ice. VIPs got their own little dance floor or they could venture out and dance with other people; global rich kids, white leather, pale blazers, gold heels.
Amber worked the crowd. Belsey left her to it. He met identical twins who had set up a production company and were in talks with Amber’s people, then someone who described herself as a fashion muse and thought this was even funnier than he did. Belsey wandered out of the VIP area. The main bar was a masterpiece, an art-deco explosion of brass and alligator skin. Belsey ordered a large Courvoisier and tried to pay. The barman wouldn’t accept his money. He took his cognac through various plush rooms, past chaises-longues and taxidermy. A giraffe’s head and neck emerged from the floor beside the stairs. Beyond it was an ornate salon, all crystals and purple wallpaper. He nodded at people, passed through another doorway into a sunken courtyard. A small, buzzy crowd of smokers had congregated amongst stone urns and a fountain lit with green spotlights. Someone came up to him.
‘You’re a friend of Amber’s.’
‘Sort of. New friend. Hanger-on.’
‘I recognise you.’
‘Really?’
Then he was in the group.
‘This is Nick. He’s a musician.’
‘Am I?’
‘Delighted to meet you, Nick. I love the jacket.’
> He relaxed into the role. He seemed to be able to hold his own amongst these people, who didn’t seem much less desperate or fraudulent than himself. They laughed at his jokes, talked speculatively about projects.
Someone brought more cocktails on a tray. ‘This is Eugenie, she’s from Switzerland, and this is Alastair.’
Before he knew it, he’d found a clump of dog-eared business cards at the back of his wallet and was giving them out.
‘It says Metropolitan Police, but don’t pay any attention to that. It’s my mobile number at the bottom. Nick Belsey.’
‘Metropolitan Police!’ He relished sullying the brand a final time, and felt light-hearted seeing the cards going.
‘I’m in the station. But there’s no station. That’s my mobile number. That’s all you need. I’m freelance.’
Freelance wasn’t a bad idea, he thought. They must all have stalkers, and he was doing a pretty good job of keeping everyone alive so far. He knew what private security charged. Someone gave him a glass snuff-bullet full of cocaine. He went to the toilets. The walls were covered in oil paintings. There were two men in suits who turned out to be the bodyguards of someone in a cubicle. The guards left. He chatted to a yacht broker for a while before Belsey realised the guy was trying to pick him up. By the time he returned to the courtyard he didn’t recognise anyone.
Then he met Chloe. As he remembered it she was standing alone, as if waiting for him. So it was easy to fall into conversation. She was very young, a brunette in a strapless black dress that left a lot of skin flushed with oblivious beauty; a nervous, virginal air involving single-sex education; wide blue eyes.
‘You’re the guy with Amber Knight.’
‘I came here with her. We’re not together. Obviously.’
‘You’re a musician.’
‘Not a very good one.’
They introduced themselves. Chloe’s expression flashed rapidly between polite smiles and something more inquisitorial. Both were charming in their own way. She had a turquoise pendant on her necklace that chimed nicely with her eyes. ‘I didn’t think Amber was coming tonight.’
‘She decided she wanted to. Do you know her?’
‘Not personally.’
The House of Fame Page 4
