Prologue
The thought that I could be dying runs through my head in a dreamy sort of way
Gideon
I sit in the back of the limo and blink to clear my eyesight.Jesus, that last drink was strong.I think I should probably be concerned, but instead I take a huge swig from the bottle of tequila in my hand. There’s nothing like a hair of the dog that bit my eyes.
I look idly at the two men curled up in a corner of the backseat beside me, their mouths and hands all over each other. Normally, it’d be hot, but not much seems to excite me at the moment. I swallow hard as the car takes a sharp bend and vomit rises in the back of my throat. There can’t be much left in me, as I evacuated the contents of my stomach all over a flowerbed a few hours ago before we went into the nightclub.
I frown.Was it a few hours ago, or was it when we came out of the club?I squint ahead, ignoring the throaty groans coming from the couple next to me. Then I shake my head. Who cares? I’ll probably throw up again soon, so I might as well make it worth it. I nod and, taking another swig of the drink, I feel the alcohol burn a path down to my stomach.
It swirls uneasily in there, reminding me that I really ought to eat something. I haven’t felt like eating since I got over a bad bout of flu a month ago. It’s left me feeling like hollowed-out shit and shows no sign of getting better. The wardrobe mistress had pinched my waist last week and muttered curses as she took my costume in again.
The car slows to a stop, and when I peer blearily out of the window I can see we’re at the hotel. “Oi,” I say, nudging the man on top with my foot. “We’re here.”
He looks at me, his eyes heavy and his mouth swollen. “Shall we just fuck in here? I can’t be bothered to go upstairs.”
Ah, Christian, my current hook-up. He’s a model who seems to have cornered the market in pouting and drinking. He’s so laid-back he should be lying on the pavement, and he’s magnificently lazy. He could also outdrink Peter O’Toole in his heyday. I remind myself that he’s also a discreet fuck and only interested in how I spend my money on him. Just my type.
I shake my head. “Better not fuck in here. The bill for valeting this car is starting to approach the cost of Donald Trump’s hairspray.”
His companion snorts and I stare at him, wondering what his name is again. We’d picked him up in the club tonight. I shrug.Who fucking cares?I’ll never see him again after tonight.
Christian slides off the other man’s lap and straightens his shirt. “We’ll see you in there. Yeah?”
I nod, tossing him the room key card.
“Why isn’t he coming in with us?” the other man asks.
“Because there might be press about. The driver will take the car round the block and drop him off in a few minutes,” Christian says patiently.
“Okay, we’ll see you later,” the man says brightly.
I nod. “Okay–” I come to a stop and both men stare at me. “Erm.” I look at Christian for enlightenment but it’s obviously hopeless as he hasn’t got a clue. “Yes, in a bit, Eddie.”
“That’s not my fucking name,” Eddie starts to say and Christian snorts.
“Do you honestly care if we know your name?”
He looks at the two of us slowly and grins. “Nope.”
“Wait,” I say as they go to open the door. I lever up and remove the plastic baggy from my back pocket, tossing it to Christian. “Take that and get it ready, will you?”
He smiles, his eyes lighting up as he pushes the coke into the pocket of his jeans. “Baby, of course I will.”
They spill out of the car, laughing, and then blessed silence falls. I take another swig from the bottle as the privacy screen slowly lowers and the lined face of Russ appears. He’s been my driver since I started in films, and I always insist in my contract on having him. My manager, Frankie, can’t stand him, but I adore Russ. He’s got me out of more trouble than I can remember over the years, and consequently appears to view me as some sort of problem child. I don’t need a crystal ball to know he’s going to give me some shit tonight.
“Round the block?” he intones in a gloomy voice.
I nod. “Yes, please.”
The car moves off slowly. He examines my face in the mirror. “You okay, sir?”
I look up, surprised. “Of course,” I say abruptly. Then I ask, “Why?”
He shrugs, returning his attention to the road. “You don’t look so good, Mr Ramsay.”
“Oh Russ, you old charmer, you,” I drawl, slugging some more tequila. “What’s with the ‘sir’ and ‘Mr Ramsay’ business anyway?”
