Beautiful Liar (4 page)

“And now I've upset you.” Giles looked distressed. He closed his eyes in self-reprimand. It warmed me to him to see how hard he was struggling to do the right thing. After the formality of the first part of our meeting, it made him seem more human, somehow. “I just wanted to say that your father was a good man, and he didn't deserve to die the way he did. I'm sure it must have been very hard on you and your family, and so if I can do anything to help you, please let me know.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

After that, it was back to business. Giles took me through the job—I'd just be bussing glasses at the beginning—and the details of working hours and wages. It was a far more generous hourly rate than I'd been hoping for. Tips were on top, and at a rough calculation it would only take me about
six weeks to save enough to put a deposit on a decent flat for us all to live in.

“So when can you start?” Giles said finally.

“Whenever you want me to.”

“How about this evening? Club opens at nine; we need you here from eight. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Good. We'll get the paperwork sorted now.” He offered me his hand, as though we were shaking on a deal. “And remember—Dad wants you looked after. So any problems, you come straight to me.”

He flashed me his dazzling smile again, revealing a set of perfect, straight white teeth. I smiled weakly back. To be honest, I felt slightly overwhelmed by all the special treatment. I hadn't expected Duncan Noble to take such an interest in me. I knew he'd got on well with my father, but even I was surprised at his concern for my welfare. I wasn't sure what I thought about Giles looking out for me, but it didn't seem like I had much choice in the matter.

* * *

Once I'd filled out the paperwork, it was just before six. It would be a while before the club opened, so I went off to get some dinner.

I found a nearby café, and used some of my money to buy a tea and a cheese-and-ham toastie. It was ridiculously overpriced,
but everywhere round here would be.

I settled at a table in the corner, and sipped at my tea. I had two hours to kill, so I'd brought over some newspapers to browse, but first I sent my sister a text, asking how she was getting along. I'd spoken to our social worker that morning about the girl who'd bullied April, but Maggie hadn't been much help. She'd told me that she could contact the foster parents, and they'd speak to the other girl directly, but cautioned that it might do more harm than good. Basically, if it got that bad, they could move April to another home—but there was no guarantee that that would be any better. It was hard to know what to do for the best. I felt the beginnings of a tension headache, and rubbed my temples to try to relieve it.

After a few minutes, April texted back saying that everything was fine, so I was able to put my concerns about her away for the moment, and concentrate on the evening ahead instead.

By the time I was ready to go, the waitresses were shooting me dirty looks, and I could tell they were impatient to lock up. As I stepped out onto the street, a blast of cold air hit me. It was a shock after the warmth of the café. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, and hurried back over to Destination.

As I drew up to the building, I was surprised to see the transformation from earlier. It had lost its anonymity and
now looked like somewhere that housed an exclusive nightclub. Two large bouncers stood by the roped entrance, alongside a stunning Southeast Asian woman with a clipboard and an earpiece. A queue had already begun to form. At the front, a group of four girls were arguing with the doorwoman.

“But we booked a table,” one of the girls insisted.

When Giles had given me a rundown of the club's policies earlier, he'd told me that a handful of non-members were allowed in each night, depending on how busy it was. They had to book a table in advance, but it was at the door staff's discretion to turn them away, “if they didn't look like they fitted in.” I took that to mean if they didn't look attractive or well dressed enough. It had taken all my willpower not to roll my eyes at that. I certainly wouldn't have fancied my own chances of getting in.

The group of girls had obviously put on their best clubbing clothes for the evening, but even I could see there was a distinct look of the suburbs about them.

“I'm sorry.” The doorwoman looked impassively at them. “But we're full tonight.”

The girls finally seemed to realise that there was no point arguing, and I watched them slink off. Part of me felt sorry for them, having their evening ruined like that. But I also wondered why they'd want to go somewhere so snooty.

