Tease (20 page)

‘Yeah,’ agreed Samara, ‘my folks still think Tiger’s alright you know. I think my dad secretly fancies her.’

‘God, don’t tell your mum,’ gasped Frankie.

‘As if!’ muttered Samara.

‘Right. So let’s just move on, Tiger’s been good to us, now’s our chance to show our support. Right girls?’ asked Nikki.

Honey Lou sighed, wishing her parents were as cool as Nikki’s and Samara’s.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ conceded Frankie, ‘anyway, Tiger’s doing this four-day press junket in Vegas soon, and I wanna be on that plane with her! She can only take four of us you know!’

‘Well in that case Georgia’s a definite, so that leaves room for three of us …’ said Samara.

‘Ooh I’m keeping everything crossed. I heard it’s a private jet! Can you believe it?’ cooed Frankie.

Honey Lou quietly sipped at her Diet Coke, knowing that as the new girl it was a long shot that she’d be chosen. Even if she was, her parents were hardly going to let her go after this week’s scandal. Still, she could dare to dream. After all, it had been a dream to be a Starrlet and here
she was. She just hoped at the very least she could hold on to her prize now she had it.

Tiger carefully tucked a rogue strand of coiffed pink hair underneath her Chanel headscarf and with immaculate manicured hands grabbed her shades before heading for the front door, python handbag in tow. Her nail technician had already been to the house that morning to sharpen her talons, along with hairstylist Mario, brandishing his hot tongs. In fact Tiger had spent the last few days hibernating and restoring herself, sweating it out on the exercise bike in her basement for hours on end and kicking the crap out of the punchbag as she let her mind take a wander. On top of the press story the anonymous letters had kept coming. One thing Tiger despised was cowardice, and whatever mysterious game playing was afoot was starting to grate. She was determined not to let the first tendrils of paranoia creep into her mind. A good hard workout was the ultimate therapy in her opinion. After all, the best way to fight back was to come into the outside world looking fucking fabulous.

On autopilot, Tiger stopped mid-clack in the flag-stoned hallway to check her handbag for her keys, purse and mobile. Pausing for one last check in the hall mirror before she faced the predatory paps at her door, she saw that a flower had dropped from its stem on to the stone floor, dead. All good things come to an end, thought Tiger wistfully. The beautiful flowers had arrived first thing
Monday by courier, a huge basket of expensive, richly scented orchids. Tiger picked up the accompanying card from the basket once more.

‘Darling. I read the story. You should have called me …’ Tiger turned the card over. ‘… I simply have to see you again. This time I’m your slave. Love Libertina x’

Tiger smiled to herself, feeling a twinge of lust. She put on her shades to hide any dark circles about the eyes, took a deep breath and ran out of the front door gracefully on her Gucci power heels, barging firmly past the frantically snapping paparazzi who had been camped outside and waiting for her first public appearance since the weekend. As the photographers called out her name and jeered and cheered, Tiger wondered if they had actually been expecting her to emerge from the door in a catsuit, whip and a leather-peaked cap or something. As she pushed past them with a dignified smile, a little voice called out her name. She turned for a second to see stage door Johnnie standing there holding a small posy. The photographers were snapping Tiger’s every move. Taken aback to see him outside her house with the photographers, she managed to politely mouth a thank you at Johnnie and grab the little posy before diving elegantly into the already purring Lincoln Towncar which pulled away swiftly with Vladimir at the wheel, leaving behind the flashing cameras in its wake.

‘I’m vibrating, do excuse me,’ said Blue as he pulled his mobile from his back pocket. ‘Darling, I’m in McQueen,
where are you? Just get Vladimir to pull up outside, I have some things for you to try on … well hurry up then!’ Blue snapped his phone shut and handed an armful of garments over to the cute new sales assistant he’d been flirting with for the last half hour.

‘Okay, she’s pulling into Bond Street, pop that lot into her fitting room.’ Blue smiled, before mincing over to the headscarves and pulling out a few different colourways. Hearing the familiar clip-clop of stiletto on shop floor, Blue emerged from the back of the store to greet Tiger.

‘Darling, you finally made it out into daylight, congratulations!’

‘Oh very funny,’ said Tiger a little tetchily, whipping off her shades before giving Blue a quick squeeze.

‘So what have you found?’ she asked, sweeping her eyes along the rails.

‘What haven’t I found more like, it’s hard to narrow it down, the collection is so beautiful. There’s a pile of things in the fitting room ready for you. I’m feeling the Hitchcock, Kim Novak vibe for you a bit with this season,’ mused Blue, smoothing his micro-pencil moustache.

‘Oh look!’ gasped Tiger, laying her hands on an exquisite embroidered dress coat artfully draped over a mannequin.

