The general manager dryly shook her hand at the end of the tour and she promised she would let him know. In truth, she had already decided to host the “gathering” there; she just wanted to place the booking with someone else.
And she did; the Deputy Manager took the booking the following day, closing the deal on a six-figure party at the palatial hotel.
Chapter LXXI
Ricky
Outside the wind and rain lashed the grey, monochromatic country with unforgiving abandon; movement in the High Street was quick and sporadic. All but those with the most pressing of business, opted to avoid venturing outside their warm homes into the unwelcoming day.
The Tempest had no choice; he met his lawyer at his local office and they took a taxi to the unassuming building located at the end of the High Street. A monument to 1960s architecture, while the peeling paint around the windows a reminder that the police budget had seen better days.
The Sergeant escorted them into a side room for the investigating officer to return; Ricky snarled at him when he told them to wait. “Sergeant,” his brief calmly spoke. “We were bailed to come to this station at noon exactly. I do not appreciate that the Metropolitan Police, who arranged for us to return at this particular time, have not made anyone available. Our attendance is not a surprise and we are busy men …”
“And so is DS Ratchford …”
“Fuckin' pigs,” snapped Ricky. “Yo man! Yo fuckin' wit' me 'cos me is workin' class.”
“My client is concerned that the Police are being uncooperative because of his socio-economic status. As I said …”
“I know what you said. But DS Ratchford was called out on urgent business and he knows you are here and will be with you as soon as he is able.”
“Can' be fuckin' bothered more like,” Ricky snapped, sliding into a seat and pulling out his mobile phone. He tapped away angrily, barely acknowledging his own lawyer who tried unsuccessfully to engage him about the case.
As Ricky's stated, he paid large amounts of money for his legal representatives to keep him out of trouble, and he had no interest in how his lawyer was going to ensure that he was a free man, just that his lawyer was successful.
Instead Ricky played on his phone; he sent flirtatious messages to dancers and girls he knew, and sent a selfie from the Police station to another woman. And he moaned: three times he went to the Desk Sergeant to complain and was nearly re-arrested on the final ocassion.
Eighty minutes late, DS Ratchford entered the room with the case file under his arm and holding a large cup of takeaway coffee. “Temple Street Coffee!” Ricky exclaimed. “Yo, you been livin' it large in the coffee shop while I've been sweatin' it in 'ere. That's fuckin' disgustin'.”
DS Ratchford glanced at his colleague, closing the door, with a bashful smirk. “They have the best swirls,” he replied. “This beautiful cinnamon and raisin, so wonderful. Worth it to go that bit further.”
“Yo disrespectin' me!”
“Mr Nicholls. I am prosecuting you for the assault of Fredric Edstrom at the …”
“You fuckin' what!” Screeched a disbelieving Ricky. He shouted at his brief and gestured wildly in the small room. DS Ratchford barely managed to hide his smile as he opened the file and passed the first of the forms to Ricky's lawyer.
“We will grant bail but only on surrender of a passport until the trial date.”
“My client has an engagement in New York at the end of the week. He flies out in 48 hours.”
“Unfortunately, he isn't going to make it. I have reason to believe that Mr Nicholls will leave the country and may not return for the trial.”
“My client has a wife here. He will return.”
“You have the right to request a court hearing if you wish to challenge the conditions imposed and they will grant you a hearing within 72 hours …”
“I ain't losin' t'at dough from New York. Is half a rock, man I ain't cancellin' it. Fuckin' sort t'is shit, man.”
“My client …”
“These are your bail forms. If you do not surrender the passport within 24 hours we will issue an arrest warrant and we will take him to prison. And I will enjoy doing so. Try to leave the country in the next 24 hours and we will arrest him and we will take him to prison. Shout offensive words at me, and we will take him to prison. Am I clear?”
The words from DS Ratchford were fierce; his sharp, acidic tone more so. There was no warmth in his voice, nor in his gesture summoning Ricky and his lawyer towards the door.
The lawyer promised to make applications to the courts, and to request expediency in the case. Ricky swore repeatedly, summoning his chauffeuse to drive him to the expensive flat in an upmarket complex.
