‘If we sieve through the hookers and the sugar daddies, I’m sure we’ll find some decent people here tonight,’ Kat observed, scanning the bar. We were at Zuma in Knights-bridge, a favourite with the ‘chilled-out jet-set crowd’, according to Harper’s magazine.
I took in the chic minimalist interior and smoothed down my dress, trying to act as though it had been thrown on nonchalantly, rather than the result of three hours of unsatisfactory pontification. Kat leant over the glass bar, her red Gucci dress nipped in at the waist and plunging at the neckline. Three barmen leapt towards her, their attention darting between her Bambi-brown eyes and her perfectly plumped cleavage.
‘We need some cocktails,’ she declared, pushing her sleek dark bob behind her ears.
Following a flamboyant display of glass juggling, and some kind of cocktail shaker courtship dance, eventually we were presented with two rose petal Martinis. The baby-faced barman grinned victoriously. He leant over the bar and kissed Kat on the lips.
I pulled her back. ‘Kat.’
‘What?’ she asked, grinning.
I shook my head. ‘I’d prefer us to focus on the men who’ve actually gone through puberty.’
She threw a glance over her shoulder and then strode towards a table of businessmen who appeared to be engaged in a serious takeover-bid-type conversation. When she reached the table, her presence diverted their concentration like a resistor in a circuit. Once she’d delivered her opening line, they all laughed and the best-looking one pulled up a chair for her to join them.
Watching from the bar, and sipping my Martini, I wondered where Kat’s self-assurance came from. Was it lots of cuddles as a child? Or perhaps, as once discussed during an especially interesting episode of Dr Phil, it was a pseudo-esteem masking a deeper insecurity and a need for external validation. Maybe it was simply that big boobs and a pretty face were so well received that the usual fears of rejection and public humiliation weren’t there.
Dragging myself away from my appallingly amateur psychoanalysis, I decided that confidence was something I would have to fake, at least until I’d figured out how to source it naturally. I took a gulp of the Martini and then sidestepped towards a group of girls.
They had long legs, dark hair and tanned skin and looked as though they were the result of some kind of accelerated breeding programme between Megan and Stephen whom I’d met the night before. I smiled at the one nearest to me. She sucked on a pink straw protruding from a fussy cocktail and eyed me up suspiciously.
‘Are you a journalist?’ she asked between sucks.
‘No.’ I laughed. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You look like one.’
I glanced down at my black dress and then back at her. Once I’d worked my way up the seemingly endless legs protruding from tiny leather hot pants, my eyes lingered on her chest, braless and buoyant under a cream silk camisole.
She glared at me. ‘What do you want?’
Her features, enhanced to cartoonish proportions, reminded me of a creature from Avatar.
‘I’m headhunting,’ I said.
The rest of the girls’ necks swivelled towards me. ‘You’re a model scout?’ one of them asked.
I shook my head.
‘Party promoter?’
I shook my head again, suspecting the truth might be a tremendous disappointment. ‘I’m looking for single girls who want to meet eligible men.’
When I’d explained my plans to unite lonely hearts across the globe, the girl next to me flicked a mane of hair extensions over her shoulder.
‘We only date footballers,’ she said.
I stepped back. I’d read about girls like her in gossip magazines. There might have been one on Dr Phil too. I was intrigued.
‘Why?’ I asked.
She stared at me in disbelief, as though I’d just told her I’d never watched Big Brother.
‘Der, because they earn £150k per week and I’m on £7.99 an hour.’
She went on to proudly list the benefits of her past encounters with Premier League players, which included but was by no means exclusive to: designer clothing, cosmetic surgery, jewellery allowance, provision of luxury accommodation, sports car, private-clinic abortions and a six-figure pay-off at the end. It sounded more like a job than a relationship. I’d also noted that out of the men she’d named, most were married.
‘Why do you date the married ones?’ I asked, less to highlight the moral issue, which I suspected wasn’t a concern, but more to question the real purpose.
She laughed. ‘It’s not like we expect them to leave their wives.’
‘Well what’s the point, then?’
‘Once you’re in with the footballers, sometimes they pass you on to their teammates, the ones who aren’t married.’
‘They’re like matchmakers too,’ the only blonde in the group chipped in with a beaming smile.
‘Or pimps?’ I suggested.
‘Hey!’ Kat interrupted as she bounded up to me, and began theatrically fanning herself with a handful of business cards. ‘Check these out.’
She thrust them in my hand and then opened her bag to reveal dozens more.
‘Am I done now?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw the underage barman grinning widely, as though his expression had been fixed since Kat’s kiss. ‘His shift finishes soon. Can I?’
‘Okay. Go on then,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I suppose I could do with an early night.’
The blonde girl looked at me, then back at the other girls and then back at me. ‘Want to come with us?’ she asked and the rest of the group nodded vaguely.
Once we were in the taxi, the girl in the hot pants, who I now knew was named Carmen, explained more about the party.
‘You only get invited if you’re in with the promoters,’ she said, checking her make-up in a compact mirror.
‘And they only invite girls from agencies,’ another girl added.
‘What agencies?’ I asked.
‘You know, for glamour models, promo girls, dancers,’ Carmen said.
The blonde girl, who I would later learn was Kerri, smiled. ‘They want pretty bubbly girls there.’
‘Bubbly?’ I asked.
‘You know: fun, social.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they invite the wives or girlfriends?’
They laughed.
‘So,’ I said, ‘if you win the hand of a Premier League prince, would you let him come to these parties?’
Suddenly their faces contorted as though I’d suggested one of them don a boiler suit.
When we arrived, I noticed there were no men in the queue, which snaked for a mile around the block, but the girls were huddled together in the line, shivering in the skimpy clothing that was required to gain entry. Boobs were hoisted up, squeezed together or spilling out. Skirts were sprayed on, tops were slashed at the sternum, and legs were elongated with six-inch heels. Every attribute was exploited to secure its maximum market value. Tonight, it was time to cash in their assets.
The men, it was explained to me, were safety tucked up inside, readily paying £500 for a £10 bottle of vodka. I was soon to learn that the mark-up could be justified when the beverage