‘Hey, I thought you wanted me to find day wear.’

‘Oh yes, but just look at this. Oh and look!’ Tiger was now at the rails, caressing a full length, one-shouldered
black gown. ‘You can just tell how this is going to hang when it’s on – curves, curves, curves.’

A couple of people in the store were staring at Tiger, recognising her despite her rudimentary disguise. Blue rolled his eyes and turned to the sales assistant.

‘Sorry about this, looks like the kid in the sweetshop over here is gonna be trying on a few more things.’

‘Oh no problem. I can see most of the collection working for Ms Starr, to be honest. It must be hard to choose.’ The sales boy nodded kindly.

‘Well if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ sighed Blue, diving for one of the rails opposite.

After a few minutes Tiger sidled up to Blue.

‘Darling, there’s this boy, he seems to be following me, watching me,’ she whispered.

‘Something unusual in that?’ muttered Blue.

‘Not like that,’ she hissed, ‘he doesn’t fancy me, look at him! There’s no way he’s straight.’

‘Ohhh, he’s cute!’

‘But he followed me into the shop I think. He might be a journalist. We should leave.’

‘What? But you haven’t tried on your—’

‘I don’t care, let’s get out of here,’ Tiger pleaded.

‘Oh stop being paranoid, get a grip,’ Blue whispered back irritably. ‘Get back over there and get that gown, you’ve done nothing wrong.’

Tiger hesitated.

‘Go!’

Tiger skulked back to the rail, and furtively selected a black and red gown.

‘Excuse me, ma’am?’

Tiger jumped and spun round to find the young boy at her shoulder.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked curtly.

‘This may come across a little forward but … is he your partner?’ The boy motioned over at Blue.

‘What? Oh god no. He’s my stylist. Why?’ Tiger asked suspiciously.

‘Oh wow. Right.’ The boy looked relieved. ‘Erm, my name’s Richie. I was wondering if you could introduce me?’

‘For real?’

‘Sorry, it’s just I noticed him coming out of a boutique down the road, only I was too shy to—’

‘Don’t tell me it’s the thing to cruise down Bond Street now,’ Tiger laughed.

Richie looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, look I’m sorry, this was a mistake, I shouldn’t have—’

‘No no! Hey, I’m sorry, that was a bad joke.’ Tiger softened, realising he was definitely no journalist. He was a beautiful-looking lad, softly spoken with a touch of Eastern Promise about him. Richie’s boyish beauty made quite a contrast to Blue’s beefy frame and eccentric face; they’d make a handsome couple, decided Tiger. She kindly took his hand and sashayed over to Blue.

‘Darling. This is Richie.’

‘Richie. Why hello, I’m Blue.’

‘Very pleased to meet you … erm … uh …’

‘Richie spotted you from afar didn’t you, darling,’ prompted Tiger helpfully.

‘Thanks, yeah … up the street.’ Richie smiled. ‘Only I was too shy to say hi, so I went through your friend here – er, Tiger – instead. At least I figured you had to be friends to be shopping together.’

Blue puffed his chest out a little, unused to being chased by fit young men but taking to the experience like a duck to water.

‘I’ve seen you in the Ray Bar, haven’t I?’ continued Richie.

‘Yes, sometimes if I have meetings on the east side I’ll pop in.’

‘Yeah I thought so, I’ve seen you there a few lunchtimes.’

‘Hmm, I don’t remember seeing you there, and I’m sure I’d have remembered
you
.’ Blue leered.

‘That’s ’cos you’re probably always too busy checking your reflection in your Martini,’ muttered Tiger.

‘Excuse my friend,’ said Blue, steering Tiger’s shoulders towards the dressing room. ‘In fact, you try your things on dear. Richie and I can have a little chat while you’re busy.’

The boys gassed and gossiped like they had known each other for years. As Tiger tried on her clothes in her fitting room she cursed, looking in the mirror at the size tens looking loose on her. She needed the next size down,
dammit. Where were her breasts disappearing to? And that peachy butt? She stuck her head round the door, and seeing Blue and Richie mid flow, decided to leave it for today. She really wasn’t in the mood. What she needed was another run. The latest pink letter was making her toss and turn at night, so maybe some more time on the treadmill would give her a chance to figure out the culprit.

As she left the fitting room, Blue and Richie were kissing their goodbyes.

‘Wow, looks like the start of a beautiful friendship,’ remarked Tiger as Richie skipped off into the sunset hues of Bond Street.

‘You bet. We’ve swapped numbers. I’m taking him to Old Compton Street tonight,’ sighed Blue.

‘Already?!’

‘Darling, a boy like that’s almost too good to be true. Gorgeous, and smart too! I’m not letting this one go.’

