‘Sure, Red,’ Chris mumbled, still in shock, and not too happy that he’d been forced to stay over–for what? Red Diamond did not look as if he was going anywhere soon.
‘Where’s the girlies?’ Red inquired, sitting down. ‘Where’s the cooze-fest?’
Red was the last person Max had expected to appear at his bachelor party. How the hell had the old man known about it anyway? Christ! As if the evening wasn’t uncomfortable enough.
Somehow or other he got through dinner, keeping a sharp eye on Red, who kept groping the half-naked waitresses. Chris and Jett weren’t any help: they spoke to each other in low voices, trying to pretend that the man who’d beaten the crap out of them when they were growing up wasn’t sitting a couple of feet away.
After dinner there was a series of ribald speeches, then finally the moment Max had been dreading–on came the strippers. Twelve nearly naked girls who couldn’t wait to get in everyone’s face, much to the delight of his other guests, especially Red.
The girls started off in clever little outfits, everything from school uniform to black-leather dominatrix gear, each girl more voluptuous than the next. The strippers were all shapes and sizes. The only thing they had in common was perfect bodies, and they sure knew how to use them. After a while a slippery pole sprang up in the middle of the stage, and each girl proceeded to caress and slide around it as if it were their greatest lover. They licked it, they rode up and down, they wrapped their long legs round it and simulated sex.
Max glanced around. The Japanese bankers seemed extremely happy. Chris was drinking too much. Jett was sitting back with a noncommittal expression, while Red was producing hundred-dollar bills and crudely sticking them into the girls’ crotches, his gnarly fingers copping a feel. Finally all twelve lined up, removed their G-strings, then proceeded to do a Rockettes-style high-kicking dance, giving every man in the place a bird’s eye view of their most private parts.
After that came the obligatory girl-on-girl show. Two spectacular women appeared on stage: a flame-haired beauty and a brunette, both with amazing bodies and plenty of enthusiasm.
Red was really into it. At one point he was almost on the stage with them, throwing money onto their undulating bodies, wheezing his appreciation.
The flame-haired woman was going down on the dark-haired one when Max decided he’d had enough. ‘Gotta get out of here,’ he mumbled to Chris, who was no help at all. ‘Can’t take another minute of this.’
‘Hey,’ Jett said. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He was anxious to distance himself from his father and get over to Gatsby’s. Besides, there was nothing more difficult than being in the company of drinkers when he couldn’t indulge, didn’t want to indulge. Even the girl-on-girl show was failing to turn him on: it was all so mechanical–‘You touch my left tit,’ ‘I’ll stick my tongue in your pussy,’ and so on.
‘Max, you can’t leave,’ Chris said, suddenly coming to life. ‘This is your damn party. There’s no way you can walk out on it.’
‘Yes, Mr Diamond, it’s your party,’ cooed one of the strippers, tossing a purple feather boa round his neck. ‘We have lots more fun coming up.’
She stationed herself next to him until the two girls finished their show. Then, with the help of two other strippers, she pulled a reluctant Max up onto the stage. Once they’d got him there, they sat him on a chair, tied his hands behind him, and one by one they each proceeded to give him an extremely intimate, totally naked lap-dance.
The men began whooping and cheering, while Max suffered through every minute of his ordeal. He’d never felt more humiliated. Why the fuck was he allowing it to happen? What would Amy think?
He saw Red watching him, and immediately felt like a kid again, the callow teenager whose father had walked into the room when he was just about to make out with his steady girlfriend. Red had screamed at him to get out, and he’d run to his room like a lamb, while his lech of a father had proceeded to rape his girlfriend. Red had fucking raped her. Max felt waves of anger envelop him.
Christ! That had been a living nightmare, and so was this.
By the time he finally got out of there it was past one. He couldn’t wait to get home and shower the smell of the girls off him. Their cheap cloying perfume clung to his clothes, making him nauseous. Even worse had been the sight of old Red Diamond drooling over the strippers, offering crude comments, jotting down phone numbers. It was all too much.
