Murder Most Fab (27 page)

Emotion
was fizzing inside me and I couldn’t let him go. He looked down at my hand on
his arm and gave me a slow, contented smile .

We left
Rough gawping with displeasure and slipped away. Roy drove us to a quiet members-only
club, hidden behind a nondescript green door in a Soho back-street. It was one
thirty in the morning. Despite its modest entrance, the club was extremely
exclusive. I’d been a member for only a few months, having been fast-tracked up
the waiting list. The other members were either famous or accustomed to working
with the famous — agents, managers, TV types, media executives and journalists
— so it was one of the few places I could go without being stared at or
hassled. Inside, the lucky members could enjoy a gourmet restaurant or choose
between several quiet, dimly lit bars with discreet but attentive staff.
Upstairs there were a number of luxury ‘recovery rooms’ where customers who had
over-indulged could lie down until they felt more themselves. Or whatever. We
chose the colonial-style Victoria Bar and I nodded politely to a shockingly
inebriated Paul O’Grady and Sigourney Weaver as we made our way through it.
Maybe this place wasn’t so exclusive, after all.

‘Anyone
would think it was Pound-a-pint-for-Scousers Night,’ I muttered to Tim, as we
passed, ignoring Paul’s shrill demand that I join them for a half of cider and
a sniff of poppers.

We
settled into a quiet corner, then ordered oysters and brandy Alexanders with
fresh nutmeg as a Chopin concerto wafted soothingly over the sound system.

‘Ah,
that’s better,’ I said, beginning to relax. ‘So, tell me about your exciting
life. The last time we spoke you were off to Cambridge, weren’t you?’

The
mention of that meeting seemed to embarrass Tim, as I had hoped it would. My
heart had never mended, and while I wanted to appear bright, happy and
attractive, part of me wanted him to know how much he had hurt me, stunted me
and, despite the trappings of success, ruined me .

He
overcame his discomfort and answered easily, ‘Oh, Cambridge was a hoot. I had a
fantastic time. Made lots of great friends and finished with a first in Law, so
Father was happy.’

‘How is
he?’ I kept a straight face.

‘Oh,
busy on the farm and at the House of Lords, same as ever. Mother’s thriving
too. Regina has been married off to a rich South African and lives under armed
guard at some sort of vineyard in Cape Town. How’s your mum? Still as mad as a
March hare?’

‘Bloody
cheek!’ I said. ‘She made you a lovely tea once.’

I
studied Tim’s face. His complexion was a little darker, his hair shorter, and
the cute mannerism he’d had of tossing his fringe out of his eyes was now gone.
But his eyes! They were the same expensive sapphire blue, and when I looked
into them I was lost again, transported back to the summerhouse. I had wondered
over the years if my love for him had been an illusion, a crush, somehow kept
alive by willpower. Of course I’d imagined meeting him again, but what if first
love had been simply youthful folly?

Now
here I was with him, gazing into those heavenly eyes again, and all was well
with the world. The twin towers of love and desire were standing tall and
sturdy. Did Tim feel the same? I fervently hoped so — that would be my Mills
and Boon fantasy fulfilled, but now was not the time to ask. Despite our kooks
and smiles, and the attraction you could almost see, like fireworks going off
between us, we were still at the polite chit-chat stage.

‘I’m
working in the City now,’ Tim was saying. ‘Training to be a lawyer. Bloody hard
work, doing my papillae. I qualify in about five years ‘time’.

‘An
eternity,’ I agreed. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Cadogan
Square. Poky little mansion flat. More of a bedsit, really.’

We were
on our third drink before either of us had the nerve to mention our love lives.

‘I read
about you and the air stewardess in the
News of the World,’
said Tim,
grinning. ‘Good on you. She gave you a very good report, you dirty devil!’

‘Yes, I
know,’ I said flatly. ‘I wrote it myself.’

‘Oh, I
see. Not true, then?’

‘No.’

He
seemed to feel the need to get the next bit of information out as quickly
possible. ‘I’m engaged to a cracking girl called Sophie. Her father invented
laminate flooring.’ He averted his eyes at the end of the sentence so I had
time to recover.

‘It’ll
never catch on. Where is she tonight?’

‘Switzerland.
Skiing with the Sandersons.’ There was a pause. When he looked at me again my
thoughts must have been obvious. ‘You turned out to be gay after all, then,
did you?’

‘That’s
right.’

He
glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘Good lad,’ he said
quietly, and smiled his best, sexiest smile. ‘Mind if I order a cigar to
celebrate?’

I
ordered it for him and brandy for both of us.

‘Is
there a recovery room available?’ I asked the waiter, a thin, sad-looking man
of about my age. More an out-of-work actor than a drama student, I thought.

‘I’m
afraid Mr O’Grady has just booked the last one, sir,’ he said, rolling his eyes
in the direction of Paul and Sigourney.

‘Listen,’
I said, skipping a fifty-pound note into his hand, ‘tell Mr O’Grady there’s
been a mistake. He’d only honk in the sock drawer anyway.’

‘Very
good, sir,’ said third chorus boy from the left, and walked towards the noisy
duo on the other side of the room.

Twenty
minutes later I closed the recovery-room door behind us and Tim and I were
alone at last.

‘I keep
thinking this is a mistake,’ were Tim’s first words. He spoke quietly, without
conviction, and almost before he had finished his sentence he pulled me roughly
towards him and kissed me. Or, rather, we kissed each other. Five years of
pent-up longing and missing found a fissure of expression in the volcanic rock
of our fused emotions. It was the kiss of a lifetime, a time-travelling kiss.
By the end of it, we were naked, satiated, empty and extremely sweaty.

