by Haley Hill
‘Everyone lives happily ever after.’
He nodded his head from side to side as though, he were weighing up his left and right brain. ‘How are you going to match them?’
‘They tell me what they want and I give it to them.’
He scrunched up his nose. ‘But most of us don’t actually know what we want. We just think we do.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood for one of your Marxist the-media-constructs-our-thoughts lectures.’
He continued, ignoring my protests. ‘Attraction is an entirely biochemical reaction set off by a combination of characteristics to which our genetic programming and social conditioning respond.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s flawed. Look at the divorce rate.’
‘We don’t marry everyone we fancy.’
‘Thankfully.’
I glared at him. ‘There’s more to love than attraction. We aren’t robots driven by neurotransmitters and hormones. We have something called free will. We can think independently from our physical drives and conditioning.’
His full-body laugh caused him to spill coffee all over the table. It quickly seeped onto the business cards. I dabbed them with my sleeve but, already, the corners had started to curl.
After he’d skulked off in a huff, I looked back down at the cards and reshuffled them. I then gazed out of the window at the sky, hoping to be the recipient of some kind of divine inspiration. But, instead, a bird dropping landed on the pane. I watched the greyish gloop slide down the glass, undigested berries lagging behind and I wondered if I too might have bitten off more than I could chew.
‘If we sieve through the hookers and the sugar daddies, I’m sure we’ll find some decent people here tonight,’ Caro observed, scanning the bar. We were at Zuma in Knightsbridge, a favourite with the “chilled-out jet-set crowd”, according to Harper’s magazine.
I took in the ultra-hip minimalist interior and smoothed down my dress, trying to act as though it had been thrown on nonchalantly, rather than the result of three hours of unsatisfactory pontification. Caro leaned over the glass bar, her red Gucci dress nipped in at the waist and plunging at the neckline. Three barmen leapt towards her, their attention darting between her Bambi brown eyes and her perfectly plumped cleavage.
‘We need some cocktails,’ she declared, smoothing her sleek dark bob behind her ears.
Following a flamboyant display of glass juggling, and some kind of cocktail-shaker courtship dance, eventually we were presented with two rose-petal Martinis. The baby-faced barman grinned victoriously and Caro leaned over the bar and kissed him on the lips.
I pulled her back. ‘Caro.’
‘What?’
I shook my head.
She was still grinning when I took her hand and led her away.
‘I’d prefer us to focus on the men who’ve actually gone through puberty.’
She threw a glance over her shoulder and then strode off towards a table of suited men who appeared to be engaged in a serious work-type conversation. When she reached the table, her presence diverted their concentration like a resistor in a circuit. Once she’d delivered her opening line, their corporate faces cracked into smiles, and then the best-looking one pulled up a chair for her to join them.
Watching from the bar, and sipping my Martini, I wondered where her self-assurance came from. Was it a case of lots of cuddles as a child? Or perhaps, as I once wondered after an especially interesting episode of Doctor Phil, it was a pseudo-esteem masking a deeper insecurity and a need for external validation. Maybe it was simply that big boobs and a pretty face were so well received that the usual fears of rejection and public humiliation weren’t there. However, in order to begin my transition to altruism, I knew that I might be required to actually help someone, so I decided that confidence was something I would have to fake, at least until I’d figured out how to source it naturally. I took a gulp of the Martini and then sidestepped towards a group of girls.
With their long legs, dark hair and tanned skin, it was as though they were the result of some kind of accelerated breeding program between Megan and Stephen who I had met the night before. I smiled at the one nearest to me. She sucked on a pink straw protruding from a fussy cocktail and eyed me up suspiciously.
‘Are you a journalist or something?’ she asked between sucks.
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You look like one.’
I glanced down at my black dress and then back at her.
Once I’d worked my way up the seemingly endless legs protruding from tiny leather hotpants, my eyes lingered on her chest, which was braless and buoyant under a cream silk camisole.
‘What do you want?’
Her features, enhanced to cartoonish proportions, reminded me of a creature from Avatar.
‘I’m headhunting,’ I said.
The rest of the girls’ necks swivelled towards me. ‘You’re a model scout?’ one of them asked.
I shook my head.
‘Party promoter?’
I shook my head again, suspecting the truth might be a tremendous disappointment. ‘I’m looking for single girls who want to meet eligible men.’
When I’d explained my plans to re-introduce the world to deep and meaningful love, the girl next to me flicked a mane of hair extensions over her shoulder.
‘We only date footballers,’ she said.
She went on to explain that, despite the fact that neither her nor her friends were currently in a relationship with a footballer, in the past there had been many encounters. The affairs she described were short-lived, involved regular cash payments, provision of accommodation, full funding for any abortions required and a six-figure pay-off at the end.
Apparently, this was a routine insurance policy to protect against any negative press coverage.
‘You date the married ones?’ I asked, less to highlight the moral issue, which I suspected wasn’t a concern, but more to question the real purpose.
She laughed. ‘It’s not like we expect them to leave their wives.’
‘Well what’s the point then?’
‘Once you’re in with the footballers, sometimes they pass you on to their teammates, the ones who aren’t married.’
