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  ‘I’m fine th-thank you.’

  ‘Let’s just continue with this tomorrow. I’ll give Pepper comprehensive notes for your rehearsal session in the morning. I’m off to the lobby to listen in on what the punters are saying, and I won’t be at the after party. I’ve asked Georgia to make sure the girls don’t drink alcohol under any circumstances. I also want you to get an early night. You have a heavy workload tomorrow before the next show and Rex has interviews lined up he’ll tell you about. Oh, and by the way, there’s a queue of fans building up outside the stage door in the cold for you. You might pull yourself together before you go down – stuttering in front of fans is not a good look.’

  ‘Fucking hell, doll, I thought this was meant to be an after party, not a bloody autograph line-up,’ moaned Rex, crunching on an ice cube irritably as his eyes darted about the packed lounge at L’Homard.

  ‘You’re my publicist. You should be pleased with your handiwork!’ teased Tiger, handing a pen and freshly autographed paper to the barman, just as Georgia, Frankie and Nikki staggered giggling from the bar towards the rest of the Starrlets, still in their seamed dance tights and clutching illicit bright blue cocktails. Tiger rolled her eyes to the heavens, and savoured her dirty Martini with delicate sips. She felt Rex’s gaze still on her.

  ‘You seen the ol’ tank commando tonight? I’m surprised he’s not here,’ Rex probed.

  ‘Who, Lewis? Oh you know him, why go to a party when there’s more work that could be done!’ laughed Tiger. ‘Anyway he doesn’t like it here, thinks it’s too vulgar,’ she mumbled, giving a cursory nod at the enormous giraffe head protruding from the gold-fringed velvet behind her.

  ‘So he didn’t want to at least raise a glass to you for pulling off an amazing show?’ persisted Rex.

  ‘Oh, he already came to see me in the dressing room back there.’ Tiger had no intention of discussing Lewis’s blow-by-blow critique of every aspect of her performance. It was clear though that that her nonchalance wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all a street-smart operator like Rex.

  ‘Right,’ he said with a dead-pan smile. ‘That was just before you came to the stage door with puffy eyes?’

  ‘Oh that – no I just got eyelash glue in my eye—’

  ‘Oh cut the crap, I’ve heard you both at it hammer and tongs after the shows. Every time he – what does he call it – “gives you notes”. Notes! Excuse for him to lay into you if you ask me.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. Lewis just tells me the truth. He always has my interests at heart you know, I mean, we’ve travelled a long road together—’

  ‘Look, there’s quite a difference between constructive criticism and a gratuitous slagging, you know.’

  ‘Okay, so the critique can get a bit relentless, I admit that.’

  ‘So tell him to fuck off.’

  ‘I can’t! Try and see it from Lewis’ point of view. He just assumes I listen to people telling me I’m a star, I’m fabulous, I’m this, I’m that, all the time. But you know me, I’m shy. I’m my own worst critic, and I don’t hear the compliments. I don’t think Lewis realises that. I think he sees his role as keeping me level headed.’

  ‘Or bringing you down a peg or two. He’s a bully.’

  ‘No! He just has my interests at heart.’

  Rex gave a cynical little snort. ‘He’s a control freak, babes. Let me tell you a secret. You know what all the stage crew say when they’re working with other celebrities? They ask, “So how bad’s the manager, on a scale of one to Lewis Bond”?’

  Tiger gasped and stifled a giggle. ‘That’s his job! Oh, darling, Lewis has been honing the “nasty gatekeeper” act for years! Duh! He’s exactly the kind of manager every gal needs!’

  ‘Really? You sure about that? Don’t think the Starrlets didn’t hear him kicking off at you earlier.’

  ‘Oh right. News travels fast. I’ll bet that came from Georgia. She probably had a bloody glass up against the wall listening in, cheering him on from the sidelines. Now if you really want to talk about control freaks—’ Tiger leaned in to wave a manicured finger in front of Rex’s bemused face ‘—from what Blue’s told me that Georgia Atlanta’s just Thatcher on rollerskates. She already has Lewis well and truly under the thumb!’

  ‘Nah, she’s harmless, babe. Just a stupid bit of fluff trapped in a supermodel’s body. Just what kind of dumbass broad would choose Georgia Atlanta as a stage name, especially when her family are all Swedish, for Chrissake? Anyway, don’t change the subject. Now listen to me.’ Rex held Tiger’s hand. ‘You’re a strong woman. But Lewis gets to you and you go soft as butter.’