After they parked in the underground car park, Ricky smiled at the blonde-haired driver. “Come here,” he demanded, gruffly, and watched as the lady got out of the drivers seat and entered the larger space at the back of the car. Ricky pawed at her clothes. She kissed him.
Their hands wandered, pulling at the clothes that made up her uniform. It was part of the job; when Ricky was stressed, he would want sex, and the chauffeuse was just another opportunity for him to relieve his frustrations. A demand of his staff; she was never able to refuse if she wanted to retain her job. And she’d see an additional £500 in her pay that week as a “bonus” regardless of what happened with her driving.
The secluded position in the car park, and dark windows gave them privacy; the deep thrusting groans and slapping of flesh would have revealed the activities within the vehicle. Not that anyone approached the car.
Ricky finished with a grunt, and barely looked at his employee as he left her on the floor, striding away from the vehicle, adjusting his tracksuit trousers.
Hazel smiled at him as he came through the door. He glared at her. “Drink?” She offered, brightly. She advanced on him, open arms and wide smile. “We've got to go soon, Send Off Party,” she cooed. “But just time for a drink and …”
“I'm bein' charged,” he interrupted. “And the fuckin' pigs want my fuckin' passport. So I ain't doing New York. And that's a half a rock you cost me, just 'cos you flashed a fuckin' teenager.”
Ricky pushed her. “I didn't … I …”
“Listen bitch. That's a fuckin' half million quid you cos' me.” His hands rolled into a fist, smashed into the stomach of his wife and he watched her collapse to the floor, screaming in pain.
“Fuckin’ slut!”
Chapter LXXII
Claire & Paige
The general manager surveyed the scene before him with a mixture of trepidation and concern. The wide banners wishing The Bare Necessities “good luck” meant little to him until he saw several excited faces of the young waiters and waitresses, smartly dressed in the hotel's attire.
“They're a band,” his favourite waitress explained, stifling a smile from the straight-laced manager. “A music band. They sing naked and …”
“Naked!” He barked, and strode into the cornucopia of activity which Lucinda and Claire were directing. “Miss Rees-Montague,” he bristled.
“Lady Rees-Montague,” she replied with equal annoyance in her voice. “What is it? I'm very busy.” Claire's hand took the glass of wine which the woman had been holding before she turned to face the scowling manager.
“Sorry, Lady Rees-Montague …”
“Better. Now what is it … Mister … Samuels?”
“I was led to believe that this was an event with decorum and …”
“Get to the point!” She barked.
“… are you having naked musicians in the hall. We don't allow pop and we certainly don't …”
“All of my guests will be suitably attired and appropriately behaved,” she thundered, stepping towards the middle-aged man. He visibly weakened. Her eyes focused on his; she glared angrily. “I find your insinuations distasteful and totally disrespectful. I was led to believe that this establishment, which is a mere 200 years old, could compete with the finest venues in London, but n
ow I see that it is run by a snivelling imbecile who offers simpering insults to his guests while shivering in fear like a Frenchman at Agincourt. Curris, stupes, satagis, tanquam mus in matella, Mr Samuels. Now go! Get out of my sight! And don't let me see you again.” She held out her arm in the direction of the door and watched the manager scuttle away from the banqueting hall.
Claire giggled. “Are you really Lady Rees-Montague?”
“Am I bollocks!” Lucinda downed the wine in the glass. “Sounds good though. Although I think I'd rather be a Dame. They get to rule somewhere. Dame Rees-Montague of the Snug. I'll like that!”
The dozen waiters and waitresses watched as the small army of professionals finished decorating the room. She called the largest boy over, a University student, and offered him a £100 bonus plus an autograph from Paige if he would stop that “filthy rat bag” from coming anywhere near the hall. He smiled at her words. “You can have another ton at the end of the evening.”
The guests started arriving thereafter; she had invited a number of household names as well as a large number of their friends. Paige beamed as she entered the large room, unbuttoning her coat to reveal her milky white body. She took a deep breath. “Nice look,” Lucinda said as she hugged the young singer. She glanced down at the knee-length black leather boots which contrasted with her alabaster skin and pregnant bulge. “Powerful.”
