Vanity (15 page)

‘Not so fast, beautiful,' said Sandra. ‘I brought someone with me, hope ya don't mind? I'm an old friend of his family, y'might say. I was
very
close to his dad.' She gave an extravagant wink.

‘No, of course not, more the merrier,' Poppy started, then tried not to gasp at the man who stepped out of the shadows. Jack Meadows was
the
hottest actor of the moment, combining the indie-cool kudos of your Gyllenhaals and Cusacks with the big box-office draw of your Pitts and Clooneys. The son of a legendary hell-raising bass guitarist, his rock'n'roll pedigree and ludicrously good looks had given him an enormous advantage pretty much from the day he was born. The fact that he was a genuinely talented actor, with a knack for choosing quirky, clever scripts, had guaranteed worldwide, knockout success.

And he was standing here, in her kitchen, looking just as gorgeous as he did on screen. At least six foot three, taller than most film stars by about half a foot, his mop of curly black hair framed a boyishly handsome face that was lit up by a genuinely sweet smile as he held out his hand.

‘Hi. Good of you to have me.' The accent was cultured, educated NY. ‘I'm Jack.'

‘I know.' Poppy laughed, quickly pulling herself together
and marvelling at her own sang-froid. ‘I'm Poppy. And
these are Marco, Chase and Fabrice.' She gestured at the gay triumvirate, all of whom seemed, for once, lost for words. Chase looked as if he was about to offer Jack Meadows the poppers, but Marco grabbed the bottle and put the lid on it, hiding it in his back pocket.

‘Hi, Marco, Chase and Fabrice,' said Jack, remembering all three names and shaking each of their hands in turn.

‘Hi, Jack,' they chorused, wide-eyed.

‘Hey, let me getcha a drink,' said Sandra, taking control of the situation, and Poppy flashed her a grateful smile, wondering what to do next. When somebody who is bona fide internationally famous turns up at your downtown apartment, do you parade them around as the guest of honour, or just casually leave them in the kitchen with your gay mates? She guessed the latter, but wanted to introduce him to Damian. Perhaps
this
would snap him out of his mood?

Jack leant down towards her, smiling that sweet smile again.

‘I'm a big fan of your show.'

‘
Really?
' It came out as a squawk. ‘Gosh, thanks. Can I introduce you to my husband? He's next door somewhere, but maybe you want to stay here in the kitchen for a bit …'

‘No, that's cool, I'll come with you. He's a lucky man.' He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary.

‘And I'm a lucky woman.' Poppy tried to ignore the heart-thudding excitement that she was being chatted up by a totally gorgeous film star.
I must find Damian.

Damian was telling Eleanor about his screenplay and for the first time all evening felt that somebody was paying him a gratifying bit of attention. In fact, Ellie seemed to think his idea was brilliant, and was just on the verge of giving him the name of a friend of hers in the film
business
that he
just must
contact, when—

‘Jack, let me introduce you to my husband, Damian. Damian, I don't think Jack needs any introduction, do you?' Poppy was smiling and this bloody lanky
bushy-ha
ired twat was holding out his hand to him.

Jack Meadows? For fuck's sake. He hated rock progeny, with their automatic sense of entitlement, their easy access into worlds utterly out of the reach of anybody born to less famous stock. And what the fuck was he doing here? In his and Poppy's flat?
The fact that Ellie was swooning, all interest in his screenplay lost, helped not a jot.

‘You're a very lucky man,' said the twat, smiling at Poppy.

‘So everybody keeps telling me,' said Damian, unsmiling.

‘
Damian
,' hissed Poppy.

‘I've got to get another drink. I'm sure you'll find enough people to talk to you.'

Damian walked away, this time being blatantly rude, and Lars, who had overheard the exchange, said, ‘You mushn't mind my friend, thish ish hish British sensh of humour. I'm Larsh!' The six foot four Viking in a gold lamé dress held out his gloved hand, and Jack accepted it with something that looked like relief.

‘Wow, Jack Meadows,' said Ellie, sweetly. ‘I just love your stuff …' As she twittered on, Lars said to Poppy, ‘I shall go to Damian.'

