Caroline raised her glass to Lexy’s, not letting her seething resentment show on her face. Caroline had spent months slaving away, for very little pay, on a book that required her to get to know Lexy in forensic detail, while Lexy didn’t even know whether Caroline was dating, or that she would prefer Venice to a sun and beach getaway if given the choice.
‘You heard all the kerfuffle with Frank, yeah?’ Lexy said, clearly in a chatty mood. ‘I got carried away with the pitch, but I should have known he’d react like that. He’s all “my kids are so precious and any dad who cheats on the mother of his children should be flogged in the middle of Trafalgar Square”, blah blah blah. I suppose I’ll have to apologize to him on my knees to make up, if you know what I mean.’
She flicked Caroline a wink, her mascaraed lashes fluttering theatrically up and down. Caroline, who had devoted two pages to Lexy’s vivid description of her blowjob technique, did indeed know exactly what her boss meant, and she felt a vivid, burning resentment at the image of Lexy with Frank’s cock in her mouth.
‘So what are you going to do for an extra publicity push when the book and the series come out?’ Caroline asked, dragging her brain back to the subject under discussion. ‘What was the Plan B?’
Caroline had a very keen interest in Lexy on the Loose becoming a runaway bestseller. Although she was not in line to earn royalties, if the book hit the Sunday Times top ten it would be a strong negotiating point for Caroline as she tried to get a book contract of her own, or to ghost another book for Lexy for a higher rate of pay.
‘Ah, not much,’ Lexy said gloomily. ‘Stage a feud with that Josie slag. Say that she was coming on to Frank and I had to drag her off – you know, keep any idea that Frank was flirting with her out of it, just make it about me being jealous. But I was like, why should I give her any publicity? The whole catfight thing’s so been there, done that. Half the stupid cows who’ve got columns in the weeklies just make ’em up if they’re running short of stuff to say – Michelle thinks Katie’s new hair extensions are ugly, so Katie slaps back next week saying that Michelle still hasn’t got the baby weight off – I mean, the fans aren’t morons, they just flick past it. Besides, Josie’s fifteen years younger than me. I’d look like an insecure older bitch worrying about the younger slags on the scene.’
Caroline had to admit that Lexy’s instincts were spot on. As good as Lexy looked at thirty-seven, Josie Santana was not only stunning but had the full freshness of youth, possessing not only a pneumatic figure and a naturally good head of hair, but the impressive flexibility of someone who had been taking dance classes since she was five. She was a very average singer, but her signature move, which was to touch her toes with one hand while holding the microphone in the other, still singing while she wiggled her bottom in the air, never failed to draw attention.
‘That’s the thing about PRs,’ Lexy continued, barely bothering to lower her voice, even though the room was filled with them. ‘They never work for just one client, you know? Unless you’re, like, Tom Cruise. So they’re never thinking of only your interests. This Josie shit’s very typical – Emily represents her as well, so for them it’s easier to tie us together, get two campaigns for the price of one. But to quote Marilyn Monroe, there’s always one person who gets the fuzzy end of the lollipop, and that’s not going to be me. They’ve had loads more of my money over the years than they’ve had from Josie Santana, for fuck’s sake!’
And this was simply the perfect opportunity served up to Caroline on a shining silver platter.
‘If there’s going to be an age difference, shouldn’t it be a younger guy chasing you?’ Caroline suggested as casually as she could manage. ‘Everyone would believe it. Look how Deacon came on to you at the awards ceremony! I haven’t shown you that bit, but I put it in the second to last chapter of the book – all the back and forth banter and the “MILF on Fire” stuff. It came out really well. He was totally into you.’
She stood up.
‘I should get back to work,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually sending the book off today!’
But Lexy’s hand closed around her forearm, guiding Caroline back down to the dining chair.
‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘What did you just say?’
Chapter Twenty
‘Well, look who it is! My favourite cougar!’ Deacon crowed happily as he embraced Lexy.