‘They’re like matchmakers too,’ the only blonde in the group said with a beaming smile.
‘Or pimps?’ I suggested.
‘Hey!’ Caro interrupted as she bounded up to me, and began theatrically fanning herself with a handful of business cards. ‘Check these out.’
She thrust them into my hand and then opened her bag to reveal dozens more.
‘Am I done now?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw the underage barman grinning widely, as though his expression had been fixed since Caro’s kiss. ‘His shift finishes soon. Can I?’
‘Okay. Go on then,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I suppose I could do with an early night.’
The blonde girl looked at me, then back at the other girls and then back at me. ‘Want to come with us?’ she asked and the rest of the group nodded vaguely.
During the cab ride to the “player’s party” at Whisky Mist, the girls explained how a modern-day princess secured her happy-ever-after.
‘You only get invited if you’re in with the promoters,’ said the girl in the hotpants who I now knew was named Carmen.
‘And they only invite girls from agencies,’ another girl added.
‘What agencies?’ I asked.
‘You know, for glamour models, promo girls, dancers,’ Carmen said.
The blonde girl, who I would later learn was Kerri, smiled. ‘They want pretty, bubbly girls there.’
‘Bubbly?’ I asked.
‘You know: fun, social.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they invite the wives or girlfriends?’
They laughed.
‘So,’ I said, ‘if you win the hand of a premier-league prince, would you
let him come to these parties?’
Their faces contorted as though I’d suggested one of them don a boiler suit.
When we arrived, I noticed there were no men in the queue, which snaked for a mile around the block, but the girls were huddled together in the line, shivering in the skimpy clothing that was required to gain entry. Boobs were hoisted up, squeezed together or spilling out. Skirts were sprayed on, tops were slashed at the sternum, and legs were elongated with six-inch heels. Every attribute was exploited to secure its maximum market value. Tonight, it was time to cash in their assets.
The men, it was explained to me, were safety tucked up inside, readily paying £500 for a £10 bottle of vodka. I was soon to learn that the mark-up could be justified when the beverage delivered with a sparkler and a gaggle of nubile girls.
Despite the sleek modern interior, each step down the staircase was like taking a step back in time. Men sat wide-legged at tables, downing drinks, and pulling girls onto their laps as though patrons of a medieval whorehouse. Girls wiggled passed the VIP area, until the chosen ones were summoned to straddle their prince’s lap, before going on to simulate a scene from one of Robert’s movies.
With her rock-hard nipples poking through her silk camisole, Carmen was immediately ushered into the VIP area. She blamed the forty-minute queue in ice-cold air, but her friends claimed she’d deliberately tweaked them before catching a footballer’s eye.
‘It’s not fair,’ one of them whined. ‘My tits are better than hers.’
‘And she copied my hair colour,’ another one, who I think was called Melanie, said. She went on to explain that the player in question was a reserve they were all targeting. After reading a recent interview, in which he stated he preferred brunettes, she had dyed her hair. The others, except Kerri, had copied. ‘Lucky cow.’ she added as she watched him pull Carmen onto his lap.
I waved my hand in front of her face. ‘Earth to twenty-first century woman.’
She looked at me and frowned. ‘What?’
‘Don’t you want more than that?’
She looked back at Carmen and the footballer and then laughed. ‘More than a rich husband and the perfect life, what more is there?’
‘Oh, let me think.’ I scratched my head. ‘How about independence? Self-respect? To be treated as a human being rather than a collection of body parts?’
She scrunched up her face.
‘You know you’re not going to look like that forever, don’t you? What are you going to do then? When the VIPs don’t want you anymore?’
She stepped back and looked at me as though I were one of those crazy people you sidestepped on the street, in case they might thump you over the head or throw you in front of a car or something.
‘You’re just jealous,’ she said, before pulling up her skirt to reveal another inch of tanned thigh.
For a moment, I wondered if she might be right but when she started jiggling her boobs at a group of men walking past, I turned around and fought my way back through the crowd.
At the coat check, where the stern-faced assistant was doing a terrible job of pretending to look for my coat, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Kerri, her face framed with soft blonde curls. Under a spotlight, I could see beyond the false eyelashes and thick eyeliner and into her eyes.
‘I want more,’ she whispered, before handing me her number scribbled on a beer mat.
When I arrived home, I found Matthew, clearly drunk, staggering around the communal hallway, holding a pizza box in the air.
‘A gift for you,’ he said laying it down at my feet, ‘in exchange for entrance to our humble abode.’
‘Forgot your keys again?’ I asked, fumbling in my bag for mine.
He nodded.
I opened the door and he lurched forward and, in what looked like one move, landed on the sofa, pizza box miraculously still horizontal.
‘So, how did the matchmunting, I mean, headhating …’ He stuffed some pizza into his mouth ‘… how did all that go?’
I sighed and slumped on the sofa. ‘Vacuous girls and sleazy men.’
He swallowed and wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘That’s how the clubs make money. Hot chicks and rich dicks.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I didn’t think I’d have to sell the concept of love, I thought that was a given.’
He offered me some pizza. ‘You know the magic wears off after midnight, don’t you?’