  ‘Okay, red card. You take that back. Anyway, I don’t discuss you with Lewis. So I’m not going to start discussing Lewis with you. Can we just move on now? I was finally starting to enjoy myself and now this.’ Tiger snatched her hand back.

  ‘I’m only saying—’

  ‘Please! No more work talk. And definitely not here in front of everyone. I’ve obviously already got bloody Georgia earwigging everything, it’s humiliating. I’d like to keep the remains of my privacy if that’s okay with you.’

  An uncomfortable silence between the pair was drowned out by screeches and squeals of laughter as the party continued around them. Frankie and Nikki were now balanced precariously on one of the antique gold-leaf tables, performing a rousing accompaniment to Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ to whoops and cheers from the backstage crew who had a cracking view up their skirts.

  This was always Tiger’s venue of choice for an after-show party. A members’ club of the less pretentious kind, its glamour was of the most gloriously faded variety. Named after the infamous Dali telephone, L’Homard was crammed with exquisite bad taste, much like the artist himself, thought Tiger. An antique table-top held up entirely with empty stacked tortoiseshells nestled next to enormous gilt bird cages and diamond-encrusted animals, both of the plastic Bambi variety, as well as vintage taxidermy. Tiger’s favourite was a large stuffed old British bulldog with wings. Hopelessly un-p.c., but you could hardly argue with something that had met its maker 150 years ago. At least it had been immortalised rather than left pushing up daisies. Floor to ceiling swags of sea green velvet and strings of tarnished pearls hugged the walls, practically holding themselves up with the dust and nicotine of an entire century. The ghosts of a thousand luvvies, drunks, and bon viveurs kept the place beguiling and homely; a good thing, since there was always a lot of adrenalin flying around after a show that needed dissipating and it was a sure bet that the club had seen much worse behaviour over the years than even Tiger could imagine. Hell, Oscar Wilde even had his own plaque of honour in the gents toilet – not that she had actually been to see it for herself.

  ‘So who was that funny little guy waiting for you at the stage door back there?’ asked Rex, ignoring the revellers.

  ‘Johnnie? He’s always there. Well, he’s not actually called Johnnie … I don’t know his name, but they call them stage-door Johnnies, you know. When they turn up at the stage door I mean—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I may not live and breathe the theatre like you but I know that much. Christ. I’ve never seen this Johnnie guy before.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t usually turn up to my shows unless some hot actress is coming who you fancy your chances with.’

  ‘Not true …’

  ‘Anyway, for your information, Johnnie’s at every gig.’

  ‘Every single one?’

  ‘Religiously. Like, he must plan his whole diary around them. He came to see me on the Côte D’Azur, in Russia, LA, New York, – he even turned up in Sydney. Ask Lewis about it.’

  ‘Woah. For real?’

  ‘For real. He must spend every penny on it.’ Tiger knew she had a colourful collection of devoted fans from far and wide, and Johnnie was the most conscientious by a long chalk. Tiger often felt guilty that he went to such lengths to visit her every show and often wondered if she should be offering him some kind of ‘Loyalty Poin
ts’ scheme; a signed picture for every London gig, a pair of worn silk stockings for Europe, front row seats for the Americas, perhaps … One of Tiger’s old burlesque pals and mentors, the willowy Mink Coates, used to give her stage door Johnnies ‘exclusive’ g-strings she claimed to have worn during her performance. What Mink didn’t tell her fans of course, was that she actually kept a stash of cheap Soho sex-shop-bought g-strings under her dresser, the crotches of which she’d give a cursory rub on her French bulldog’s chops before packaging them nicely in tissue paper to give away. It caught up with Mink one day when she was pursued as she left the theatre by one of her regulars, furiously demanding to know why his g-string was covered in white animal hairs. Needless to say she shrugged it off coolly as she wafted past, flagrantly dragging her black-and-white bulldog behind her and drawling as only she could: ‘I’m Mink Coates honey, one hundred per fuckin’ cent. What did ya expect me to have down there? Pubes or something?’

  Tiger had simply adored Mink and had looked up to her – she had a good twenty years on Tiger but boy was she a siren – she was pure old school in that respect. An enigmatic tease with as much class as brass, she just knew how to wrap any man around her little finger. Young Tiger had worshipped her as one of the last in the breed of true old-school broads. She often wondered what had happened to her; Mink had left on a farewell tour bound for Moscow ten years ago, never to be seen again. Lewis used to joke that the Russians were big on fur and maybe she had been poached. But Tiger had often wistfully fantasised that she was living in the lap of luxury as some oligarch’s object of fantasy. Lord knows she deserved some pampering after her many years of slogging it out under the hot lights.

