Diva

Dionne sneaked a sideways glance at Philippe, then raised her hands above her head as CeCe pulled off her top, the silky material sliding over her soft skin, leaving her breasts exposed.

Philippe exhaled heavily, his right knee bouncing in agitation. He knew they were doing it for his benefit, so he supposed he should pay more attention, but there was something so deliberate, so staged in their actions, that it rendered the show completely unsexy. He wasn’t remotely attracted to either of them, he realized. In fact, his overwhelming sensation was now one of boredom.

Stifling a yawn, he checked his watch – a Patek Philippe, naturally – and wondered once again just what the hell he was doing here. His plane was in four hours, and there was no way he could land in New York exhausted and hungover. It was completely unprofessional. He would leave now, grab some Paracetamol washed down with a large bottle of Badoit, then catch a few hours’ sleep on the plane before waking in time to go over the American proposals one last time before they landed.

Yeah, he needed to get out of here right now, he realized, wishing he’d listened to his first instincts in the club. The two girls were writhing around in front of him, desperate to elicit a reaction. It was pathetic. The shorter girl, the one with the freaky haircut, she was clearly into it, but the other girl just looked a mess, her skirt pulled up around her waist and her tits hanging out.

She was evidently from the wrong side of the tracks, obviously fame-hungry and money-grabbing. It didn’t matter how many designer labels you dressed her up in, or how much she spent on her hair and make-up, she was still no better than trash. All the money in the world couldn’t buy you class, Philippe thought with a sneer, his in-built snobbery coming to the surface. When you were from one of France’s richest families, it was hard to avoid.

He drained his champagne flute in a parting gesture, slamming it down on the coffee table before climbing unsteadily to his feet.

Dionne looked round in confusion. ‘Philippe?’ she questioned. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ he said shortly. He didn’t even look at her.

‘No, stay,’ Dionne insisted, bolting across the room towards him. She pressed herself against him, running her body up and down his, her naked breasts trailing over his half-open shirt.

‘Get away from me,’ Philippe hissed. His tone was like ice and he lashed out at her, pushing her away from him.

Dionne fell, sprawling onto the floor.

Philippe stared at her in disgust, his lip curling. She looked like some kind of beetle, writhing on her back.

‘I don’t understand,’ Dionne faltered, pulling herself upright. She was sitting at his feet, staring up at him while he towered above her.

‘Don’t you?’ Philippe was drunk and tired, his irritation making him cruel. ‘You disgust me,’ he sneered. ‘Look at you, at the way you live your life. You’re worse than a whore – at least a whore is honest about what she wants.’

Dionne opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, jerking his chin in an arrogant gesture. ‘You want money, yes?’ He dragged a money clip from his pocket and pulled out a handful of notes. There must have been around two thousand euros in bills of a hundred, and he threw them at Dionne, prostrate on the floor. It fell around her like rain. ‘Take it. I don’t need it.’

‘Fuck you,’ Dionne spat, scrabbling to sit upright. She grabbed at the money, ineffectually throwing it back at him. It bounced off his legs and fluttered to the ground. ‘Get the fuck out of my apartment, you bastard.’

‘Oh yes, now you’re showing your true colours. What a nice mouth you have on you.’ He leaned over her, his face contorted with cruelty. ‘Black trash, that’s all you are. Why don’t you go back to where you belong?’

Dionne sat, rigid with shock. For once in her life she found herself unable to reply. She could only watch helplessly as Philippe grabbed his jacket and walked out of the door.

Alyson sat up in bed and licked her dry lips. Her throat was parched, and all she could think about was getting a glass of water.

Silently, she pulled back the duvet and slipped out of bed, her bare feet landing on the carpet. She slept in an oversized Guinness T-shirt – free from a promotion at Chez Paddy – and the voluminous top only served to emphasize her slim body and delicate features. Her long, alabaster limbs stretched forever out of the black cotton shirt, her pale-blonde hair cascading down her back.

She padded across her room and stopped at the door, listening carefully. She wondered if she could get to the kitchen and back without being seen. It sounded as though everyone was in the lounge. The last thing Alyson wanted to do was walk in on some kind of orgy, a scene that wouldn’t look out of place during the last days of Rome. Alyson had no idea what Dionne and CeCe did with the guys they brought home, but her imagination was running wild.

But then, it was her flat too, wasn’t it? Alyson reasoned. She shouldn’t be hiding in her room like a prisoner, afraid to step outside. She would dash out and hope they were all too caught up in what they were doing to notice her.

Alyson grabbed the door handle and opened it a fraction, when a sudden noise made her jump. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. It sounded like shouting. Then a door opened and a man stormed out, hurrying down the corridor. Alyson shrank back into the darkness as he rushed past her room. He didn’t turn the light on and it was too dark to see his features; all Alyson could make out was the curve of a powerful shoulder, silhouetted against the blackness. His tread was heavy on the wooden floor, and he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket as he went. Then the door slammed shut and he was gone.