I went in via the side entrance, like before. It was much busier
than earlier. Then, the back corridors had been empty, but now staff rushed by, gearing up for the night ahead.

Giles came out to meet me. Earlier he'd promised to show me round, but now he looked distracted. He called over a stunning mixed-race girl who had the most beautiful café au lait complexion, and long black hair that fell in soft waves around her face. Giles introduced her as Jasmine Wright.

“Shadow Jas tonight, she'll show you the ropes.” He looked at Jas. “That all right with you?”

Jas gave him a mock salute. “Whatever you say, sir,” she said with fake deference.

Giles frowned a little, and retreated back to his office. As soon as he was gone, Jas gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh, he's so dreamy, isn't he? A bit uptight, but in kind of a commanding way.”

I was shocked that she was so forthcoming. I could never imagine saying something like that to a total stranger.

“Come on.” She linked her arm through mine. “We've got half an hour till our shift starts. I want to hear all about you before that.”

She took me through to the staff changing room, and ushered me over to a bench. I wasn't quite sure this was what Giles had had in mind when he'd asked Jas to show me around, but she seemed more interested in chatting. As we sat there, she imparted her life story. She'd grown up on an estate like Hayfield, but in South London, and had never
known her dad.

“He went back to Jamaica before Mum even knew about me.”

When she was fifteen, her mother had taken up with a new guy who'd shown a little too much interest in her daughter for her liking.

“Mum threw me out the day I turned sixteen. Happy birthday to me.”

She'd supported herself working in strip clubs. It was obvious that she'd been good at it. Even in the demure black trousers and tunic, she couldn't disguise her knockout body. She did that for two years until a wealthy punter who'd taken a liking to her got her a job at Destination. She'd been working there a year now.

After twenty minutes, if was safe to say I knew everything possible about Jas.

“And what about you?” she finally asked me. “What's your story?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Not much to tell.”

Jas looked at me shrewdly, clearly sensing there was more to it than that. “You don't say much, do you? That's a good way to be. I tell everyone all my business.”

She didn't seem offended by my reticence. It wasn't anything personal. I'd just learnt a long time ago to keep myself to myself. Back when my mum first started drinking, I'd confided in a girl who I'd thought was my best friend. The
next day, my secrets were all round the school. I hadn't made that mistake again.

Jas stopped talking long enough to show me more of the changing room. Even it was plush, with power showers and Molton Brown toiletries. More like something out of an upmarket spa.

She found my locker, which had a uniform hanging inside. There were different outfits depending on your job status. Because I was only clearing tables, the lowest of the low, my uniform was the most simple—tight black trousers and a black tunic on top. Simple, tasteful. I guessed the all-black outfit let us move around inconspicuously, like ninjas.

“It's great working here,” Jas said as I changed. “There're
so
many fit blokes. And they're loaded, too. I've been out with a couple. We're not
really
meant to—but everyone turns a blind eye as long as you're not up in their face. I've got some great stuff out of it.” She pulled out a necklace from beneath her tunic. “It's Tiffany. Only silver, but still. It's pretty nice.” She touched her earrings. “These are from there, too.”

“So—you've actually been out with some of the customers? Like boyfriends?”

“Oh, no. I just sleep with them now and again, and they give me stuff.”

I couldn't conceal my horror. She pulled a face. “Oh, don't look like that. It's just a bit of fun. And the money
means nothing to them.”

A bit like being a prostitute. It wasn't a great way to live, but I couldn't help warming to Jas. Perhaps if she'd been more calculating, it would have been distasteful. But she was so open and honest—so guileless—that there was something endearing about her.

She must have seen that I was struggling to control my disapproval, because she fiddled with her necklace and said, “I know maybe it sounds bad, but I just like nice stuff. I guess because I never had any growing up. Is there anything so wrong with that?”