When he’d left, Red was still there, surrounded by the stars of the girl-on-girl show, and several of the strippers. They were all grabbing at the hundred-dollar bills he was handing out.
At least the Japanese had enjoyed themselves.
Fuck ’em. Fuck everyone. They either wanted to invest in his project or they didn’t. Why did he have to prostitute himself to make sure it happened?
Too late now. He’d done it, and it had better produce the expected results.
Gatsby’s was an out-of-control zoo. Lurking outside the club were bands of paparazzi, several cops, and an unruly crowd of wannabes pushing to get in.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Jett asked a cop, as he made his way to the front of the line.
‘Birdy Marvel’s inside,’ the cop replied with an I-wish-I-was-in-there-with-her grin.
Beverly had left his name at the door, so Jett was able to cruise right through. After looking around for a few minutes he tracked her down. She was sitting with Chet, sipping a cosmopolitan.
‘Now, don’t get mad,’ she warned him, before he could say a word. ‘I’m still on it.’
‘You mean you haven’t found out who she is?’ he asked, frustrated beyond belief.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘The group of girls from last night aren’t regulars. They were here for a bachelorette party. I got the number of the one who booked their table.’
‘And?’
‘Tried it, no answer.’
‘Did you leave a message?’
‘What kinda message would I leave, Jett?’ Beverly asked. ‘Oh, yeah, I know–my friend screwed your friend last night. I got no idea what she looks like, an’ he didn’t quite get her name, so, uh, who is she?’
‘Give me the number, Bev.’
‘Does that mean I’m off the hook?’
‘It means I’ll take it from here.’
She handed him the scribbled number on a piece of paper. He pocketed it and immediately felt better. Now he could relax. His mystery girl was only a phone call away.
Chris ended the night with one of the performers from the girl-on-girl show, the statuesque flame-haired beauty with large breasts and very long legs. Her name was Sonja and she was originally from Slovakia. She informed him she usually charged three thousand dollars a night, but for him her sexual favours were free.
Hookers. They were all the same whether they charged three dollars or three thousand. It was sex for sale, however much it cost. That didn’t mean he wasn’t vaguely flattered that she was giving it up for free.
Living in L.A., Chris often used the services of high-class call-girls. First of all, they were usually more beautiful than the actresses and models. Even more important, all they wanted from a man was his money. They didn’t want to accompany him to the Oscars and the Golden Globes. They had no desire to be photographed with him. No dinner in a fancy restaurant. No sulks when you forgot their birthday and failed to send flowers on Valentine’s Day. And…sexually it was anything he wanted and, best of all, no demanding equal orgasm.
He took Sonja back to his hotel, where she danced for him privately. Her toned body with large breasts and hard, extended nipples was a real turn-on.
He was half drunk and not happy about seeing Red, but he managed to lose himself in the arms of a very accomplished woman whom he wasn’t paying.
She pumped him dry and then some. Sonja knew her business.
There was something about getting laid by a stranger that was extremely soothing.
In the morning Sonja was gone. So was his gold Rolex.
When he went into the bathroom a note was scrawled on the mirror above the sink:
MR GIAGANTE EXPECTS
PAYMENT. I TOOK MINE.
NEXT TIME YOU WON’T BE
SO LUCKY.
P.S. YOUR COCK NEEDS A
SERVICE.
Chapter Twenty-One
While heavy rains pounded California, New York was experiencing mild January weather. It was cold and crisp, with intermittent sunshine.
Waking up on Saturday morning, Amy decided to take a bike ride in the park. One of her fellow workers–Nigel, who was English, gay and on the design team–always enjoyed hitting the park, so she phoned him and asked if he cared to accompany her.
‘Absolutely,’ Nigel said, never one to miss out on anything. ‘I’ll grab my cycling shorts and meet you in half an hour.’
Being with Nigel was almost like spending time with a close girlfriend. He was fun, chatty and a good listener.
‘Did you hear they’re flying a model in from Milan to be photographed for the new ad spots?’ he asked, as they rode their bikes vigorously through the park.
