by Nigel May
Grinning with mischief, Amy stared Riley straight in the eyes and kept his gaze as she allowed one of her hands to travel down his body and cup his balls. She gave them a firmer than comfortable squeeze. 'Well, for your information, mister high-falutin mogul, this little lady is more than capable of doing everything this club needs and more. The business plan is done, I have agencies scouting for the right staff for me and the decor is going to be cool enough to blow any other club in the country out of the water. Got that?'
'I think me and my knackers are more than aware that you're the woman for the job, if you'd like to give them back to me in one piece!' He indicated her clenched hand and sighed slightly as Amy eased the pressure. 'Your strength and drive are two of the many reasons I adore you. I can't wait to see the club come to life.'
'I'll fill you in on the business plan tonight if you wish. I want to bounce some ideas off Laura today – share some rather fabulous thoughts I have for the club with her. If there's one thing that Laura and I have always loved doing together over the years it's strutting our way across a million dance floors so we know what makes a good one. And seeing as she doesn’t exactly have a lot of other things on her plate right now, she is more than keen to help. Plus we work well together. I'll fill you in over dinner this evening.'
Riley slipped his body out from beneath the sheets and stood naked at the side of the bed.
A crease of worry streaked across his face. 'It might have to wait until tomorrow. There's some business at the factory I need to attend to tonight. Trouble with some of the workers. I've had to call an after-hours meeting so I may be rather late. Very late in fact, if they don't play ball. Club talk will have to be postponed. I'm sure you're capable of not fucking it up on your own,' he laughed, turning away from Amy and heading towards their en-suite bathroom.
'You cheeky bugger,' laughed Amy, swiping at his naked ass with her hand as he walked away. 'This club will be amazing. You just wait ...'
It was true, she knew it would be. It was something she had always dreamed of, ever since she’d first gyrated her teenage hips to the dance tunes at her school disco. Music made her happy and more so if it made other people happy. And if Amy could make other people euphoric then she would have fulfilled her mission on earth. She would always remember how she felt as the DJ segued from one up-tempo slab of hi-BPM joy into the next. Her senses would fly and her spirits soar as she realised the tune that she would be dancing to next. Music was the ultimate power as far as she was concerned and the DJ was able to play God. It was a feeling that she still adored today, a sense of heaven, and running her own nightclub, employing the best DJs to play the best music, filling it with the rich and famous, the designer and the decadent was what she had always craved.
When she had suggested it to Riley, he had leapt at the chance, ready to let her realise her ambitions. It would be the finest club Manchester had ever seen. She knew it would work, she wouldn't let it be otherwise. She even had the name for it. In her mind she could already see the neon sign, beckoning party-goers nationwide. 'The Kitty Kat Club'. An homage to her favourite musical film, Cabaret, changing it from Kit to Kitty to give it a more modern and cutting edge feel. It was sassy, frothy and legendary and she was sure that it would have the allure to become the sound-filled destination of choice for those who had the right look.
As she watched Riley’s majestic ass move out of sight, Amy pulled the pillows towards her, squeezed them tightly and buried her head into their softness, stifling an excited squeal as she did so. She knew that the club would work.
She wasn’t wrong …
3
Then, May 2015, Manchester
* * *
‘Can you pass the loo roll under, Laura? I’ve used the last piece and I’m sure as hell not risking dripping dry,’ said Amy, reaching down to stick her hand under the toilet cubicle wall at what had become Manchester's number one nightclub, The Kitty Kat Club.
‘It’s yours,’ replied Laura Cash, a flurry of lace clothing and unmanaged hair in the next cubicle, as she pushed the toilet roll into Amy’s hand. ‘We need to get back to the dance floor and work those celebs, have you seen who’s in tonight?’ I think Eighties Night could be your finest moment yet, Amy. This place is becoming hotter than hell for your A-list celebrity and they appear to love a theme night. Everybody loves the retro vibe, even if most of them weren’t born when the eighties slipped into view. Half of soapville’s here, I’ve seen at least three X Factor champions and their clingy entourages and enough Made In Chelsea stars to make me think that SW3 in London must be a ghost town tonight. It is SW3, isn’t it? Chelsea? Oh who cares? London’s loss, Kitty Kat’s gain. And I suppose you’ve seen …’ Laura paused for effect before finishing her sentence. ‘… him? O M freaking G – no wonder this place has the ultimate reputation! I am so proud of you, Amy. What was it DJ magazine said about it ...?’