Deacon was in better shape tonight – at the launch party to celebrate the new, limited-edition flavour of a famous vodka brand – than he had been at the awards ceremony. He looked as if he had slept in the last few days, taken a long shower, used products to wash his hair rather than relying on the traditional hippie wisdom that the natural oils on his scalp were all it needed.
His curly locks were pulled back in a man bun, and the style threw his sharp cheekbones into devastating relief, making his eyes look even larger. His beauty was traditionally feminine, which was one of the reasons he had so many tween and teenage female fans. They were the age group that, not yet ready to engage with the full hairy horror of masculinity, preferred to swoon over relatively unthreatening, slim-hipped, smooth-skinned, pretty-featured young men.
‘What the fuck’s that on your head?’ Lexy countered as she stared at the bun. ‘Looks like you’ve got a dead rat up there.’
Deacon promptly reached up, pulled out the elastic and shook his hair free. As it cascaded around his face, sighs of appreciation could be heard from the party guests. Even Lexy had to dig her nails into her palms to stop a gasp issuing from her lips. The cliché of the boss only realizing the beauty of his secretary when she removed her glasses and took down her hair was so powerful because it was so effective: Deacon was just as handsome with his hair pulled back, but the cascade of curls tumbling down was very intimate. It was as if the scene had instantly shifted from public to private, bar to bedroom, evoking a sexual atmosphere, suggesting that the next thing he would do would be to unbutton his shirt even further.
‘That better?’ he purred.
Lexy swallowed hard.
‘Well, at least it doesn’t look like something died on your head any more,’ she managed to say.
‘You tell me to shave my head, I’ll do it,’ Deacon said recklessly, at which his long-suffering manager squealed in horror.
‘He does not mean that,’ the manager said firmly, as Josie Santana, her lavish curves poured into a canary-yellow catsuit cut practically to her navel, her torrent of hair tumbling around her shoulders, slinked up beside Deacon and wrapped her arm through his.
‘I’d never ask you to shave your head, sexy!’ she said, reaching up to stroke his hair.
The response to this was, for a woman as experienced as Lexy, a simple matter. Lexy ignored Josie completely, shot Deacon a fleeting, but dazzling smile, and turned her back on him to talk to the PR whose drink account was organizing this launch party. Screens around the room flashed the name of the flavour, Cloudberry, together with striking nature photos of the bright orange-yellow berry, shaped like a stunted raspberry, and of the golden-tinted bottle.
‘So we’re supposed to drink this stuff to cheer us up as we watch all the gloomy TV series about Swedish paedos?’ she said, pitching her voice loudly enough to reach Deacon’s ears.
The PR for Clearly, the vodka brand, tittered nervously.
‘Um, let’s not use the “p” word?’ he said. ‘But yeah, it’s definitely like a marketing awareness that everything Nordic is super-hot right now. Or cool!’
He laughed immoderately at his own joke.
‘Do you like the flavour?’ he asked. ‘It’s a little tart, but in tastings we found that—’
‘Yeah, it is a bit. But I put lemon in my white wine, so I don’t mind that,’ Lexy said, finishing off her shot and setting the empty glass back on the tray a waiter was proffering. She took another one, and tilted the miniature glass to look at the way its base was gold-tinged to reinforce the branding.
‘These’re nice,’ she said. ‘Can
I get a set?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ the PR started, ‘if you could—’
‘Oh yeah, I’ll tweet and Instagram away, no worries,’ Lexy said, flicking her fingers to summon Brandon, who had been assigned to social media duties that evening. ‘And I’ll put it in my column,’ she added. ‘With a pic of me at home drinking it from my new glasses, okay? I actually like this stuff, so I’m cool with that.’
She finished off the second shot of cloudberry vodka and took a third from the tray.
‘It’s very rich in vitamin C,’ the PR assured her.
‘Oh great, I’ll make sure to finish the bottle then,’ she said drily.
As she had known he would, Deacon appeared beside her, having succeeded in detaching Josie.
‘Hey,’ he said in her ear. ‘I told her they were doing free STD tests over by the bar and she shot off. Must be in need of one.’