‘What model?’ Amy asked, taking long, deep breaths.
‘The Italian supermodel, Gianna. She’s très famous. Always in Italian Vogue.’
‘Why didn’t they book any of the girls here?’
‘Because our supermodels take it off for Victoria’s Secret, and Sofia considers that tacky,’ Nigel said, narrowly avoiding a running dog. ‘Sofia Courtenelli is not interested in promoting a bunch of semi-strippers. Madam is going for class, so she’s flying in the Italian. The ad campaign will also feature a male model, I’m hoping it’s Mark Vanderloo-he’s my absolute fave. Those abs! Oh, my God!’
‘Is he gay?’
‘How would I know?’ Nigel replied archly. ‘I’m not the arbiter of who’s gay and who’s not.’
‘Somebody should’ve told me about this,’ Amy grumbled. ‘It’s a good column item. I could’ve placed it in Liz Smith. When is this model arriving?’
‘Sunday or Monday,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m not quite sure.’
‘Great! How can I get column space if she’s arriving tomorrow? Sofia is really annoying.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because all she’s really interested in is personal publicity. And it’s not so easy getting her name in the columns.’
‘Donatella Versace seems to have no problem,’ Nigel remarked.
‘Do not mention Donatella Versace around Sofia,’ Amy said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have a strong suspicion Sofia is jealous.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘Donatella has the advantage of the celebrity aura. Y’ know, the shocking murder of her brother in Miami, and she’s friends with Madonna and Naomi Campbell.’
‘Even Naomi’s showing too much skin,’ Nigel mused, swivelling his head to check out a passing jogger with muscles to spare. ‘Personally,’ he added, ‘I’m thrilled we’re flying in someone new.’
Amy’s cell rang. She clicked on, balancing the phone under her chin.
‘Good morning,’ Max said.
‘Hi.’
‘Are you ready to hear about last night?’ he said, sounding remarkably cheerful for someone who was supposed to have a hangover.
‘I’m bike-riding in Central Park with Nigel.’
‘Sounds most energetic.’
‘You should try it one day,’ she said, zooming down an incline, Nigel in hot pursuit.
‘Personally I prefer the stationary bike.’
‘How was last night? Did you get wild and crazy?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Actually it was quite an experience, considering Red showed up.’
‘Your father came to your bachelor party?’ Amy exclaimed. ‘How did that happen?’
‘He ruined the entire night. Not that I was enjoying myself, but his arrival put a damper on everything.’
‘I’m sure it did.’
‘Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. My brothers are in town, I’m taking them to brunch with Lulu at the Pierre. I thought you might like to join us.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Look,’ he said persuasively, ‘I realize how difficult Lulu was yesterday, but you’ve got to remember she’s only a kid, and she’s extremely fond of you.’
‘It’s not Lulu, Max, it’s Grams. You know I always visit her on Saturdays. She looks forward to seeing me.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot.’
‘But I have a terrific idea,’ she said brightly. ‘How about inviting your brothers to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night?’
‘Your mother will throw a fit. You know how she is when it comes to seating.’
‘Too bad. After all, you’re paying for it.’
‘So I should do it?’
‘Yes, I’ll deal with Nancy.’
‘That’s bold of you.’
‘I can be bold when it matters.’
‘Then I’ll invite them.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. Then, weakening, she added, ‘If I get out of Grams’s early, I’ll try to stop by for coffee.’
Clicking off her cell, she concentrated on the bumpy path ahead.
‘Was that the bridegroom-to-be checking up on you?’ Nigel inquired, pedalling furiously to keep up with her.
‘Max doesn’t check up on me.’
‘Maybe he should,’ Nigel said slyly.
Amy’s cheeks flushed. ‘Excuse me?’ she said, wondering if Nigel had heard anything about her big night out.
‘Nothing,’ he murmured.
‘Where’s your boyfriend today?’ she asked, hurriedly switching subjects.
‘Asleep. Marcello craves his beauty sleep. He would sooner die than indulge in any physical activity.’