Luckily there wasn't any time for me to come up with a reply. Right then, a tall, thin, humourless woman walked in, and a silence fell across the room. She looked older than us, maybe in her early thirties, with unnaturally black hair fashioned into a harsh bob, and bright red lips set against alabaster-pale skin. She wore a black trouser suit, like the doorwoman, and I could tell she was management of some kind.

“Come on, girls. Time to get to work.”

If she was aware that I was new, she didn't show it—in fact, she barely glanced in my direction.

“That's Mel, the assistant manager,” Jas whispered as we trailed out the door. “Giles is a good guy, but she's a—” She pulled a face to show exactly what she thought of Mel.

But there was no time to talk any further. I followed Jas
out for my first night working at Destination.

The overhead lights were dimmed, giving the club's interior a chic subterranean feel, and ambient music pumped through the expensive sound system. A long silver bar ran one side of the room, backlit with neon blue. Low tables and modular seating surrounded a spacious dance floor, and the walls radiated a moody ruby glow.

It was a Wednesday night, and at first it was fairly quiet. But by midnight, the club was packed with wealthy-looking men and beautiful women. In fact, the crowd looked like they had been booked through central casting. Everyone seemed to be drinking champagne, served by the beautiful, hot-pants-clad hostesses, one assigned to each table. This wasn't the kind of place where people queued at the bar.

Jas and I were collecting empty glasses and bringing them to the bar. Jas was a fount of information, and seemed to know everyone. As we worked, she pointed out who was
seated at the different tables—from Russian oligarchs to European nobility to City financiers.

“That's the most coveted table,” she said, pointing to the centre of the VIP section. The table was situated directly below the DJ booth, in prime location. “It costs about ten grand to hire for the night.”

I let out a low whistle, and studied the people occupying it—two attractive Middle Eastern men who I guessed to be in their early twenties. “Who are they?”

“Saudi princes, I heard.”

They looked on with cool detachment as three gorgeous women started to gyrate in front of them. “And the girls?”

“Gold-diggers. There are always a few of them here, looking for a meal ticket. Management let a certain amount of them in because they're attractive, and rich men want to be surrounded by beautiful women.”

It seemed to be a theme of the place—you either got in because you were rich or because you were good-looking, and in a lot of cases it seemed people were both. It was elitism at its worst.

Jas nodded in the direction of two huge men standing discreetly to one side, and eyeing the table with professional alertness. “They're the bodyguards, I reckon.”

It was like another world.

At one in the morning, there was a stir. I was up at the bar with Jas, ostensibly dropping glasses off while really listening
to her gossip. But I looked up and did a double-take as I saw who was breezing through the door—it was the guy I'd run into at Duncan Noble's office the day before, the dark-haired bad-boy with the ice-blue wolf eyes.

Just like then, he stood out—mostly because of his I-don't-give-a-damn attitude. Most of the guys in the room were wearing suits, but he was flamboyantly dressed like before, in dark trousers and a white fop shirt—which reminded me of a seventeenth-century French courtier's—topped off with a black-leather coat. He'd clearly worn what he felt like, in the way that people do when they have nothing to prove.

I found myself watching as he crossed the room. He seemed to know everyone in the place. He stopped to talk to people at a few tables, before sliding into one of the booths in the VIP section. It was clearly one of the best seats in the house, and I guessed it had been reserved for him.

“And who's that?” I nodded in his direction, and Jas followed my gaze.

“That's Alexander Noble. His family own this place.”

The revelation floored me for a moment. And then suddenly it fell into place—the way he'd spoken about Duncan Noble, calling him “the old man.” It hadn't even occurred to me at the time that he might have been referring to his father.

But then, having met preppy Giles, I'd never have guessed
that Alexander was his brother.

“So that's Giles's brother?” I said, just to confirm I'd understood correctly.

“Yep. Alex is a couple of years younger—twenty-two, I think. He's also nothing like Giles. Alex is a total player. He's here most nights, surrounded by adoring girls. Gets one of the best tables in the place and blows a fortune on champagne.”