We fell
asleep almost immediately, as if we were anxious for another level of
consciousness to take over and make sense of everything for us.

It was the dustbin men who
woke me. It must have been about six. The window was open and the curtains were
wafting in and out like lungs. I felt the heavy weight of a sleeping man on my
left arm, and turned to see Tim, fast asleep and snoring through his open
mouth. I studied the ridges in his lips, the bubbles of saliva gathering in the
corners, and when I could stand it no more, I leant over and kissed him. I
started by sucking his dry, dehydrated lips with my moist, succulent ones. I
wanted Tim’s to slide against mine, slowly arousing him so he would drift
seamlessly from the calm lagoons of sleep into the deep, rocky waters of
early-morning lust. But just as things were heading nicely in that direction,
he opened bloodshot eyes and looked at me.

‘Oh, my
good god,’ he said, stunned to discover where he was, what he was doing and who
he was doing it with.

He
bowed his head, exhaling noisily on my Adam’s apple, then rolled off me
unceremoniously.

‘I’m a
fucking idiot,’ he said, running his palm over his forehead and banging the
top of his head several times. ‘Jesus Christ!’

He
jumped out of bed and grabbed his clothes from about the room, getting
particularly upset with his shirt, because it was inside-out — as if that was a
painful reminder to him of our unbridled passion a few hours earlier.

Dressed,
he stumbled into the bathroom. I heard him splash water on his face. ‘Shit.
Fuck!’ he kept saying. Angrily he urinated, then slammed down the toilet handle
with an almighty crash. He came back to the bedroom and stood beside me. ‘I’m
going,’ he said.

‘This
is very sudden,’ I said sarcastically. I was still lying naked on top of the
bedclothes and tried giving my hips a suggestive wiggle. I wasn’t going to let
my lover walk out on me again, five years down the line, still protesting his
indifference to my charms. Last night had put paid to that lie. ‘You’re scared
of me,’ I said.

‘I know
I am,’ he replied.

‘Is
that it, then? Goodbye and thank you?’

He
swayed from side to side, some internal pendulum rocking him one way then the
other. ‘Johnny, I’m going to marry Sophie. Look, maybe we could meet up some
time for a drink.’ He pulled out his wallet and fiddled inside it. He took out
a card and put it on the bedside table. ‘It’s been nice seeing you. Call me
some time.’

‘Remember
me,’ I said.

He
smiled and left.

Life was good, apart from
two things. One, of course, was my secret love for Tim and the bittersweet
memory of what happened between us that night. Whatever he had said in the
morning, and however unceremonious his departure had been, I knew we had
unfinished business to attend to.

The other
problem was Bernard. Since I had tasted the pleasure of Tim, I had barely been
able to tolerate him. Every ounce of affection I’d felt for him (and there had
been only a couple to start with) had vanished. Instead I found him intensely
irritating and did my best to avoid him. As a result, things were tense and his
behaviour became increasingly erratic. He had taken to hissing things like ‘I
made you and I’ll break you, you little shit! I know what you’ve been up to’
one minute, then declaring eternal love the next.

When
the show came to its three-month break, and I was on holiday from recording,
Bernard suggested a trip to Nicaragua. I decided to go. He was thrilled. He
thought this was our big romantic moment, and I let him, but in truth I felt
it might do us good to get away and clear the air. I wanted to calm him down
and get things on an even keel between us. I knew he was an important factor in
my success, still, and I needed to keep him sweet. But he also had to
understand that he wasn’t my boyfriend and that I had to have a life without
him in it. If we went away, I was sure we could sort it out. Besides, I was
tired, feeling the effects of too many nights on the town. In the last few
months I had found fame, fortune and Tim. I wanted to lie on a sandy beach and
take stock.

All was
well enough on the flight, but as soon as we landed in Managua, Bernard was
clutching my arm like a maiden aunt, complaining about the heat, the food, the
wine, and being more demanding and dramatic than ever.

Once
we’d fought our way through the chaos of the airport we spent a night in the
sleepy, dusty town of Havana, at the vaguely Arabic, colonial-style Villa
Franca. Charming, dusky Latino boys were all around us, and Bernard guarded me
jealously, placing a proprietorial hand on my arm whenever a handsome waiter,
with white teeth and low-slung chinos, drifted past.

‘Oh,
for goodness’ sake, Bernard, do calm down. If you’re going to act like this the
entire time, I’m going home right now,’ I said crossly.

‘All
right. Sorry,’ he replied sulkily. ‘But no flirting!’

‘I’m
not flirting,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Now can you please stop, and let us both
enjoy our well-earned holiday? Thank you.’

A day
later we moved to the seaside resort of St Juan, where we resided in a hillside
bungalow, dined in the alfresco restaurant and nodded at the security guards as
we made our way up the hill in the evenings.

‘Shall
we go to the beach today, or stay by the hotel pool?’ I asked, on the third
morning, trying to snap us both out of a stormy mood. No matter how hard we
tried, we couldn’t relax together.

‘I’m
tired,’ answered Bernard. ‘I think I’ll go for a lie-down. Go to the beach and
I’ll see you there in an hour or so.’

That
was fine by me. If Bernard wasn’t with me, for a while at least, I could forget
about keeping him happy and concentrate on my own needs for a change. I was
longing for a few minutes to myself so I could think about Tim. I wished
Bernard a good rest and wandered slowly down the hill to the beach.