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 wou
ld 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.
Chapter Fourteen
Lexy was quite right. Silantra definitely did want to fuck her. But instead of the time-honoured methods for signalling this – asking her to stay behind in her suite as all the other guests were ushered out of the party and then making a pass at her on the sofa, or going into the bedroom and calling Lexy through in sultry tones, only for her to find her hostess lying on the bed entirely naked – it had been handled much more formally. Silantra had described it exactly when she had told Lexy that her team would talk Lexy through it. On her arrival at the party, Silantra’s PA had taken Lexy into the meeting room of the lavish suite, where Silantra’s manager was waiting; sitting Lexy down, they had produced a contract for her to sign.
‘This is longer than the contract for my TV show!’ Lexy said, looking at the thick wodge of paper.
‘American lawyers,’ said the manager laconically. ‘Charge a lot, put out a ton of paperwork to justify it. This is all pretty standard – total confidentiality, in perpetuity. Which means if you ever talk about anything that happens between you and Silantra, even in forty years’ time, we come and we take your kids, your house, your savings accounts, your implants, your veneers . . .’
Lexy raised her eyebrows.
‘That’s pretty comprehensive,’ she said drily.
‘We hafta be,’ he said, spreading his hands wide. ‘You’re in the biz – you get it, right? Public face, private fun. Oh, and there’s a clause in there that says we can search you for video recording devices, just FYI. We had an . . . issue a year ago re that, sad to say. Some people are totally unscrupulous.’
‘I’m not carrying hidden camera pens,’ Lexy said. ‘I didn’t have time to nip to the spy shop.’
She riffled, fascinated, through the pages of the contract, her brain racing. When she had told Caroline that Silantra wanted to fuck her, she hadn’t remotely imagined herself taking up the offer. She had never had sex with a woman before, and, unlike many who regretted not having had a lesbian encounter before settling down with a man, it had not been on Lexy’s radar. Frankly, with all the men coming at her in waves, as it were, she hadn’t even had time to consider another option.
Of course, she should reject this proposition out of hand. She was only stalling, she told herself, because this process was so fascinating, and she wanted to find out all the details of how the real A-list ran its private life. And yet . . .
Lexy dearly loved a negotiation, and her financial success was a clear demonstration of how well she conducted them. It was impossible to resist exploring what concessions she could extract in return, how she could use this as the biggest career boost imaginable.
‘So what would I get out of signing something saying you can come and take my implants in forty years?’ she asked, setting down the contract. ‘You give something to get something, right?’
‘You want to negotiate a fee? Not a problem,’ the manager said, as if this were a perfectly normal request. ‘Want to suggest a ballpark figure?’
Lexy’s jaw dropped at the revelation that a fund existed for precisely this kind of situation. She supposed that she could understand it. Anyone banned from ever talking about something as juicy as sex with Silantra would have the same question that Lexy had just posed: what do I get in return for signing the kind of legal document that would financially eviscerate me if I break its terms by indulging in the juicy gossip I’m dying to share?
‘No,’ she said, thinking fast. ‘I’d love her to make an appearance on my show. We’re filming the next season now – could we set up something in the next few days, while she’s in London? My crew would definitely scramble to make that happen.’
‘Huh,’ the manager said. ‘She does have a day off tomorrow, as it happens. She was going to hit the boutiques, do some shopping. And she’s not scheduled to fly back till Wednesday, so we have some flexibility with the timeframe . . .’
He drummed his fingertips lightly on the wenge wood of the table top.
‘You guys wait here while I go have a word with her and see what she says, okay? She might actually go for it – she’s pretty spontaneous.’
He stood up. It was the make or break moment. Up till now, Lexy had been able to tell herself she had just been playing along with the situation, seeing how far she could push it. But if she let him leave the room, she was practically committed to doing this, cheating on Frank. It was something she had never done, never thought she would ever do. She loved her husband, was entirely committed to him. Although she certainly wouldn’t have ruled out getting married purely for the publicity and the photo rights – half the reality stars she knew had done it – her marriage to Frank was entirely authentic, and she had meant every word of her vows.
Yet . . . this was the most famous reality star in the world, someone companies practically begged to pay huge sums for an endorsement of their products! An appearance by Silantra on Lexy’s show would take Lexy to a whole different level of fame, maybe even help her crack the US, something she had always dreamed of achieving. And Silantra was absolutely gorgeous; it would be very easy to get naked with her.
Was it really cheating if it was with a woman? Frank wouldn’t like it – well, that wasn’t putting it strongly enough. He would absolutely hate it. But he would never know! The beauty of the confidentiality agreement was that it protected Lexy as well as Silantra; since every single member of Silantra’s entourage would certainly have signed it, there was no way word could possibly get out . . .
She hesitated, visibly torn, taken aback to realize how powerfully she was tempted by the dizzying prospect of having Silantra on her show. If Lexy had been asked, before this moment, what she needed to take her career to the next level, she would have unquestionably put filming with Silantra at the top of the list. And now it was within her grasp, as if a fairy godmother had waved a magic wand and granted her a wish. Only, instead of leaving the ball before midnight, Lexy was specifically required to stay on. And she had always loved a good afterparty.
Lexy opened her mouth to tell the manager not to confer with Silantra. That she had been just playing around, that she had no intention of cheating on her husband. That he would be wasting his time.
But the words simply would not come out.
The cliché about big stars having lawyers on speed dial turned out to be entirely accurate. After a brief discussion with Silantra, who proclaimed herself more than happy to film with Lexy the next day, within a mere half an hour a one-page amendment to the confidentiality contract had been faxed through from Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra’s lawyers in LA, and duly signed by both the manager and Silantra herself. Lexy had signed the confidentiality contract then immediately rung her producer to scramble up her crew. The producer, near-sobbing with happiness on hearing that L
exy had snagged Silantra for her show, had immediately started tweeting the fantastic news.
‘Hey, let’s film us going shopping,’ Silantra suggested to Lexy as she lounged on the huge bed of the master bedroom. ‘My fans love the shopping scenes, plus I get shitloads of free stuff, too. What about my team ringing the PR of Harrods? We could do, like, an episode where you show me London. Remember what that jerk Darrell said? The queen of American TV visits the queen of British TV. You take me to Harrods, we shop for shoes and stuff, and then we have tea, but you have some champagne and we have that conversation about wine and being pregnant that we did in the theatre bar. You know, I say I hate not drinking and you talk about your wine hashtag and how things are different in Europe. Then I can say how I hate putting on weight being pregnant and we can talk about that and how you got the weight off. Then you can offer me, like, a cream puff, or whatever you eat over here for tea, and we can laugh about how many calories it has.’
Lexy stared at her, dumbstruck. Not only was this by far the longest speech she had heard Silantra make, but Lexy had completely failed to grasp how very well attuned Silantra was to anything that might work for her TV show. Lexy had thought they were just making casual conversation in the theatre bar; Silantra, however, had been processing every word through an automatic filter, deciding what was show-worthy and what was not.
‘You could get us approval to film at Harrods tomorrow, just like that?’ Lexy asked, when she had got her breath back. ‘Because that’s really hard to—’
‘I can get anywhere, pretty much,’ Silantra said casually. ‘Do you know how many followers I have on Instagram? Seventy million. Twitter? Fifty million. I’m top ten in the world on both.’
‘Fuck, I thought I was doing pretty well,’ Lexy said wryly. ‘Don’t ask me how many I have, okay?’
‘You’ll have tons more already,’ Silantra said matter-of-factly, ‘now that we tweeted a pic of us together backstage at the awards ceremony. Check your phone.’
Killer Affair Page 14
