‘The guys tell me you’re looking for a big game, Tom.’
‘That’s right, Marv. I’m hoping you can hook me up.’
‘We’ve missed you, Tom,’ Marvin said with a healthy dose of sycophantic smarm that Tom immediately saw straight through.
‘Hey! Have you seen this?’ Candy’s shrill LA accent cut through the conversation like a shard of glass as she held up the glossy, gold-embossed menu card, her eyes wide and her exposed tits standing to attention like torpedoes. ‘It says here we got our very own butler, 24/7, like, you gotta be shitting me?’
Tom heard Marvin guffaw.
‘I take it you won’t be needing any extra services tonight then?’
‘Oh I don’t know, Marv … the night’s young,’ Tom reposted.
‘Yeah, but not as young as the broad I’ll bet,’ Marvin shot back, and Tom forced himself to laugh. Marvin Katz wasn’t nearly as amusing as he thought he was, but if laughing at Marv’s lame attempts at humour meant he would look into sorting him a game, then he’d suck it up all day long.
‘You kill me, Marvin,’ Tom chuckled, rolling his eyes at Candy, who giggled as she popped a truffle between her glossy blow job lips. ‘Let’s have a drink together later, celebrate my big win.’
‘I like your confidence my friend,’ Marvin replied dryly, with forced good humour. Some things never changed. Tom Black had always been a cocky little English fucker; way too big for his size nines, that was his problem. Gamblers like Black might think they’re the shit, but the house always won at the end of the day; they were just too fucking arrogant to want to believe it.
‘Leave it with me, Tom. I’ll put the word out, see who’s in town.’
‘I appreciate it Marv … And make mine a Bourbon on the rocks … a large one yeah?’ he added before hanging up.
Tom felt the first trickles of adrenaline stirring inside his guts, the kindling of that euphoric rush he always got right before a game. He’d played for money in the past, big money too, but nothing in this league … it was a heck of a lot of green that wasn’t even his to gamble but as far as Tom was concerned, what choice did he have? He’d given Jack his word he would get his share of the money and Tom’s fierce pride meant that he’d rather skip town than lose face in front of his friend. Tonight there could be no room for error; it was shit or bust.
CHAPTER 11
Walking through Portobello Road on a beautiful summer’s afternoon, Ellie Scott struggled to think of another place in the world she would rather be. It was Friday, market day, and the whole place was alive with tourists and shoppers perusing the eclectic mix of antique shops whose contents spilled out onto the pavement like a giant treasure trove. She loved the paradox of Portobello, the glitz mixed with the grime; struggling artists and buskers sitting alongside media moguls, wealthy fashionistas and banker’s wives. There was something uniquely unpretentious about it and it reminded her of the streets she had grown up on as a child.
Hearing her iPhone beep inside her white Birkin, Ellie dipped a manicured hand inside, blindly searching as she became sidetracked by a vintage Vivienne Westwood corset dress in a boutique window. She hoped it was Tess; call it a mother’s instinct, but Ellie felt an unsettling sense of unease that her daughter might be in some kind of trouble. But it wasn’t Tess. It was Victoria messaging to say she was already on her way to the charity event at the Cobden Club where they were due to meet. It was to be the third social event she’d attended that week and Ellie wasn’t entirely enamoured by the thought of yet another afternoon of making polite small talk with vastly over-privileged women, who she suspected cared more about making their hair appointments than they did about the charity du jour. But this was her life now, and had been for the past two decades. The polo, Glorious Goodwood, Cannes, the Henley Royal Regatta, Ascot, Glyndbourne, not to mention all the hundreds of other global events and private charities Vince was a patron of – she accompanied him to all of them. Always impeccably dressed, always impeccably polite and if she was brutally honest, always impeccably bored shitless … sometimes her jaw physically ached from it all. But what could she do? Her husband topped the Forbes rich list every year, and with money and position like that came great responsibility.
Victoria Mayfield was already at the Cobden Club by the time Ellie arrived and had helped herself to a Kir Royale and a small plate of sushi before squirreling herself away at a small table at the back of the room. Looking around her, she surveyed the scene of gossiping, overly preened society women with a heavy heart. The last thing she felt like doing was socialising. That morning her period had arrived, regular as fucking clockwork, just as it did every goddamn month. Victoria greeted her monthly cycle like a personal affront; Mother Nature sniggering at her inability to do what came naturally to most women. It was all just so unfair; Lawrence, her husband, had been home more than usual this past month preparing for a big trip to South Africa where he was due to film a documentary and, ensuring the extra time they’d had together had not been wasted, she was convinced this month would be the month she’d finally see that line turn blue.
‘Jesus Tor, not again!’ Lawrence Mayfield had smiled wearily at his wife as she’d led him into the bedroom for the third time in less than forty-eight hours. ‘You’re wearing me out!’
‘And you’re complaining?’ she’d replied, giving him a mock-disdainful look as she tore off her Agent Provocateur underwear in haste, eager to get down to business. Lawrence Mayfield had inwardly sighed. He enjoyed nothing more than making love to his wife. After all, she was beautiful and he adored her, but not like this, not on demand; it was all way too forced and unspontaneous, not to mention deeply unromantic. His wife had become hell-bent on producing, to the point of obsession, and Lawrence was seriously beginning to doubt her mental state. There was a darkness to Tor now; places inside her mind he knew he could no longer reach. And the worst thing of all was that he had not a goddamn clue what to do about any of it.
Victoria threw back her Kir Royale and swiped another from an attractive waiter. He was young, twenty-one at most, and she found herself blushing as she imagined herself naked on top of him, riding him furiously. Would his sperm be better than her husband’s? Would it swim harder, faster stronger, towards her willing eggs?
‘Tor!’ Ellie Scott was making her way towards her, two Kir Royales in hand and a beaming smile on her radiant face. ‘Wow! Check you out! You look amazing!’ Ellie said, kissing her warmly on both cheeks and standing back to admire Victoria’s choice of attire, a colourful, eye-catching Mary Katrantzou body-con dress that displayed her slim, curvaceous figure to its finest. It was somewhat of a departure from her usual demure and understated look.
‘I reckon if I didn’t know you were a happily married woman, Tor Mayfield, I would think that you were on a cougar hunt!’ Victoria gave a hollow laugh. Her friend had no idea just how close to the truth she really was.
‘So, how’s the book going?’ Ellie took a seat opposite her friend and glanced around the room at the sea of designer outfits and expensive handbags. ‘Ah, the book!’ Tor replied, swiping a soft-boiled quails egg and Beluga caviar crostini from a passing waiter and slipping it between her glossy Chanel nude lips. ‘Well, let’s just say it’s not exactly writing itself.’
‘Oh?’ Ellie placed her white Birkin on the table for maximum exposure. She’d been on the waiting list for the much-coveted bag for almost six months and couldn’t resist showing it off. She knew it was childish – it was just a handbag at the end of the day – but sometimes it was difficult not to become embroiled in the one-upmanship that was so blatantly rife at these types of affairs.
‘My publishers are on my