Sweet Deception (7 page)

It didn't take long to find him. He was standing across from me, looking flushed with the thrill of performing, surrounded by a gaggle of girls in push-up bras, who were fluttering their false eyelashes up at him.

I nudged Lindsay. “Hey. I'm going to make a new friend.”

She followed my eye line and groaned.

“Ah, Charlie, no. Not again . . .”

But I was off before she could finish.

I pushed my way through the groupies, ignoring the irritated looks that they flashed me. I was a woman on a mission, and I didn't care what anyone thought. I tapped Brett
on the shoulder. He turned, giving me the once-over.

“What can I sign for you?” His eyes settled on my ample bosom, and he flashed a wolfish grin. “Maybe your bra?”

The other girls giggled as though this was the most outrageous thing they'd ever heard, but I didn't even crack a smile. It took a lot to shock me these days.

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to join me for a drink?”

I could see he was taken aback by my directness. The groupies scowled, clearly aware that they were fast losing his interest.

Brett studied me for a moment. I stared right back. I might not be as attractive as the other girls, but I had one key advantage that they lacked—I wasn't impressed or intimidated by this guy. My indifference made me interesting and desirable.

“Sure,” the singer finally drawled. “Why the hell not?”

*  *  *

I got us a bottle of tequila, while he found a table in the corner. We were there for about an hour when the guitarist came over, and said something to Brett, before heading back to join the rest of the band.

Brett downed the rest of his drink, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Look, we're heading off now. Some dude's got a party going near here. You want to come?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to accept, but then I caught sight of Lindsay. We had got up to some crazy stuff, and so, early on in our friendship, she'd insisted that we always stick together if we went to parties or clubs. That meant I was going to have to run this by her, and try to convince her to come along. “Just give me two minutes.”

I got up—stumbling a little as the alcohol hit me—and headed over to where my friend was sitting at the bar, chatting to some regulars we knew.

“You ready to go?” she said, as I approached.

“Not exactly . . .”

I quickly told her what I was up to. She was already groaning and shaking her head before I finished.

“Come off it, Charlie. Not again. Last night finished me off. I just want to go home and sleep.”

“You said that yesterday, but after a few drinks, you were fine.”

“Yeah, and I was also so hung-over today that I couldn't meet up with Adrian. He's meant to be coming round later to stay over, and I'm not letting him down again.”

Adrian was the guy she'd been seeing for the past few weeks. He was nice enough, a softly spoken English teacher, who seemed a little shy. But I was surprised she was still seeing him, to be honest. Lindsay was like me. Men were for the night, no longer. And Adrian in particular seemed far too tame for her. He'd been invited along this evening, but
had stayed in to mark essays. Hardly a surprise—I couldn't exactly see this being his scene. The sooner Lindsay got rid of him the better, if you asked me. But if she wanted to keep him around for a while, then that was her business. I just wasn't about to let it affect my plans.

“Fine,” I said. “Go home to Adrian, if you want. No one's stopping you.”

I turned to leave, but before I'd made it even a step, she caught my arm. “You seriously think I'm going to let you head off to an unknown address with some guys we've never met before?” She nodded across the room to where the band was standing by the door, all tattoos and black leather, waiting for me.

“I'll be fine. You worry too much.”

She swore under her breath. “What is with you? It's like you have a death wish or something.”

“Just trying to have fun.”

She gave me a sidelong look. “Is that what you call it?”

I didn't bother to reply, just turned to head over to Brett.

“Hey.” I heard her call after me. “Wait up. I'm not letting you go alone. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you.”

“Fair enough,” I threw back over my shoulder. “But if you're coming, you better get a move on. We're leaving right now.”

*  *  *

The walk to the party was pretty much a blur. I was vaguely aware of Brett's arm around my waist, supporting me, as we headed away from busy Camden Town and into a quieter, more residential area. Lindsay, who'd called to cancel on Adrian, walked in front of us, talking to the rest of the band.