‘Party pooper,’ I said, taking the least offensive-looking slice.
A moment later, he sat up, his hair almost springing to attention and pointed his finger in the air.
‘That’s it. That’s what you need to do.’
‘What, poop at parties?’
‘No, not the poop, just the party.’
I looked down at the cheap meat and greasy cheese that I was about to consume and threw it back into the box, realising that if I didn’t like what was on offer, then it was up to me to provide an alternative.
Chapter Six
There was a chill in the evening air but I felt hot and dizzy. I opened my coat as I strode alongside the Thames and let the icy breeze whip around my body. With each stride, my temperature dropped.
Having stood side by side for over a century, the giant Edwardian townhouses seemed to peer down at me with intrigue. They had undoubtedly witnessed many a young girl hoping to change the world. But tonight, as the uniformed commuters bulldozed past, it was as though they were nudging each other and placing a bet on how long I would last. Lifting my chin up, I reminded myself that forty percent of London’s population was single, and continued ahead. The wrought-iron street lamps cast pools of yellow light that seemed to beckon me towards my destination.
When I arrived, the door looked like any other on the street, apart from a shiny brass plaque inscribed with a picture of a bowler hat and a polite reminder that only members were welcome. After weeks of deliberating over a suitable venue for meetings, I’d concluded that one with a bar would be most appropriate and this unpretentious private members’ club, hidden in ancient vaults beneath the Strand seemed to be the perfect match. I pressed the bell, then waited for the receptionist to buzz me in.
A staircase lined with blood-red carpet led me to reception. With each step, it was though I were venturing deeper into the heart of London, leaving behind the hard surface to discover the secret underworld, the pulse that kept it alive. Behind a mirrored desk, in what seemed like a dark cave, stood the receptionist, her lips as red as the carpet, her hair as black as the night. She tapped a nail file on the counter like a bored teenager.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, the vague glance in my direction quickly redirected to her long scarlet nails.
Once I’d introduced myself, and began to explain my purpose, she readjusted her tight black minidress and leaned forward with interest, thrusting out her firm tanned boobs in response to the mention of eligible men.
‘I look after your cleeants,’ she purred in a sultry French accent, punctuated with a sex-kitten giggle.
After I’d thanked Marie for her help, I followed the throb of the music and the flickering wall lights down the second staircase, tunnelling deeper into the vaults, to a lounge bar where leather chairs and low tables nestled in shadowy alcoves. A bar stretched across one side of the room, shining and glimmering like an oasis on a desert night. The music pulsed from the lounge bar through to the other chambers: a restaurant, and two further bars, like blood from ventricles.
Selecting an alcove near the foot of the staircase, I positioned the chair facing outwards so I could see the clients when they arrived. Tonight I had three consultations: William at 6pm, an accountant who I’d met while dancing La Macarena at Apt; at 7pm it was Harriet, a risk analyst Caro had found at Zuma, and finally, Jeremy at 8pm, a friend of model Mike who I’d met at the champagne bar. I laid my new clipboard on the table and stared at the blank sheet of paper, my heart pounding in time to the fast tempo of the music.
‘Evening,’ said the ba
rman after he’d swaggered over to my table, his shirt tight with muscles. ‘Look’s like you could do with a drink.’
With a gravelly London accent and shaved head, he seemed more “Guy Richie movie” than “private members’ club”, but his eyes twinkled with a kindness that brought a smile to my face.
‘Glass of white please, whatever you recommend,’ I squinted at his name tag, ‘Marie?’
He laughed and then lifted up the tag. ‘Must’ve picked up the wrong one this morning. I’m Steve.’
‘Okay, Steve, my wine is in your hands.’
He started flicking through the list and paused somewhere about halfway through. ‘White Rioja,’ he said, reading from the page. ‘It’s unpretentious, elegant and full of character.’
I peered at the menu. ‘It’s also £15 a glass. Do you have something less elegant and more lacking in character?’
He flicked back a few pages. ‘The house is approachable and inoffensive and £6 a glass.’
‘I’ll have a bottle.’
He nodded and then glanced up. I noticed one of his eyelids was twitching. I followed his gaze to see Marie wiggling down the staircase, her long, tanned legs balanced on Louboutin heels, her eyes fixed on Steve like a cat stalking a mouse.
‘Aylee, your sex o’clock ees ere. I sind eem down?’ she said once she’d approached us, her eyes flitting between me and Steve.
‘Yes, please.’ I replied, picking up my pen and clipboard as though I were about to take notes. Realising my actions were a little premature, I placed them back on the table. ‘Please send him down, Marie.’
Her gaze was locked on Steve, tracking him as he backed away.
After he’d ducked down behind the bar, presumably to get my wine, she shook her hair and strutted back towards reception. As her tiny bottom wiggled up the staircase, I looked down at the red dress I’d borrowed from Caro. It had tracked her curves like a second skin, but on me it seemed ill-fitting, digging in where it shouldn’t and gaping where it should dig in. Since learning that I looked like a journalist, whatever that meant, I’d decided to ramp up the glamour a bit. According to Caro, this required a gel-filled bra, uncomfortable shoes and a GHD attack on my hair.