Lexy snorted an unsisterly laugh.
‘You’re the one that probably needs a test,’ she said.
‘Will you fuck me if I show you my latest results?’ Deacon said. ‘Go on, say yes! I’m a really good shag and clean as a whistle.’
Lexy couldn’t help giggling.
‘You are blatant,’ she said, as Brandon held a thumb up to indicate that he was ready to take a series of photos which he would then tweet and Instagram from Lexy’s account.
Watch and learn, Lexy thought smugly, noticing Josie Santana sulking across the room. You may be able to get away with a catsuit that looks like someone spraypainted it onto you, but your social media’s really basic and your flirting skills are as obvious as a kick in the teeth. Watch and learn, little wannabe.
Expertly, she tore through a series of poses, nailing each one, the Cloudberry screen logo in the background, over one shoulder, visible throughout: she held up a bottle and a shot glass, looking excited, intrigued, and then saucy. She smiled next to the PR, making sure the bottle she was holding was front-faced to the camera, then brought in Deacon to take the vodka and pour her a glassful. She clinked shot glasses with the others, then posed with Deacon, natural-looking pictures of the two of them ‘sharing a laugh’, as society magazines used to caption party photos.
And then, knowing exactly what she was doing, she touched the tip of her tongue to the rim of her glass, winking at Deacon: he eagerly followed suit, licking his own glass as Brandon delightedly snapped away, their glasses so close that their tongues were nearly touching. The next thing she knew, the shot glass was whipped from her hand, a few drops of cloudberry vodka trickled over her dress, and Deacon’s mouth was on hers, his tongue now in her mouth, tasting so deliciously of the tart spirit that her instinct was to suck it hard, suck it like a lollipop and relish every sweet, sharp drop of juice . . .
Grabbing his shoulders, she pushed him away, managing to close her mouth to avoid being photographed with her mouth gaping open like a blow-up sex doll.
‘You are so fucking naughty!’ she complained, dabbing at her bosom. ‘Is this shit going to stain? This is a Hervé Léger dress!’
‘Buy you a new one if it does,’ Deacon said, grinning widely as he set down the two empty shot glasses: he knew perfectly well how much she had enjoyed the brief kiss.
‘Honestly, what are you like?’ Lexy said, tossing back her hair. ‘I’m going to have to wipe this down. Thank God it’s mostly black.’
‘Can we not use any shots of her with the product on her dress?’ the PR said hastily to Brandon, who rushed to assure him that no one had any intention of tweeting a photo of Lexy with a Clearly Cloudberry damp patch on her chest.
The bandage dress was vintage, an 80s style that was now back in fashion for those who had the curves to carry it off. Black, with red trim around the vestigial cap sleeves and low-cut bodice, it pushed Lexy’s boobs up and out, nipping in her waist with the clever design of the wide strapping which narrowed to a V over her belly button and then clung to her hips, giving her the perfect hourglass silhouette. There was a reason that all the supermodels in that decade had been curvaceous Amazons. The clothes of that period were designed to be worn by statuesque women, rather than the heroin-chic waifs of the 90s who had been the next incarnation of the ideal female figure.
Lexy had no intention of dabbing herself to dry the damp spot in public; people would snap photos, put them online with all sorts of snarky hashtags. She could just imagine the things they’d say – God knew, if it had happened to someone else, she’d have been sniggering about how she could wring plenty of innuendo from the words ‘Deacon’, ‘shot’ and ‘dress’ herself.
Wiggling across the room, the only way one could move in a bandage dress and five-inch Gina heels, she made her way to the ladies’ loos. The launch party for Clearly Cloudberry was being held on the big second-floor room of the Camden Club, a private members’ club to which Lexy had never been before. So she had no idea what was going on when she pushed open the toilet door and was greeted by the sound of a man’s voice saying:
‘It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself: “The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She’ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets!”’
‘What the fuck!’ Lexy exclaimed loudly as the voice continued:
‘“Where CAN I have dropped them, I wonder?” Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen – everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely.’