It was after midnight on a Sunday, so the streets were pretty much deserted. We walked on until we finally reached a small row of Georgian townhouses, which would have been quite impressive if they weren't so dilapidated. Only a few of the buildings had lights on. In fact, several of the properties were boarded up, as though they'd been repossessed and were now standing empty, and the walls were covered with colourful graffiti.

Brett led us to the grubbiest house, which looked like some kind of squat. Music and voices drifted out to us, telling me that we were in the right place.

The bell had been ripped out, so we just had to hammer on the door until someone came down to let us in. It was a guy who looked like he could have been the sixth member of the band.

“You made it!” He high-fived Brett as we traipsed in.

We followed the noise up a flight of stairs. The interior was just as dilapidated as the exterior, with peeling paint and broken floorboards. The first room we came to was a small,
dirty kitchen, where Lindsay and the band settled in. I helped myself to a warm beer—the fridge wasn't working—but then Brett appeared by my side.

“I've got something better than that.” He held up a bottle of vodka. “Wanna find somewhere more private to drink this?”

He didn't need to ask twice.

The party seemed to be spread across the house. It took a while, but finally Brett found a large, empty room at the back. It was lit by dozens of candles stuffed into wine bottles, the wax dripping down the glass necks, making the place seem more atmospheric. Huge velvet curtains hung at the windows. That looked like a great combination with the naked flames. If a fire broke out, we wouldn't stand a chance.

There were some battered sofas and beanbags around the side of the room. Brett plonked himself down on the most hideous orange cord sofa I'd ever seen—something that looked like it had been dragged off the street.

I went over and flopped down next to him, nodding at the vodka in his hands.

“Care to share? Or are you already breaking promises?”

“I'll just get some tonic—” He made to stand up, but before he could, I swiped the bottle from him and swigged from it.

The clear liquid burned my throat. I stopped to cough, and then drank more down. Brett watched me with widening eyes.

“Je-sus,” he said, as I handed him back the bottle. “For such a little thing, you've got the constitution of an ox.”

I gave him a lazy smile. “That's not my only talent.”

He blinked, clearly not used to girls being so forthright with him. “Well, that's good to know.”

He took a swig of vodka himself, as I produced a packet of cigarettes, and lit one for us to share.

It took us five minutes to finish the cigarette, and almost half an hour to down the rest of the vodka—most of which I think I consumed. With the last drop finished, I lay my head back and closed my eyes. The vodka mixed with tequila and champagne was beginning to make my head spin.

Brett took it as an invitation, and began to kiss me. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, and I was too out of it to really put up much of an objection. Soon I was on my back on the sofa, with him on top, his hand pushing under my T-shirt as he ground against me.

“You like that?” His voice floated through to me, making me aware that he was pawing at my breasts. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

I moaned obligingly, because that's what I knew I was meant to do. But the truth was, I was too drunk to feel much of anything—which was just the way I liked it.

I felt the whole thing moving on—clothes coming off, breathing becoming more laboured. I'd done this so many
times before. But gradually I became aware that something wasn't right. I shifted beneath Brett, trying to get into a better position. His body pressing down on me was making me feel sick. I tried to think back to when I last ate—it was lunchtime. Perhaps all that booze on an empty stomach hadn't been the best idea.

I broke my mouth from his, and managed to say, “Hey.”

“What?” He raised his head, frowning. “Something wrong?”

I tried to nod, and put my hands on his chest. “Yeah . . . I need you to get off—”

“Huh?” I wasn't surprised he didn't understand what I was saying. My voice was muffled, and I knew I was having trouble forming words.

With all the willpower I could muster, I forced myself to form each word. “Get. Off. Me.”

This time, he did as I asked, and rolled away. I struggled to sit up, hoping to feel better. But instead the room started to spin.

I tried to focus, but everything looked pretty blurry. I could just about make out Brett, who was frowning at me in concern. “You don't look so good. Do you want some water?”