Amy joined her best friend and the woman who had helped her launch The Kitty Kat Club at the huge mirror screwed to the length of the toilet wall, passing her hands under the tap and then running them through her equally explosive hair. They could have used the office toilets provided for the staff, but Laura was insistent that the best gossip was always heard in the ladies’ loo. She wasn’t wrong. She’d already heard a winner of a US TV model show bemoaning to her stick-thin pal about how her latest squeeze, a top telly chef, ‘would have to go, as his fucking food is too calorific and I’ve already lost two contracts as I’ve ballooned to a size two. My agent is livid’. Laura, a woman who believed in the joy of food and curves had wanted to slap her, but Amy would never have forgiven her and the fallout on blogs and websites could have been catastrophic.
Amy’s dark roots contrasted in perfect eighties Ciccone-chic fashion with the mass of blonde swirls circling her face. They were both rocking the Like A Virgin Madonna look for the monthly step back in time night, a change to their normal ‘uniform’ of Dior, Prada and Stella McCartney.
Amy cleared her throat and began, pride bursting forth. ‘And I quote,’ she grinned. ‘“The Kitty Kat Club has become, in a short space of time, the favoured social haunt and haven for celebrities keen to be seen – a melting pot of models, megastars and most-wanteds with a dazzlingly dangerous air of decadence that the fashionable in-crowd thrive on …” or words to that effect, anyway. I believe DJ magazine went on to say, “Owner Amy Hart, and her sharp-suited husband, Riley, make the perfect team when it comes to pushing a club that will go down in the annals of Manchester history as the neon-floored nirvana to hang out at. Their range of theme nights and blistering superstar DJ sets cater for all of the UK’s clubbing elite and have made the Kitty Kat the purr-fect VIP hangout”. I know that quote by heart, but then it has been framed and hanging on my office wall ever since publication.’
Amy adjusted her fishnets – more holes than actual stocking – and sprayed herself with a cloud of Jo Malone perfume, one of the many supplied free at The Kitty Kat. Another reason for Laura not to use the office toilet.
‘Anyway ... him? I assume you’re talking about Grant Wilson? He does look sensational tonight, I must say. If I wasn’t married to the sexiest man in Manchester then maybe ... Are you not tempted to wave your cut-off gloves in his direction? He’s very you – he has a dick and a pulse after all and that’s normally all it takes,’ she joked. Make that half-joked, she knew Laura better than anyone. ‘God knows you could do with a decent bloke, Laura. Is there anyone on the go at the moment? Someone like Grant Wilson would be perfect for you.’
‘The man is divine, but he’s such a player,’ Laura sighed, not sounding overly convincing. ‘I guess being the hot-shot on TV’s number one medical drama means you can prescribe any woman you like to satisfy your lust. I really don’t think he’s after me and I wouldn’t want him if he was. I’ve been with better. Plus, he looked like he was sniffing around Genevieve Peters when we came down here.'
There was a distinct sneer in Laura's voice as she continued. 'There is
something about that woman that irks me. She may own one of the best clothes shops in Manchester but she always looks like she doesn’t really want to be here. Like someone has just shoved a shit sandwich under her nose. She’s welcome to him if he wants her. But yes, he does look pretty good, even if he has ignored the eighties dress code, you should speak to his PR about that ... anyway, don’t worry about me, I’m very well catered for in that department.’ Laura let out a shrill squeak of glee and signalled to the door.
‘Oh my God ... move it, girl, the DJ’s playing “Automatic” by The Pointer Sisters. Only one of the best tunes of the eighties.’ Laura’s love of good music was just as great as Amy’s. And they both loved music from across the decades. It was one of the rare areas in life in which they were exactly alike.