‘It’s a recording of Alice in Wonderland,’ a woman said, emerging from one of the only two cubicles; the other was empty. Lexy hadn’t heard a toilet flush, so she was unsurprised that instead of washing her hands, the woman was sliding a small packet of something back into her clutch bag and zipping it up. ‘It plays in a loop. We’ve got used to it by now, but non-members are always freaking out.’
‘Well, yeah!’ Lexy said, as the voice continued to narrate the book. ‘Especially having a man’s voice, you know? It makes you think there’s a perv in here trying to watch you take a pee.’
‘I know,’ the woman said, staring at herself narrowly in a mirror and checking the underside of her nostrils. ‘Believe me, we’ve all complained but they just won’t change it. Love your dress, by the way.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Lexy said as the woman smiled and clicked out of the bathroom. Lexy leaned across the long copper sink, designed for some reason to look like a farm trough, and turned on the closest tap, collecting drops on her fingertips to dilute the vodka that had splashed on her; since her artificially enhanced bosom protruded like a shelf just below her collarbones, it had landed there, the stain visible on the red trim of the dress, so that when the main door swung open again she was standing with her hands on her breasts, wiping them down.
‘Fuck me, that’s sexy,’ Deacon said, leering at her as the door swung shut behind him. ‘Look at you, holding your tits like you’re in a porno!’
Lexy had a few seconds to decide how best to handle this. The idea was to whip up a smallish, manageable scandal; that was the whole point of her being at this launch, which Deacon, she had ascertained from Emily’s team, would also be attending. Photos of Deacon snogging her unexpectedly as the two of them posed with vodka shots would not be shocking enough to capture much attention, as the public was very used to Deacon being his usual flirtatious, outrageous self. The shots would do for a Daily Mail sidebar, complete with some catty comments from the writer about the difference between her age and his, but no more than that. Deacon had dated women fifteen years older than him plenty of times before and would be out at another launch kissing another woman tomorrow night, chronicled by a new sidebar, his photos with Lexy forgotten.
No, Lexy needed more – but not too much more. Th
is was a dance for her to choreograph carefully. Enough of a story to get the press attention she needed to kickstart the book and the launch of the new series, yet not so outrageous that Frank went ballistic. She hadn’t warned her husband what she was up to tonight; hopefully she would be able to convince him that it had been quite by accident that she had ended up causing exactly the kind of headline-grabbing scandal which Emily and her team had recommended by way of publicity. Lexy knew perfectly well that Frank would hate this almost as much as the idea of him faking an indiscretion with Josie Santana.
Only Frank wouldn’t let Josie anywhere near him in real life, she thought now as Deacon stepped towards her. He’s a good guy. While if I’m being honest, if I wasn’t married, I’d throw Deacon on a bed and climb all over him like he was my personal jungle gym . . .
Her hands were still on her breasts. She dropped them to her hips and cocked one hip bone towards Deacon, an aggressive stance that had held off more men than she had had hot dinners.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing in here—’ she started, playing for time as she worked out a strategy.
And then her words turned into a squeal worthy of one of his teenage fans as he completely overrode her forbidding body language and lunged towards her. His mouth still tasted deliciously of vodka, sweet and tart, his hands cupped the back of her head as he kissed her, ridiculously expert for a twenty-four-year-old, and into her forward-tilted hips he pressed his crotch, his cock fully hard already and so big that the squeal turned into a full-throated moan of excitement.
‘Yeah, that’s what I’ve got for you,’ he muttered against her lips. ‘You like it, right? Fuck, you get me going, babe!’
Lexy had instinctively reached back and grabbed the copper trough behind her for balance as he grabbed her, making her totter on her precariously high heels. Much as she wanted to clamp her hands around his buttocks, grind that big cock even closer into her, she didn’t dare do anything that Deacon might take as encouragement. He was already turbo-charged. How could she have known he’d be this aggressive?
Killer Affair Page 20
