Becca, the girl I’d met in Berlin was often on my mind. What had started as a desire simply to get laid, which had been more than successful, had ended up with me hoping I might see her again. Many nights I’d lie in my bed and, eyes closed, use fingers or toys or both to replay in my mind those two nights of fabulous sex. I’d also found I liked her.
My agent, Flick Caterham was throwing another party. They were her networking sessions and this one was a chance for her to get her ‘stars’ (which now included me) to mix with her top targets.
“For Christ’s sake wear something presentable! And definitely not that thing you were wearing when you got caught,” she’d told me over the phone. “Oh, and hope to God that German bitch doesn’t sell her story to the papers.”
‘She was American.” She’d hung up so I said that to the dial tone.
One advantage of having made it as far as I had was that designers wanted their clothes to be seen on red carpets and at fashionable events and I’d been asked by my best mate (Flick’s sister Lilly) to do a favour for a friend of hers. She, Mandy Lord a rising star of fashion, had selected a calf-length number in purple that had a scooped neck, tight waist and full skirt.
“Stockings or tights?” she’d asked.
“Bare legs?”
“Definitely not under that!” Bossy cow.
“OK, stockings then.”
“Wait here.” I waited while she went to a storeroom and returned with a couple of pairs that she thought were suitable and a pair of three-inch heels that matched the frock.
So I arrived at the party in one of London’s big hotels and was immediately grabbed by Lilly.
“You look absolutely gorgeous, darling. Good old Mandy. She’s the business.” She kissed my cheek. “Fashionably late arriving too. You really are becoming the star.”
“My cab was late.”
“Never spoil the illusion. That German girl of yours was gorgeous!”
“American.”
“Whatever. I can see why you made such an ass of yourself. Now, Flick has told Hattie to chaperone you tonight to make sure you don’t make a tit of yourself. But there is one little someone I want you to meet.”
“If you’re matchmaking...”
“Would I? Anyway, she’s an exotic.” That, for Lilly, meant foreign and probably not white. “She was at Uni with me and she’s from Ceylon.”
“Isn’t it called Sri Lanka now?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, her father was something very grand, diplomatic I think and she studied Politics and now works for the Foreign Office although she did a few years in America, poor darling. She’s as queer as a rabbit with two heads of course.”
“Of course.” When Lilly was in full flood there was no point trying to stem her flow.
“Well, you go and behave yourself. Find Hattie and let her lead you through all the glad-handing then I’ll introduce you.”
“Lilly...”
“Must dash darling. There’s an absolutely gorgeous man who is holding a glass of champagne and a candle for me and one simply can't let him wait too long.” And she was gone, her long legs carrying her through the throng imperiously as she sought out her next victim, poor sod.
Hattie was one of Flick’s small army of stunners whose purpose in life is to keep clients, males mostly, onside by flashing tits, legs, etcetera at them. She was as straight as a plumb line and a huge disappointment to me since I had fancied her from the moment I first met her. No chance though. She sinuously worked her way through the assembled great and good of the business, her eyes set on me like a hawk’s.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’ve turned queer and want to take me away from all this to live together on a paradise island.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Nice frock. Lord’s great isn’t she? Now listen. Flick’s working on getting you a part in a film directed by Michael Gordon. He’s here and he’s dying to meet you. We are going to ‘bump into him’ accidentally and you’re going to charm his socks off and not be some dyke activist.”
“What’s the part?”
“Buggered if I know. It’s an earner is all Flick’s told me, so behave.” Her arm through mine, she led me like a prisoner around the room until she hissed in my ear, “There, blue suit. Michael Gordon.”
“Isn’t he a director?” I asked as if she’d never mentioned him.
“Don’t be such a tit. If you’re not sparkling for him I shall tell Flick.”
“Michael, darling.” Hattie moved to his side and kissed his cheek. She had to bend down for that since he was shorter than me and I feared her tits might spill and suffocate the poor man.
“Hattie, lovely as ever. Have you met my wife Marta?” Marta was an Eastern European blonde of the sort who find men like Michael (that is to say unattractive, short and loaded) amazingly attractive. She looked sulky. I decided to charm her and, through her, win Michael’s approval since in my view pretty much anything was better than trying to charm the obnoxious little squirt himself.
“Marta, I’m Faye Millerton. So lovely to meet you.” I offered my hand and she took it with little grace. Her sulky mouth turned down even further if that were possible.
“I love your dress!” I said brightly although to be perfectly honest it was a hideous confection, about twenty years too young for her and six inches too short. This arch flattery did though seem to cheer her up a bit.
“And I love yours too – is it a Mandy Lord?” Was I the only one alive who hadn’t heard of Lord until recently. Her voice betrayed her European roots.
“Clever you,” I said. “My friend Lilly is a close friend of hers so she persuaded her to do the honours for me.”
“You are very fortunate to have such friends.” I agreed and was about to ask who had made her dress but suspected it might have come from Tesco so didn’t.
“You’re so tall and beautiful, you’d look great in anything. Have you lived in England long?”
“Michael and I live in Hollywood mostly. I don’t like it so much. I’d prefer to live here but Michael’s business means he has to be there.”
“Some people would give anything to swap with you.”
Now, I didn’t see anything ambiguous in that but it must have hit the very bullseye of Michael Gordon’s ego-spot because he turned his full gaze on me and said, “I doubt Marta would swap me, even for someone as beautiful as you.”
Hattie smiled her perfect smile. “She meant Hollywood, not you, Michael darling.”
I offered him my hand and he took it for a rather long time. His palm was moist, weak and his eyes like those of a lizard.
“Felicity has told me a lot about you.”
“Don’t believe a word. She’s hated me ever since I taught her sister, Lilly, to smoke dope.”
He actually laughed and so did Marta. “I assure you all she’s said was good. Have you ever played a villain?”
“I have actually. My last job was a tv show. I played a German terrorist during the 1970s. She was a psychopath revolutionary. Flick said I was almost perfect for it.”
He laughed again and Hattie, I noticed, almost applauded me. “Almost?”
“Well, my character, Ulrike, was a double-first student from Oxford and Flick said I have the brains of a tortoise; apart from that though the part might have been written for me," I said.
“That,” said Marta, “is very unkind.”
“It’s what passes for humour amongst Brits.”
Gordon squeezed my hand. “I’m looking for a villainess. She has to be ruthless, sadistic, amoral but also the sort of woman people find magnetically attractive.”
“Sounds perfect for Flick,” I said. “If not, she’ll know someone.”
We all laughed and it took all my acting skills to pretend to find him pleasant enough to talk to. Marta had brightened up a bit and said that if ever I were in Hollywood we should get together and have a girls’ night out. I said how very much I’d love that but that my chances of getting to Hollywood were slim.