‘Now, excuse me, but me and these beautiful Pointer Sisters are heading onto the dance floor ...’ She rearranged her sizable breasts within her T-shirt and bra combo, hoisting them into proud position.
* * *
Back in the main body of the club, Amy watched as her friend gyrated to the music, lost in its post-disco funk. This is what she loved about The Kitty Kat Club. The heat, the excitement, the joy, the variety. One night it would be all old-skool ‘You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)’, ‘Venus’ and ‘Girls On Film’ and the next it would be back-to-back slabs of banging dance that had managed to explode on the dance floor of The Kitty Kat weeks before they became top five on iTunes. And the Club was all hers. Hers and Riley’s.
* * *
‘Another successful night then, angel, you should be proud of yourself.’ The voice came from behind her as a pair of strong, solid arms protectively looped around her waist. Their touch was comforting and familiar. Riley.
‘Laura looks like she is seriously enjoying herself as ever. Is any man safe?’ He spoke softly, his lips dancing their way across Amy’s neck as he did so. ‘It seems everyone’s having a good time. I see Grant Wilson is in the house ... not letting standards slips are we, Amy?’ There was an air of jest about his tone, but it was somewhat outweighed by an obvious layer of dislike.
Amy turned to face her husband. ‘Grant Wilson is a big draw for this place, despite what you think, Riley. He’s one of the most popular actors on TV and having him shimmy his way across our Manchester dance floor instead of hanging out down south in London will only gain us extra column inches, so bite your tongue, big boy.’ She placed two fingers on Riley’s lips to emphasise her point.
‘Doesn’t stop him being a prize twat, does it? Don’t like him, never will.’ Despite his manly appearance there was more than a hint of childishness in Riley’s voice.
‘That’s your opinion, Riley,’ teased Amy, rising on tip-toe to kiss her husband’s forehead. ‘I know you were school rivals and that you can’t stomach him, but business is business. If his PA keeps asking me to give him free membership to here then I am more than happy to have him here. His presence keeps The Kitty Kat Club leader of the pack for kudos. And anyway, he could never be as sexy as you, could he, so why don’t you take your adoring wife out onto that heaving sweaty dance floor and show her a few moves of your own?’
* * *
It was true that The Kitty Kat Club was a heaving mass of bodies that night. People would look back on that evening for many moons to come and think about what had happened there. Amy herself would analyse it over and over again. But it had all happened so fast ...
She and Riley had danced together for most of the night. As joint owner of the club, it was important for Amy to be seen to be enjoying herself but, as ever, the needs of her customers came first. Especially the famous ones. Even if it meant bending the rules.
‘Where do I go to buy some drugs in this place?’ A sweaty, obviously drunk and yet still strikingly handsome Grant Wilson was clearly in the mood to party. His teeth were icy white and contrasted against the sun-kissed richness of his skin. Amy guessed the tan was out of a bottle but it suited him nevertheless. His fitted white shirt, damp with perspiration, clung tightly to his obviously sculpted frame. It was Savile Row and definitely this season. Amy couldn’t help but notice it. It complimented the black Levi’s he was wearing to perfection, a fusion of monochrome magic. But eighties it was not. Maybe some people are too cool for a splash of retro, thought Amy, before deciding to voice her opinions.
‘It’s great to have you here. But the dress code obviously passed you by.’
Grant laughed and spoke with a distinct air of cockiness. ‘When my PA told me it was eighties night I did consider a Miami Vice rolled up sleeve and a perma-tan but I thought I’d leave that to Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx. It suited them better.’ He grinned broadly, an obvious mixture of alcohol and self-amusement, before adding, ‘I may be working with Farrell soon. He’s aware of my work, shall we say.’
‘I’ll be sure to recommend you next time he’s in,’ smiled Amy, contemplating that only someone as handsome as Grant could namedrop LA elite in such a cocky way and get away with it.
