My BlackBerry beeps with a BBM from Trolley Dolly. She’s a good friend of mine, a single divorce lawyer who’s not to be messed with. At work, she’s got a mind like a steel trap, and in her spare time, she oozes glamour and is the life and soul of the party, winning everyone over with her personality and her natural lack of social inhibition. She adores my parties and is certainly more tiger than kitten when it comes to sex. I’ve nicknamed her Trolley Dolly, as she never looks dishevelled, not even after a long-haul night at my parties. I read her message.
Hey. My car is still not ready so taking the bus! C u in 30.
I message back: Cool.
She replies a moment later: Is it OK if I bring two guys along?????! I’ve met them in my local pub b4. They’re good guys.
I smile and text her back: Sure.
Back pings her reply: Thanks! : ) They’re with me now. H-O-T!
I wouldn’t normally allow any stranger to turn up to my soirées without being vetted, but Trolley Dolly is part of my inner circle and a trusted friend, so I know I don’t have anything to worry about. This is a one-off. She’ll choose wisely when it comes to bringing new people to the parties. I just hope the men she’s found aren’t too innocent, or they’ll be in for one hell of a shock.
We make good time through the traffic and arrive at the venue well before any guests.
‘This place looks incredible tonight, Emma,’ Miss D says as we walk through the double doors and into the palatial marble-floored hall. ‘Such a brilliant choice, it couldn’t be more perfect.’
‘I know – it’s fabulous.’ I look about, pleased. I love this place. It’s a rare eighteenth-century jewel, a Georgian townhouse that is both incredibly grand and amazingly shabby, and the effect is perfect for my parties. There is beautiful art on the walls, and the exquisite rooms seem to go on and on, but the peeling paint and battered skirting add an air of divine squalor. This is my favourite part of the evening: soaking in the splendour of my surroundings, sipping a glass of champagne in the drawing room with Miss D and relaxing in the peaceful atmosphere before the real fun begins. ‘You go and take a look around. I’ve got some work to sort out, then I’ll come and find you.’
‘Sure. See you later.’ Miss D heads off up the huge staircase.
Kitty Kat saunters over armed with a clipboard. She’s dressed in a sexy skin-tight black leather outfit and wearing a cute cat mask with pert black whiskers. Kitty Kat is in her early twenties, petite and has finely chiselled features and luscious lips. Her porcelain prettiness draws plenty of attention, even though she never seeks it. Tonight she looks hot.
‘Here you go, Emma.’ She hands over the clipboard with the list of names of guests attending tonight. There are almost 200. ‘The candles have been lit, the rose petals have been scattered down the staircase and over all the beds, the mirrors have been polished and I’ve put out about a thousand condoms all over the place. You’ll also notice I’ve strategically placed the “Please take a shower before Jacuzzi. Seriously” notice where it can’t be missed.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at her. I know I can rely on her precision and attention to detail.
‘The canapés and oysters are ready. And the champagne’s been chilling for a few hours, so it should be at the ideal temperature by the time everyone arrives.’ Behind her mask, her eyes sparkle with a touch of mischief. ‘Forty-five degrees Fahrenheit, of course.’
‘Of course.’ I’d expect nothing less from Kitty, who appreciates the finer things in life. By day she’s a rising actress and has already appeared in films with some big Hollywood stars. She loves the arts, opera, theatre, classical music and French cuisine. But by night she’s a dark, beautiful creature who prowls on my behalf alongside my security man, Jupiter. He’s big, strong, suited and booted, and has a remarkable intuition when it comes to sniffing out trouble.
Kitty has other useful skills too: she studied martial arts and was taught how to box by a British ex-heavyweight champion, which is handy for my security staff and me, as she often spies the first hint of trouble. She also employs these skills to fend off men. Despite numerous attempts to set her up with some very eligible bachelors, she has point-blank said no. In fact, Kitty hasn’t had sexual relations of any kind for three years, vowing abstinence after having her heart broken one too many times. Instead, she dedicates herself to helping me facilitate the pleasure of others.
I check the guest list as we take a stroll around the ground floor, looking over the set-up. It’s all brilliant, and I hand back the clipboard with a smile. ‘Thank you, Kitty, everything’s immaculate down here. I’m going to make a quick inspection upstairs before people start arriving. I’ll catch you later.’
‘Of course,’ she replies.
As I walk up the grand staircase, I can’t help but absorb the house’s dark glamour. It’s an ex-embassy, and its eight reception rooms, billiard room, clubroom with Jacuzzi, ballroom and 24 bedrooms make it perfect for entertaining. It also attracts the world of show business: Kate Moss filmed a lingerie advert here, walking sensuously down these very stairs. Amy Winehouse shot her ‘Rehab’ video here as well. And it’s also where Oscar-winning actor Colin Firth filmed his therapy sessions in The King’s Speech. If it weren’t so amusing, I would blush to think of the many Kittens who have enjoyed the kinkiest, acrobatic, down-and-dirty sex on the very furniture where Colin Firth, Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush filmed their scenes. I can’t help remembering one woman who screamed and orgasmed three times on that very sofa as she embraced her dark side with the tanned Swedish model she and her partner had selected for the evening. Sorry, Colin!
I find Miss D upstairs in the ballroom. In this splendid room, several huge leather beds covered with red Egyptian-cotton sheets have been pushed together to form one huge one underneath a massive chandelier. Around the sides are sofas, chairs and cushions.
‘It looks lovely,’ sighs Miss D, her eyes glittering with anticipation. ‘I can’t wait to see what happens here later.’
‘Better keep your special toy handy,’ I advise her, and we both giggle. ‘Now – let’s find a glass of champagne. It’ll all start kicking off soon, and then I’ll be hard at work.’
‘Good idea,’ says Miss D. ‘I like your style.’
At 9.30 p.m. the first guests appear and then, suddenly, it’s busy. The atmosphere is one of a slightly louche drinks party as guests start arriving. I’m busy at the door, ticking off names and making sure everyone is wearing masks – I have a few spares just in case. All the guests are attractive – some even beautiful – and distinguished-looking, but not intimidatingly so. They don’t look like sex-mad orgiastic beasts, but like normal people, and any observer would think that this is just a normal party. Once inside, couples talk quietly together, glasses in hands, while groups chat around the bar as the champagne is served. The men are in lounge suits, and most women are immaculately dressed in cocktail dresses. The average age is late twenties to mid thirties. I wonder what they’re all talking about – this is one gathering where guests are reluctant to discuss their jobs or much about their everyday lives at all. And why not? This is where they live out fantasies; they don’t come here to dwell on the mundanity of existence. At this point in the evening, people are scouting for potential playmates. The more uninhibited are open about their desire to play – these are the ones who don’t mind performing, or get a thrill out of being watched as they have sex, and who may be up for several encounters and group episodes. Others are shyer, some even a little awkward. Experience tells me they’ll warm up. I’ve seen retiring, silent little birds turn into golden eagles when the play begins. Some are single girls looking for a couple or vice versa, or girls looking for one-on-one action with a man or a woman. Some are