“I thought so!” Paige looked at Jack's aunt, resplendent in a designer dress and nodded. “Am I going to be …”
“Hell no!” Lucinda interrupted, and with a nod to her favourite waiter removed her dress in one swift movement. “This is a naturist venue for tonight. Dame Rees-Montague says so!”
“Dame?” Jack asked. “When were you a Dame?”
“She's drunk often enough to be a Dame,” Paige joked, causing Lucinda to nod, and then approach the bar. The Bare Necessities were popular; around half of the visitors followed Paige's lead by disrobing, mostly when she got on stage and demanded that they embrace their inner naturist and join them. “We cannot send the only naturist band in the world off to Europe with bow ties and silly suits!”
Ricky glared at the confident woman. He sat at the bar with two bottles of champagne in front of him, drinking from the bottle. Paige brought Hazel on stage as she encouraged her sister into a bout of nudist singing. The reluctant agent refused.
Instead, Paige dragged some of her friends on stage. Leah, naked except for the pink flowers in her hair, sung poorly. She, in turn, coerced Paige’s brother to sing with her, and the anarchist massacred a party anthem with Jeremy, before he rejoined his boyfriend in the enthusiastic crowd. Ashleigh sang with Paige on stage and then wished the band luck in Sweden to a chorus of cheers.
As the evening wore on, Claire and Paige duetted and the band performed their designated EuroSong entry to much applause.
A happy, joyous occasion for all, except Ricky. His drunken stupor dragged his mood lower and he clicked his fingers at the barman. “'Nother one,” he snapped.
The barman shook his head. “I think you've had enough.”
“I said 'nother one,” Ricky barked. A few heads turned.
“I'm sorry Sir, but I cannot serve you any more alcohol.”
Ricky grabbed the empty champagne bottle by the neck and smashed the bottom of the bottle on the bar top. The crashing of glass forced all conversation into silence.
He stared at the barman, brandishing the jagged edges of the bottle in his face. “I fuckin' said 'nother one. Give me what I fuckin' ask for, you fuckin' faggot!”
The barman touched the panic button, a condition of their insurance, before fleeing from the bar.
* * *
Paige watched in horror from the stage as Ricky rampaged across the bar. He threw the two empty champagne bottles into the bar area, missing the fleeing barmen by inches.
He roared in anger, swiping glasses of alcohol onto the floor with a clattering sound, yelling obscenities towards the absent bar staff and Paige's guests.
A couple of glasses flew from his fingers, and one missed Leah by inches. She squealed in shock. “Ricky. I'm going to kill you!” Paige yelled, not needing the microphone to make herself heard by the drunken yob. The pregnant woman stepped from the stage. Jack stopped her and advanced towards Ricky as he shouted abuse towards the other guests.
“Fuck you Paige. Fuckin' freak, struttin' around like you own the place.” Ricky swayed as he spoke before wrenching open the bar hatch with a splintering sound, and unsteadily walked behind the bar.
Jack, naked apart from a pair of shoes, called out to him. “C'mon Ricky. I think you've had enough. Let's get you a room to sober up in.”
Ricky swore at the peacemaker walking towards the bar hatch. He threw the nearest thing his fingers clasped around: a bottle of 50 year old Scotch from the hotel's whisky selection, that exploded on the bar, showering the floor with some of the best spirit money can buy.
The crowd melted backwards, stepping out of range from the drunken violence and showering glass. Shards of bottle crunched underneath Ricky's boots as he yelled angrily and scooped two dozen bottles of Scotch onto the floor with a smashing crescendo.
“Fuck you all!” Ricky shouted, as two security guards came from behind him and restrained the inebriated individual, pushing him and dragging him out of the restricted bar area.
The balding general manager surveyed the scene of destruction and devastation with a simpering scowl. He stared at the naked bodies around him and the guitar propped up against the stage.
“Vandals,” he puffed. “Bloody Vandals!”