It took me a moment to process the question. “No water. I want—” I didn't managed to finish the sentence. Instead, my stomach heaved, and without any warning, I threw up
all over the floor.

Brett jumped back, squealing, as I splattered his shoes and leather trousers with chunks from lunch.

The rest of the house must have heard the commotion, because a second later, the door was thrown open.

“Oh, gross,” some guy said from across the room, as I threw up again.

“Ugh. The smell.”

“You better clean that up,” someone else called over to me.

But I was oblivious of the abuse.

“Bathroom?” I managed.

People shouted directions, moving out of my way as I stumbled from the room. I couldn't seem to focus as I staggered along the hallway, and I kept knocking into the wall. Behind me, I could hear laughter, undoubtedly aimed at me, but I didn't care. At the end of the corridor, I pushed open a door, and fell into a tiny WC. Even in my state, I could see it was filthy—the sink was hanging off the wall, and the porcelain toilet was cracked and the bowl stained. A lone light-bulb hung from the ceiling, adding to the dinginess.

I collapsed in front of the toilet, and began to throw up again.

I was still vomiting a couple of minutes later, when someone knocked at the door.

“Charlie?” I heard the hinges creak open. “Are you okay
in there?” It was Lindsay. Brett at least had had the good sense to get her.

I was retching too hard to respond.

“Oh, shit.” She came up behind me, holding my hair back as I continued to throw up. She was an old hand at this.

The vomiting seemed to go on forever. Just as I thought it might be stopping, I felt my stomach begin to contract again.

After what seemed like an hour, I finally collapsed back on my haunches, sweating from the exertion of the constant vomiting. It seemed like even the dry-heaving had stopped.

“You want to get out of here?” Lindsay said.

I didn't have the energy to reply. Instead I grabbed the sink with both hands, and used it to haul myself to my feet, dislodging it even more with my weight. I stumbled a little, and Lindsay caught me. I decided to lean against the cool wall for support. “Am fine.” My words sounded slurred, even to my own ears. “Just give . . . a minute.”

Lindsay was peering at me with a worried expression. “You really don't seem fine.”

“Been like this 'fore.”

“This is different.” She peered at me. “You look really sick, Charlie. I seriously think we need to get out of here.”

I tried to open my eyes to glare at her, but it was too much effort. “When did you stop being fun?” I said instead.

“There's being fun and then there's being an idiot.” I tried to walk past her, but Lindsay moved in front of me. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Brett.” I'd wanted to say a whole sentence, but I could only manage that one word.

“Oh, no, you're not.” She crossed her arms. “I'm not letting you out of here with him.”

“And what you gonna do 'bout it?” I said. Or at least that's what I tried to say. Unfortunately my brain didn't seem to quite manage to co-ordinate with my mouth, so it came out as a jumble of sounds that weren't quite words.

“What the hell?” Lindsay squinted at me. “Jesus, Charlie. How much did you drink?”

I grinned at her. She was making such a big deal about nothing. “I'm fine,” I started to say. But somewhere along the way the room had started swimming. I had no idea what was going on, but something didn't feel quite right.

I swayed a little on my feet. For some reason, I couldn't manage to focus. I stumbled backwards a little, and banged against the wall. I just about had time to make out the distressed look on Lindsay's face, and then I sank to the ground.

The first thing I was aware of when I woke up was what felt like the mother of all sore throats, stretching all the way down my oesophagus to the throbbing pain in my stomach.

My eyes cracked open, and I saw immediately that I was in a hospital bed, in what looked like a private ward. An IV was feeding fluids into my arm. Vague images flitted through my mind from the night before—the flashing red siren as I was rushed to hospital; the agony of a tube being forced down my throat; the constant pain and indignity of vomiting . . .

My eyes swept the room. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but there was Richard, sprawled out in the easy chair in the corner. I groaned to myself. The last thing I needed was him and my family getting involved. They'd never let me hear the end of it about last night.