‘You do that, I'm almost beyond caring,' said Poppy, close to tears now. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother.'

Lars took her to one side and held her firmly by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. The platinum wig and heavy make-up made it more than a little disconcerting.

‘Your hushband ish a good man. But it is not good for ush men to feel like failuresh. I know for myshelf.' He looked sad, and Poppy impulsively leant up to give him a hug, covering herself in his lipstick and rouge in the process.

‘Oh, you dear thing, but neither of you are failures, you must see that? It's just this horrid recession, and as I'm earning silly money now, I don't see why he can't just relax and enjoy it until something comes up for him. Damian's brilliant, he's not going to be unemployed forever, and his screenplay idea is soooo cool.'

‘You are a clever girl, but you do not undershtand men. I shall go to him.'

‘Thanks so much. I'm getting myself another drink. Tonight was
meant
to be fun.'

Poppy helped herself to a teacup of strong hooch, where she was waylaid for some time by one of the runners on her show, eager to talk shop. As soon as she could escape, she went back to the kitchen for more champagne – she really wasn't keen on whatever it was that Damian had elected to put in the cocktails.

On entering the kitchen she was confronted by the perturbing sight of Sandra on her knees, sucking Fabrice's enormous black cock. Chase and Marco were still sniffing poppers and roaring with laughter.

‘What? I thought you were gay?'

‘I am, babe, I am, but man, she's good,' said Fabrice, taking a hearty sniff from the poppers bottle. ‘Man, just like that is gooooooood.'

‘Still the best groupie, still got it,' said Sandra. ‘I always give the best head.'

Poppy backed off, feeling, for the first time in her life, totally out of her depth. What was her party turning into? And why was Damian being such a dickhead?

As she stumbled away from the kitchen, Jack appeared through the crowds of people in her flat, most of whom she didn't know. He smiled his sweet smile at her.

‘You OK?'

‘Yeah, fine, thanks.' Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. ‘Sorry about my husband.'

‘No worries. Would some charlie make you feel better?'

‘God, yeah. Thanks.' Poppy really did feel like crying. It was all too fucking weird, and she thought she could handle weird. ‘I s'pose my bedroom is the best place, if we want a bit of privacy …'

But when they opened the bedroom door, they saw Marty and Ellie shagging each other's brains out on the floor the other side of Poppy and Damian's bed.

‘Oh, Martypoos, fill me up!'

‘Oh
,
Elliekins, I wanna feel your sweet pussy all around me …'

Poppy shut the door quickly, bending over as she was laughing so much that she could hardly breathe. It seemed that the reintroduction to Lars had perked up Marty and Ellie's sex life so much that they couldn't even wait to get home any more. When she looked up, Jack was laughing fit to bust too.

‘OK, plan B. Come to the loo with me.'

‘Loo? I love your accent. OK, cool Brit girl, I'll follow you to the loooooo.'

They had a line each on top of the cistern, then sat down on the floor.

‘You really are the prettiest and coolest girl I've met in a long time,' said Jack, bending his curly head to kiss her.

Is this really happening?
Poppy thought. Then she came to her senses and backed away.

‘Thank you so much, I'm really, really flattered, but I've only been married to Damian for a few months and I do love him, you know. He's just going through a bad time with work and stuff.'

Jack Meadows, man of a million women's fantasies, stared at her for nearly a minute, then started laughing.

‘You know, I think that's the first time anybody's said no to me in years. I'm sorry, I don't want to come between man and wife. But he has been an asshole tonight. Friends?' He held out his hand and Poppy shook it. Then, as was her wont, she gave him a hug.

‘Thanks for being one of the nicest men here tonight, groovy film star or not …'

‘Groovy?' Jack laughed. ‘They still say that in the UK?'

The door swung open.

‘WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING WITH MY WIFE?' Damian's aggressive fist was restrained by Lars, who was standing right behind him. The rest of the party was looking on, agog.

Poppy got up and said, ‘He's being a lot nicer to me than you have all night. Thanks, Lars.'

Jack also got to his feet.

‘I'll say it again,' he said to Damian. ‘You're a very lucky man. And, whatever she says, I doubt that you deserve her.' And he walked out of their apartment, off into the hot New York night.