  ‘I like Johnnie,’ declared Tiger, breaking from her fond memories. ‘Being a devoted fan makes him happy, he always has a cheeky grin at the stage door. Such a sweet guy.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rex mused. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he’s a sweet guy.’

  ‘I just know! He always brings flowers, and he always wears a smile. Plus he’s polite, you know, a real gentleman which makes a change.’

  ‘Hah! Those are the ones you can’t trust.’ Rex flashed his most beguiling smile and popped a fat green olive into his mouth.

  Tiger took a moment to look twice at Rex, holding back on a bitingly sarcastic retort, but her thoughts were interrupted as her eyes settled on the exquisite Libertina Belle. A vision in cobalt-blue Lacroix, she was ploughing her way through the crowd majestically, like Moses parting the Red Sea, tresses flowing like a raven-haired Botticelli figure.

  ‘I knew I’d find you two at the bar! Tiger, dahhhling! You divine creature, my goddess. Su-perb!’ she gasped.

  ‘Ms Belle … bellissima!’ Tiger declared, breathlessly air kissing the actress as Rex snapped to attention beside her.

  ‘I believe we’ve met, darling. New York, remember?’

  ‘How could I not!’ replied Tiger coyly. ‘You were wearing an original Dior New Look!’

  ‘Wow, the girl knows her style too!’ Libertina laughed appreciatively. ‘Listen, Tiger baby, you were radiant tonight – no, bea-uuutiful. Dahling, you simply had everyone in the palm of your hand! Exquisite.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being in the palm of your hand, babe,’ muttered Rex out of her range. Tiger jammed her stiletto into his foot. She had always been a great fan of Libertina Belle; a stunning actress from the same artist’s easel as Monica Bellucci, who had risen from the ranks of trashy television drama to become fully fledged, bona fide Hollywood aristocracy. Tiger was extremely pleased to be on Libertina’s radar as, ever modest, Tiger was still star struck around all her celebrity fans, and she certainly wasn’t about to watch as Rex peddled his crap chat-up lines at the foot of screen royalty.

  ‘Thanks, Libertina, I really appreciate your compliments,’ Tiger declared with sincerity, having been secretly stinging after the slating from Lewis.

  ‘Don’t be silly, credit where it’s due! That enormous vintage telephone, my gawd, how camp is that! How the hell do you get up there?! You certainly give new meaning to “on the phone”,’ Libertina roared at her own joke.

  ‘Thanks!’ laughed Tiger. ‘It’s a beast though, you know. It’s high up sitting on that receiver and you know I hate heights. It really hurts my knees too, you should check out the bruises!’ She felt an immediate affinity with Libertina, just as she had from their first meeting on the party circuit months ago. Tiger certainly never disclosed any behind the scenes secrets to any of her fans; that her performances involved any kind of effort, exertion, sweat or, heaven forbid, bruises. To show her human side was far too revealing – and Tiger usually steered well clear of intimacy like that. She could see Libertina obviously had the art of putting people at their ease down to a tee.

  ‘Lemme tell ya, Tiger, women like us have to indulge the myth that we just appear out of nowhere like some permanently made up, primped and preened wet dream – heavens, I should know!’ Libertina laughed vivaciously, flicking her mane away from her magnificent cleavage and holding Tiger’s gaze intensely, just a moment too long. Rex crossed his legs as his eyes darted quickly between the two insanely glamorous women. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what was going through his mind as he watched them together.

  ‘Well, I appreciate the feedback from an amazing performer like yourself—’ Tiger started.

  ‘Oh yes, dahling,’ enthused Libertina, ‘please, let’s do the mutual appreciation thing. Listen, why don’t we do numbers. Take my card, call me direct on my cell … maybe when you fancy a bit more appreciation, huh?’

  ‘Oh – oh of course, yes that would be great I’ll – err – great! Let’s do lunch!’ Tiger blustered, suddenly coming over all bashful. If she wasn’t mistaken, she felt a pang of desire. Tiger didn’t usually find herself attracted to women, but then Libertina wasn’t just any woman.

  ‘Lunch? Oh I could think of something a bit cosier than lunch,’ continued Libertina. ‘Well, you have my number, it’s your call. Use that big telephone of yours, hahaha! Ciao bella bella,’ and with that Libertina Belle left the building.

