Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules. Emma Sayle
Читать онлайн книгу.
to accept that these parties were for the open-minded but not suitable for specific tastes or niche pleasures. Most of all, they had to get the fact that they were primarily designed for women. I had plenty of candidates to choose from. New Kittens flocked because of existing members and word spread fast – especially among women – that there was never a dull moment once darkness fell and the masks came off. My BlackBerry soon started beeping off the hook with calls and emails from people keen to join in. The monthly parties in Covent Garden were generating a real buzz. Every party turned a profit, even if it was just a small one. I still did freelance PR to supplement my income, but I was hopeful that it wouldn’t be long before I could begin to run Killing Kittens full time.
As word of the parties spread through networks of friends, Killing Kittens began to be noticed by the established world of sex parties and I was surprised to get emails from people offering their opulent homes for hire as a venue. They all set out their need for discretion in this area, but it was clear that if I was in the market for stately homes, lavish hotels and penthouse apartments, and was able to keep the owners’ names out of view, then there were plenty of wonderful places available. Naturally I assured everyone that I was a very discreet party organizer – no whisper of any participation would ever leave my lips – and soon I found I was being offered some truly magnificent venues. I knew a somewhat notorious businessman who, through some interesting circumstances, had become the owner of a magnificent mansion in central London. It was in great demand as a backdrop for photoshoots and films and as a party venue. When he heard about Killing Kittens, he offered me the mansion as often as I wanted it. I jumped at the chance. It was a beautiful venue, and I could have bigger, more interesting parties there. It went down a storm with my members, who adored the shabby opulence and the aura of decadence. More than 100 guests partied and played under crystal chandeliers and in front of vast marble fireplaces, with naked bodies writhing around in Georgian splendour. The fact the house had played host to some of the most famous faces in the world gave an added frisson to the activities. All 15 of the bedrooms were made good use of – not to mention the grand staircase. I hoped that before too long we would be able to make it the permanent home for Killing Kittens. As my parties grew more popular and membership of Killing Kittens increased, word spread to Fleet Street and the press started knocking on my door. National newspapers and glossy magazines including Cosmopolitan, Elle and Glamour became fascinated by this new sexual liberation. They couldn’t believe that educated and affluent young women were flocking to join a secret society that hosted anything-goes sex parties, and I was inundated with requests for interviews. I was happy to oblige. I had no problem with being the face of Killing Kittens, or with promoting it as much as I could, and the press seemed very interested in the story of the public-school girl who was unashamedly working in the sex business. People seemed to believe that this somehow made me a nymphomaniac, but that was all right. I didn’t mind; I just laughed it off and carried on.
My family and friends were right behind my chosen career as a bona fide sex tycoon. They knew there was no stopping me once I’d put my mind to something. Even Colonel was quietly impressed with the way my business was growing stronger by the day, even if I was stirring up controversy. My parents were getting used to the fact that I was attracting publicity and making headlines. Now, a year since I’d started, I had 1,000 members and a growing number of applicants keen to join my club. I was sure there would be 3,000 Killing Kittens members by the end of my second year. I was ready to expand.
To celebrate a year in the sex business, I decide to spend the evening with my parents, followed by drinks with Miss D and the gang later.
Colonel is in fine form tonight. He’s not wearing his ‘Poshest Swinger’s Dad’ baseball cap, but he’s no longer shooting me down with unsupportive words as he pours me a glass of his beloved Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I’m back in his good books. The atmosphere is convivial, and the wine and conversation flows as we tuck into Mothership’s perfectly roasted lamb in the kitchen. We’re nearly finished when my father calls for silence and lifts his wine glass.
‘A toast to Emma,’ he declares proudly, and looks over at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘Here’s to your ability to never fail to amaze me.’
I’m touched. Growing up, I hungered for Colonel’s love and approval. Time has softened that craving, but I digest his every word all over again, even though I got it through unlikely means. My mother and I raise our glasses as well. ‘Thanks, Pa.’ I take a sip of the rich red wine. It’s lovely that my dad is proud, but if he knew about the special Killing Kittens Valentine’s party tomorrow night, he might think a little differently. I try not to giggle at the thought and instead say, ‘Thanks for dinner, Ma, it’s delicious.’
Mothership shoots me a mischievous look, then lifts her glass again. ‘And now for my toast to Emma.’
I look at her, surprised. The dust has settled since the tabloid exposé on me, and my mother seems a lot more at ease with my chosen career, but even so, I didn’t expect her to toast its success. I think secretly she still hopes that I’ll give it all up and do something a bit more respectable.
Mothership looks back at me with a smile. ‘My toast to you, Emma, is about something else entirely. I’m so proud of your new project.’
‘What’s this?’ Colonel asks, looking wary. I expect he thinks I’m starting some scandalous new venture that will bring yet more unwanted attention to the family.
‘Emma’s going to raise some money for charity.’ She looks at me. ‘Tell him, Emma.’
‘It started in a silly way,’ I explain to my father. ‘A drunken bet in a pub with some boys. They’re planning to row across the English Channel in a dragon boat to raise money for charity. So I told them that I’d get a gang of girls together and race them to France. They’re calling themselves the Brotherhood, so we’re going to be the Sisterhood. And we’re going to raise just as much money as they do, if not more.’
Colonel frowns. ‘That’s going to be tough, Emma …’
‘You know me, Pa. No challenge too great. Besides, I’ve already emailed friends I think will be up for it, and you’d be amazed how keen they are.
‘We’re going to start training as soon as possible,’ I add. ‘Some of my girls are rowers, but they’re used to going backwards. It’s a whole new skill to paddle a dragon boat and face the way you’re going.’
My father looks impressed.
‘Have you decided on the charity you’re going to support?’ asks Mothership.
I nod. ‘Yes. The Ben Hollioake Fund – it supports hospice care for children. And Babes in Arms, the Norfolk Park charity. We want to raise £50,000.’
‘The Channel is extremely busy with shipping,’ my father adds. ‘Crossing it is not exactly straightforward.’
I nod. ‘It’s going to be very tricky – we’ll be dodging ferries and whatever all the way over. I’m going to do my research on that, don’t worry. We’ll have lots of support as well.’
‘Well done, Ems. You’ll pull it off, I know it,’ my mother says.
‘Thanks, Ma!’ I lift my glass again, delighted that the hurt and embarrassment I caused my mother a few months ago seems to have evaporated.
Just then the phone rings and my father goes to answer it. As soon as I hear the shrill tones coming down the line, even at this distance, I know exactly who it is. My mother and I exchange looks: it’s someone in my father’s family I’ll call Annoying Distant Relative, known for her delight in sticking her nose into other people’s lives and stirring it all up as much as she can. I think she’s toxic through and through and I would happily avoid her for the rest of time. As it is, I can hear every word she’s saying down the phone to my father.
‘How are you coping with all this sex-party scandal?’ she bellows, not caring if I’m in earshot or not. She’s always been unfazed by people hearing her negative opinions of them, and she’s certainly in venomous form tonight. ‘People are still talking about it, and I saw Emma in the paper again only last week. The shame