‘That’s rather dramatic.’
‘So is Marcello. That boy lives for drama.’
‘You’ve been together a while, haven’t you?’
‘A year and a half. I’ve never stayed with anyone longer than two years. Another six months and it’s onto the new and shiny.’
‘Uh…are you two…um…faithful?’
‘Miss Amy!’ Nigel said, in a mock-shock tone. ‘What kind of a question is that coming from one so young and pure?’
‘Oh, fall off your bike!’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not if I have to pick you up and carry you to the emergency room.’
‘Feisty little madam today, aren’t we?’
‘Takes one to know one!’
Amy’s grandmother resided in a private apartment at the top of the Waldorf Towers Hotel. Her Vietnamese houseman, Hueng, who’d been in her employ for almost fifty years, lived in a room downstairs.
Grandma Poppy was quite a character. Lively and sharp of tongue, at ninety years of age she still had a hairdresser come to the hotel every morning to style her silvery white hair. She wore couture clothes, smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, and was quite fond of a couple of glasses of wine with lunch and dinner.
She had two dogs, a cocker spaniel and a miniature poodle. They sat at her feet all day while she read biographies, smoked, sipped wine and watched CNN. She was an avid Larry King fan. In fact, she’d named her dogs after him: Larry and King, her two obsessions.
Grandma Poppy adored her granddaughter. Every time Amy visited, she gave her an exquisite piece of jewellery from her vast collection.
‘Hi, Grams,’ Amy said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Sorry I’m all sweaty. I was bike-riding in the park.’
‘You always look pretty, doesn’t she, Hueng?’ Grandma Poppy said, tossing the question to her faithful manservant, who was well into his seventies.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Hueng replied.
‘Now, dear,’ Grandma Poppy said, fiddling in the jewellery box she kept on a table next to her. ‘Let’s see what I have for you today.’
‘Grams, you don’t always have to give me presents,’ Amy objected. ‘There’s nothing I need.’
‘You might not need it, dear,’ Grandma Poppy said, coming up with a thin diamond tennis bracelet, ‘but one day you will learn that needing is not what counts. Accept these little trinkets I give you and store them away like a squirrel.’
‘Yes, Grams,’ Amy said obediently.
‘One never knows what the future will bring. You’re marrying a much older man. Men–you can never trust them, dear. They all have a wandering eye.’
‘Grams, that’s really not true,’ Amy said, fastening the bracelet round her wrist.
‘Yes, dear, it is. Men don’t care about being faithful. If I can teach you anything, I can teach you that.’
‘I’m sure my father was faithful.’
‘Of course he wasn’t,’ Grandma Poppy scoffed.
The thought of someone being unfaithful to Nancy Scott-Simon made Amy smile. ‘I shouldn’t think Harold screws around on Mom,’ she said, knowing full well that Harold would never cheat–he wouldn’t dare.
‘A lady never uses vulgar words, dear,’ Grandma Poppy scolded. ‘Pour me a glass of wine, Hueng. It’s lunchtime, and this child must be hungry.’
‘I’m not really,’ Amy said, even though she’d learned long ago never to argue with Grandma Poppy, the woman was a force of nature.
‘Yes, you are,’ Grandma Poppy said. ‘Hueng, call downstairs and order two Caesar salads.’
Amy bent down to pet the dogs. Both of them growled and backed away, the only human contact they put up with was from Grandma Poppy.
‘Don’t bother them, dear. They’re feeling blue today.’
Hueng appeared with two glasses of wine.
‘How’re the wedding plans progressing, Amy?’ Grandma Poppy inquired, taking a hearty sip of wine. ‘Is your dear mother driving you completely mad as usual?’
‘You guessed!’
‘Ah, yes. Nancy is a classic anal retentive. I was older when I had her and she was raised by a series of nannies. Perhaps it was a mistake.’
‘Why would it be a mistake?’ Amy asked curiously.
‘I never saw her, I was too busy following my dear husband across the world. She resents me for that.’