The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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more people out front than I thought.’ Silence. ‘It’s more discreet?’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ There was a pause while Nate mumbled something to the band. She heard them laughing in the background. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Come round the side in three, I don’t want to get mobbed.’
He made her wait at least five. Just as she was contemplating calling him again, the door sprang open and Nate stuck his head through.
‘Come on,’ he said twitchily, scanning for groupies, ‘I’m on in ten.’ He briefly put his tongue in her mouth by way of hello and gave her tit a quick squeeze, which seemed distinctly unromantic. She decided to forget it.
Chloe trailed him through the dark corridor, the low thump of music bleeding in from the lounge. The club was famed for its unusual decor–glinting chandeliers dripped from the ceiling while tired old sofas crouched down below, their stuffing bursting free at the seams. It was a fusion of the sophisticated and the shabby that was perfect for young, rich clientele who couldn’t decide which camp to affiliate themselves with.
She knew Nate didn’t like to be distracted before a gig, but couldn’t wait to spill her LA news as soon as the time was right.
‘What’re you doing after?’ she asked his back. She noticed his jeans were hanging so low he had to wear two belts to keep them up. Maybe that was the point.
‘Dunno, babe.’
‘I’ve got something to tell you, it’d be good if we could …’
When they got backstage Nate turned round in front of his band mates. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
Chloe was embarrassed. ‘No, don’t be silly.’
‘Hey, man,’ said Chris, the band’s drummer, ‘for luck.’ He produced a bag of white powder from his pocket and threw it at Nate, who caught it with his left hand. Then, turning to Chloe, ‘All right?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘Break a leg.’ There was something about Chris that Chloe didn’t trust: the way he and Nate talked together about women, and how they sometimes shared private glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. He was a bad influence on her boyfriend. Plus he had greasy hair that went down way past his shoulders–yuck.
Twenty minutes later The Hides were on stage. Watching them in action was a kick, and when they broke into their top ten single ‘Red Rock Road’ the crowd went wild.
Chloe was up front in the swarming mass of devotees next to a pretty weekend TV presenter called Erica Lang and a balding socialite in tragic slacks, apparently a friend of Prince Harry. Her hair kept getting pulled and someone trod on her foot, which hurt. This is a million miles from Hollywood, she thought excitedly, just as a man in a sweaty black T-shirt with living legend across the front sloshed beer down her back.
Nate looked gorgeous and she got a thrill when she remembered he was hers. Every girl in the room wanted a piece of the sexiest frontman in London, but it was only her he wanted. She remembered the first time she’d seen him–a photo in one of the papers of him stumbling out of a Kensington hotel room with whippet-faced heiress Jessica Bernstein, daughter of Frank Bernstein, the Las Vegas hotel magnate and all-round powerhouse. She’d felt a stab of attraction, unable to forget his come-to-bed green eyes and wiry leather-clad body. When they’d turned up at the same party a couple of months later, Chloe couldn’t believe her luck. The rest was history.
The Hides moved into a slow song, one of Chloe’s favourites. Nate lit a cigarette in a minor act of rebellion. The song was about a girl who was just so beautiful that it was impossible to capture her in words, and Chloe liked to imagine that she was the inspiration, even though it had been written way before she and Nate had met–and actually not by him, but by his lead guitarist, Spencer. But Nate was crooning into the mike and every so often he looked over and she knew he was singing it for her.
Melissa, her agent, hadn’t been enamoured with the partnership at the time. Chloe was the sweetheart of the fashion world and could be jeopardising future contracts by associating herself with his lifestyle–but the press had gone crazy for the romance. And the irony was, of course, that in reality Nate Reid–full name Nathaniel Buckley-Reid–was a lot posher than either of them: in fact he was aristocracy. His own father, Lord Fergus Buckley-Reid, and mother Penelope lived in a great country pile in Wiltshire and were friends of the royals. Naturally this was all kept under very tight wraps and Nate was unremittingly sensitive about it: his whole working-class-boy-done-good persona was, as it turned out, fake.
The band was getting pumped up now as they launched into the single that had made them famous. Nate strutted across the stage like a prehistoric bird.
‘He’s amazing!’ squealed Erica Lang, so close to Chloe’s ear it was painful. ‘You’re so lucky!’
Chloe smiled to herself. She was. With Nate Reid in her life, she was a very lucky girl indeed.
Later a gang of them fell into two black cabs and there was a brief quarrel about where they should go to continue the party. The paps were having a field day.
Somebody suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.
Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.
Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.
When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.
There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.
‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.
‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.
A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.
Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.
The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.
She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.
In seconds another came round and she toked on that