Lucinda sidled up to him. “I'm sorry but we've had a slight problem with a gatecrasher.”
“You will leave. All of you!”
“I beg your pardon. We most certainly did not invite him. Is he your guest as he's not one of mine!”
“You will leave,” he shouted. “Degenerate disgraceful disgusting …” His voice tailed off as Lucinda bore down on him. “If you are not all out of here in ten minutes I will demand that the Police arrest you as well as your drunken guest. Never, ever, has the Banquetting Hall seen such debauchery.”
“No,” Lucinda countered. “We paid for the use of this hall all night. You have our money. This is …”
“Madam, you promised me that your guests would be suitably attired and appropriately behaved. You are naked and just destroyed tens of thousands of pounds of alcohol …”
“Which he will pay for,” Paige interrupted, crossing her arms as she stood next to Lucinda. “He will pay for it, that I can guarantee. Now please, we have a party to finish and I'm not letting one bad drunk mess it up.”
“Missy, you will leave. And … Miss … Rees-Montague.”
“Please, call me Lady Rees-Montague.”
“Very well, Lady Rees-Montague, as per the terms in the contract you will be paying for the damage tonight. You chose to indemnify us for damage caused by your guests so you will be receiving a bill from ourselves. Now out.”
“But …”
He shook his head. He waited for a few seconds and then left the room, returning with a uniformed Police officer ten minutes later. “I want these people out of my hotel. They've been wrecking it.”
His actions signified the end of their party; they had no choice but to leave; some of the biggest names in the music industry turfed into the Surrey countryside because of Ricky’s actions.
Chapter LXXIII
Hazel
Hazel tearfully apologised again, but there was no need for her to do so. Paige wasn't angry at her sister. Nor at Lucinda for booking it under Bare Business Ltd, or even at the venue for throwing them out.
She saved her ire for her brother-in-law. They travelled back to their house barely able to break into Paige's 45-minute monologue.
Their suitcases, empty and waiting to be packed for their midday flight the following Monday, lay abandoned at the bottom of the stairs. Lucinda received a phone call as they entered the kitchen, and she sat down as
she spoke in hushed whispers.
“What's going on?” Paige asked, discarding her coat on a stray chair.
“I think it was the venue,” Jack replied, sitting on a stool at their breakfast bar, and watching as Paige filled the kettle. She flicked the red hair from her face. “I think you're showing lots now.”
Paige's smile disappeared. “Just say I'm getting fat.”
“Not fat,” Jack countered. “Just … pregnant. More pregnant. Visibly pregnant. They call it the pregnancy glow. Just …”
“Drop it?” Paige suggested. “This is not going to win you a kiss. Unless it's a Glaswegian one.” They waited in silence for the kettle to boil, and she poured hot water into five mugs. Lucinda entered the room, ashen-faced.
“I need something stronger,” she muttered, but took the tea, slouching at the breakfast bar. “Your husband,” she said to Hazel. “Broke a 70-year-old Murtlach.”
“Is that expensive?”
“Oh yes. Around £15,000 a bottle. He spoilt around £95,000 of whisky and damaged their antique bar top. Plus cleaning costs and repairs, we're looking at £120,000.”
“Oh shit,” cried Hazel. She buried her face in her hands. Paige put her arm around her.
“I think you need to go somewhere safe,” she said. “He's a dangerous and violent nutter.”
Hazel sniffed. “He's not.”
“Hazel,” Paige squealed. “He's just caused £120,000 of damage because a barman said he was drunk. That's not normal.”
“He's … stressed!”
“Stressed? He's so stressed, they've taken him to the cells to sober up!”
“He's just had a gig fall through in New York and it's going to cost him, and he was just a bit stressed.”
“Hazel, he's a bully.”
“He's not a bully,” she cried, tears tumbling down her cheeks. “And you can't say that about him. It's not fair. He's my husband.”
“Were you at the same hotel I was in? Because it looked pretty clear to me. And everyone else. He was a bully and a drunken, violent one at that.” Paige spoke fiercely and angrily. “And next time it won't be a bottle of champagne he loses his temper with but you or …”
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 30