  Tiger barely had a chance to fan her flushed cheeks before Blue suddenly appeared like Elvis at a burger bar. ‘Tiger! Did I just see the divine Ms Belle giving you her card!’ came his excited voice piercing through the background rabble.

  ‘Tiger just got what I think is commonly termed as “picked up”,’ explained Rex.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, she was being friendly!’ snapped Tiger, aware that her stomach was awash with butterflies.

  ‘Yeah right, she wants to talk feathers and tit tape,’ said Rex petulantly, running his fingers through his thick hair, agitated. ‘She was all over you like a cheap suit, Tiger.’

  ‘Ooh, blow me, I never had Libertina Belle down as a lab technician,’ cut in Blue. ‘I’d always seen her out with men – h’mmm, such a great tit job, too. I thought it was all for the benefit of the boys.’

  ‘No way!’ exclaimed Tiger protectively. ‘Those breasts are natural. I’m a woman, I can tell these things. There was no ridge at the top.’

  ‘Oh Tiger, sweetheart, that’s because she probably had them put in over the muscle. I’m tellin’ ya’,’ insisted Blue.

  ‘No way. I’d even put a bet on it. Our usual ten quid?’ said Tiger.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. Now, I’ve seen a cute barman who needs to meet me. So I’m going to get us all a Martini. Oh, by the way, your sister said to say “bye”, she’s had to go home. Said something about an early start in the morning.’

  Blue rubbed his hands together and smoothed out his ‘Leather and Lace’ emblazoned muscle t-shirt before making a dive for one of the busboys, as Tiger turned back to Rex, settling into her barstool. Wow, she thought to herself, Sienna grab an early night? She must be taking her job seriously, thought Tiger, daring to be secretly relieved. She remembered how many times the managers of various members’ clubs would call to sternly inform her th
at Sienna had blagged her way in yet again under Tiger’s membership and had then been caught putting her Cosmopolitans onto other guests’ tabs and powdering her nose indiscreetly – and that was before Sienna had even finished her A-levels. There was simply no broaching the subject with her though, the little tough nut she thought she was. Tiger knew she simply had to find Sienna a job the moment she left sixth-form college. Her theory was that instead of imposing more rules for Sienna to rebel against (since that seemed to be her favourite past-time of late), Tiger would find her some kind of golden opportunity that might entice her into knuckling down and applying herself. In particular, since their parents had died so suddenly, she had wanted to keep Sienna grounded. Tiger sighed and turned to Rex.

  ‘So how is little Sienna doing at Hunter Gatherers’ HQ?’

  ‘Little? She’s taller than you.’

  ‘Yeah I know … but she’s still my baby sister, even if she is a cat’s whisker off six foot.’

  ‘It’s early days but she seems to be learning the ropes. You do know I would never have done this for anyone else?’

  ‘Oh, I do, Rex, and I really, really appreciate you taking her on. I told you she was a bright young thing, she won’t let you down, I’m sure of it. I know she’s still young but I don’t want to see her drifting aimlessly, not knowing what to do with her life. It seems so – so unfair, especially with what happened to our folks …’ Tiger tailed off, not wanting to bring up the fatal car crash when everyone was trying to enjoy themselves.

  ‘Hey. You don’t need to say any more, I was there when you got the news, remember? It’s gonna be okay. Trust me! I’m a nice boss!’ Rex winked and squeezed Tiger’s arm tenderly.

  Tiger suppressed the nervous churning in her stomach as she felt Rex’s touch and chastised herself inwardly. How could she let herself feel like this after a smooth decade of working with him? She had always prided herself on her professional relationships. She certainly felt she’d got the most out of her ten years working with Hunter Gatherers, who Lewis had hired just after Tiger really hit the big time. But Rex Hunter still had the power to mystify her. Whilst his charm was beguiling, Tiger could still be shocked at his toughness. He was certainly in the right industry, with sheer hard balls combined with the kind of inspired, wicked mind that made him the best publicist in the country. But after all these years she realised she knew little of his personal life, despite working so closely with him. To be fair, she hadn’t actually probed; Tiger firmly believed in keeping business strictly business. But she found it an uncomfortable dynamic at times; Rex having to know so much about her, and her knowing so very little of him. At first she had thought he might be gay, what with the relentless obsessing about his appearance; he had once been late for a meeting because he had been pressing the creases in his 1940s three-button suit. In fact she soon discovered him to be quite the womaniser.