‘Let him go? You’ve only just met! You’ll scare him off!’

‘No, I’ll show him off more like. Best wear your earplugs when I get home tonight, babes.’

The gloved hand gently lays a sealed pink envelope on top of the pile of neatly folded clothes filling the suitcase. A faint hint of Chanel still hangs in the air. On the wall rearing up behind the suitcase are pinned newspaper cuttings and photographs, all of Tiger. Some are yellowing, with the edges curled from long days of lazy sunshine filtering through the window; others have fresh, bright colours. Some have been ripped, as though another figure has been removed from the picture – anyone who might be standing with her. New cuttings are pinned over old ones.

Glossy photographs pinned amongst them depict Tiger in her gowns, arriving at and departing the next glamorous event. Some have been scratched, so the face is no longer visible. Some white flowers are pinned to the wall, still arranged in the bunch with their stems reaching for the ceiling as though they have been hung and dried right next to Tiger; their beauty withered, faded over time like the newspaper images.

The hand reaches for the drawer in the bureau and slowly pulls it open, revealing a glistening Smith & Wesson knife amongst the pencils and pens. A cloth is plucked
from the drawer before the knife is carefully picked up and its blade slowly, deliberately polished with the cloth. As the metal glints, catching the light of the anglepoise lamp, it sends a shaft of light onto the wall, cutting across the myriad images of Tiger.

In a flash the knife is hurled at the wall of pictures. It slices through the air, spinning on its axis before plunging through layers of newspaper and sticking in the wall. It quivers there before the weight of the handle pulls it down, and it drops. Silently it lands in the suitcase upon the clothes, next to the pink envelope as if by design; an eerie portent.

Georgia slunk around Lewis’ apartment in a thoroughly bored fashion. She turned the stereo up a notch to drown out the sound of Lewis tapping away relentlessly on his laptop. She had thought that going out with Lewis Bond would be all limos, fine dining, society events, the odd entrance by helicopter thrown in, and maybe even a movie role by now. She hadn’t expected Lewis to be – well – to be
working
all the time. And she certainly hadn’t expected him to be so disinterested in her own career.

Tiger, Tiger, Tiger was all Georgia ever heard. Why hadn’t Lewis offered to be a manager to Georgia Atlanta, his own girlfriend? It just didn’t make sense to her. All the other men she had jumped into bed with had given her stuff. Hell, when she had gone to hang out on the Côte D’Azur straight after dance school, she used to be taken on to the yachts all the time and if she was lucky enough to be chosen to go to the master cabin for a night of fun, she knew she would always walk out with an arm full of diamonds, a nose full of cocaine, and a purse full of cash in the morning. Georgia certainly didn’t see anything wrong with a simple exchange of luxury goods, and, boy, did she make sure she was in tip-top racehorse
condition for the men at all times – smooth, tight, sleek, and flawless. Whilst she had never been the most beautiful yacht girl in St Tropez, Georgia’s infamously long Viking legs and sinewy frame had always been the honey that attracted the bees, and, boy, did she know exactly how to work a pair of itty-bitty hot pants. The problem was, none of the yacht-owning Russian oligarchs, Chinese gamblers or oil traders gave two shits about helping Georgia Atlanta to further her career; and Georgia knew she couldn’t make a living on the yachts for too much longer before it drove her insane. The sun, smiles and champagne formed a very thin veneer. Besides, she wanted her own pots of cash at her own say so, not when some sun dried old prune decided she was worth having a poke with his shrivelled dip stick. No, she simply had to find her own solid career before she got caught in that rut.

When Georgia had elegantly sailed through the tough auditions to be a Starrlet six months ago, she knew if she was smart, she would have to zero in on the head honcho behind the scenes immediately and get her feet firmly under the table; sure enough within days she had her long legs wrapped round the thankfully handsome Lewis Bond. In her experience, things always slipped into place once she’d fucked the boss. Luckily, Georgia loved her older men; they had much better sexual technique, better stories, and they were past playing games like the young boys did. Lewis Bond was certainly easy on the eye, with a brooding look of Al Pacino in his
Heat
days. Despite being in his
forties, Lewis was also still in amazing shape with incredible stamina between the sheets when she could drag him away from his work. He might only have millions in the bank rather than billions like the yacht owners, but Georgia knew that Lewis Bond was a bona fide catch, unlike some of the sweating little old pricks Georgia had put up with on the Riviera. Most importantly she was relieved, if not a little surprised, that Lewis and Tiger had never got it on; thank god she didn’t have to compete in that area too. Although with Georgia’s extensive experience with her Côte D’Azur clientele she had racked up a few tricks of the trade she knew could drive pretty much any man crazy in the sack.