‘Yeah, he wants me and Evie Merchant in his next flick apparently,’ stressed Grant, proving Amy’s point once more by throwing the name of one of Hollywood’s top starlets into the mix. ‘Anyway, I’m not the only one flouting your dress code. There are quite a few 2015 fashions in here. The likes of Genevieve Peters have been busy. Now, about these drugs?’
Amy knew what she had to do. Growing up on the rougher side of Manchester had taught her about the want for drugs even if it was something that neither she nor Laura had ever been tempted by. They could get high on an extended Britney remix.
But the equation of club culture plus celeb culture equalled drug culture and a streetwise Amy sprang into action. She had already done it for countless celebrities since the club opened two years earlier. ‘I trust you’re enjoying yourself.’ There was definitely something charismatic about Grant. Amy could definitely see why the public adored the cocky actor, even if her husband clearly didn’t.
‘It’s cool. Very. I’ve partied all over the world but I’ll spread the word. Now, is it you I see about getting myself a little wasted?’
Amy nodded. ‘It sure is ... follow me.’
She guided Grant to her office, raising her hand briefly on the way to gain the attention of a young woman standing on a mezzanine on the far side of the club. The action was slight but effective. The woman, knowing exactly what was required, followed Amy and Grant to her office.
‘Grant, this is Lily Rich, a good friend of mine, part time DJ here at the club and the lady who owns the candy store, if you get my drift?’ indicated Amy.
‘Ah, I see drug dealers are much prettier in Manchester than the ones I’m used to down south,’ smiled Grant, swaying a lot as he spoke, his voice more than a little slurred. Indeed, the woman standing in front of him was gamine in appearance with short, deep red hair close against her face and the largest, most inviting green eyes he had ever seen. She must have been about twenty-two. Her legs seemed to go on for forever, ending in a skirt barely an inch or two wider than a belt. She wore the tiniest T-shirt with a skull and crossbones logo on it and her face was smudged with a hint of make-up. To Grant, she looked strangely pure. ‘What an angelic beauty. So what are you offering?’ His tone was half-sleaze, half-drama, obviously bladdered.
Amy couldn’t help but smirk at Grant’s use of the word ‘angelic’ – she knew exactly what was coming next.
Right on cue, Lily launched into action. ‘Okay, cut the bullshit. I’m not interested in your flirty crap, Mr Big Shot Actor off the TV. If you’ve got the cash then I have the drugs.’ She stripped off her T-shirt and unhooked her bra, revealing a small yet perfectly formed pair of breasts, one with a pierced nipple. Grant’s mouth fell open. He’d worked in enough theatres and shared enough backstreet dressing rooms before his TV success to have seen a woman undress before but Lily’s actions still took him by surprise.
‘What’s the matter, you never seen a pair of tits before? Don’t get excited. It’s just where I keep my sta
sh.’
She unzipped the back of the bra which had obviously been padded with her goods. She threw a selection of small plastic bags onto the table in front of the actor.
‘I’ve got uppers, downers, Charlie, pills, Mandy, K and weed. I don’t accept sexual favours so if you’re thinking a quick bunk up in the bogs is decent payment then do one. Now take your pick ...’
Within seconds the deal was done and a semi-frightened Grant had paid for two bags of coke. He watched as Lily stuck her hand up her skirt and added his payment to a roll of notes she obviously had hidden in her knickers. Tucking the roll back where she found it, she placed her bra and T-shirt back on and marched from the room. ‘See ya. Amy, if anyone else wants stuff you know where I am,’ she called cheerily as the door shut behind her.
Grant was still stood open-mouthed as Lily disappeared from view. He was struck dumb for a number of minutes.
It was Amy who broke the silence. ‘She’s fun, isn’t she? One of a kind. That was Lily Rich, but we prefer to call her ‘Filthy’ for obvious reasons ...’
Grant had no trouble understanding why.
* * *
As Amy escorted Grant back into the club again she saw Riley seated in one of The Kitty Kat’s booths. The scowl that passed between her husband and the actor was obvious. Luckily for Amy, the smile Riley flashed her was sufficiently placatory to show that he didn’t seem to mind Amy fraternising with his childhood rival. The customer always came first. And besides, Riley was obviously busy.