The rest of the guests dissipated pretty quickly after that.

‘So what the fuck was going on in there? I don't believe you, Poppy, falling for his lines. Fucking gobshite son-of-a-rock-star twat. We haven't even been married three months …'

‘What do you think, Othello? We were having a line, he tried to snog me and I said no.'

‘
He tried to snog you?
' Damian shouted, conveniently choosing to ignore the ‘saying no' bit.

‘Oh, just fuck off, you arse,' said Poppy wearily as she set about tidying up. ‘You were being a cunt all night. Go and stay with Lars if he'll have you.'

Damian looked at her once more, then walked angrily out of the door, slamming it behind him so loudly she thought it might fall off its hinges.

Poppy stared at the door for a minute or so, before sitting down with a thud on the floor. Resting her head on her knees, she finally allowed the tears to come.

‘Desde-fucking-mona,' she said to her perfectly pedicured feet.

‘I am not drinking that goddamn French crap!' screamed Amy Lascelles, America's latest sweetheart, throwing a bottle of Badoit at the floor manager, who ducked. ‘It tastes like piss! I only drink Evian.' She pronounced it Ay-vee-orn.

Ben snorted with laughter as he picked the bottle up off the floor, where it had landed at his feet, and took a swig.

‘I suppose you think Evian comes from the good ol' US of A,' he drawled. ‘Sweet home Alabama, perhaps?'

Amy Lascelles looked at him with confusion and dislike painted all over her pretty little features, then stalked back to her trailer, slamming the door behind her.

Shooting
Beyond the Sea
,
Ben's first proper feature film, was not proving nearly as enjoyable as he'd hoped. This was largely due to the spoilt-madam antics of his co-star. Amy looked like a little doll, with large, round, china-blue eyes, a snub nose and pouty pink mouth. Today, in full costume, she was wearing a pale-blue-and-white gingham full-skirted, wasp-waisted frock, her golden-blonde hair tied up with matching ribbon into a swingy ponytail.

The scene they were shooting was the one where Ben's character, the dastardly Englishman, first encounters Amy's innocent American abroad. It was taking place in a
picturesque
fish restaurant, in a pretty square just off the Saint-Tropez main drag. The entire square, and several beyond it, had been taken over by the film crew. At the height of the tourist season, it was costing a fortune to pay off the restaurateurs, bar owners and shopkeepers who were losing business as a result, so the aim was to get the scene shot in as few takes as possible.

With Amy in her current mood, this was easier said than done.

‘OK, lunch break over,' shouted Pavel, the director. ‘Back to work, guys. Ben, see if you can coax Her Highness back out …?' His tone was pleading, and Ben took pity on him. Poor bastard – if it was difficult for Ben to act with Amy, it must be a bloody nightmare for Pavel having to direct her.

He strode across to Amy's trailer, drawing admiring glances from all the female members of the crew. He really did look ridiculously handsome in his 1950s cream linen suit and panama hat with a navy-blue band around it.

‘Amy, sweetheart, time to get back to work.' He knocked tentatively at the door.

‘Go fuck yourself.' Oh,
charming
.

‘Come on, sweetheart. The sooner we finish this scene, the sooner we can get back to the hotel, and
you
can get back to Guru Mogadishu. We all know how spiritual you are, and you probably need to have your aura cleansed after such an exhausting day's filming.' It took all of Ben's acting abilities not to sound as if he was smirking at this.

Amy had recently declared herself a Buddhist, and insisted on travelling everywhere with her own personal guru, with whom she meditated and practised yoga every morning and evening. The man was a flagrant charlatan, but he constantly massaged Amy's ego, telling her that she was on a higher spiritual plane than everybody else, as well as being, it went without saying, immensely more beautiful and talented.

Ben could hear footsteps inside the trailer, and, sure enough, the door slowly opened.

‘Hurry up then, you asshole,' Amy snapped at him. ‘I need to get this over with so I can get my chakras back in alignment. If you could
try
and get to the end of the scene without making any lame fuck-ups, I'd be grateful.' And she waltzed back to the entrance of the restaurant.