Tease (13 page)

‘Sooooo …’ started Blue, jumping onto the bed next to Tiger. ‘You’re just one surprise after another …’ Tiger just smiled at him happily. ‘You look like the cat that got the cream! Rex will be devastated!’ he teased, eyeing up a long strand of raven black hair on the pillow.

‘Rex will never know, will he?’ answered Tiger, flopping back into her soft pillow and pulling the duvet up to her chin. ‘Besides it’s none of his business. Rex and I are history. Now I’m tired and hungover, so be gentle,’ she lamented. Trying another man to get over Rex hadn’t worked, so maybe another woman would work better. Besides, Tiger was very drawn to Libertina. She sensed that they could be friends as well as lovers and there was novelty in that alone.

‘Sounds like you could use a little livener. I went out and bought the Sunday papers and orange juice for Buck’s Fizz … you two didn’t work your way through
every
bottle of champagne did you?’

‘God no, well not quite – there’s still some Krug chilling in the minibar.’

‘Nice, I’ll be right back. Oh, and Tiger?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you owe me that tenner?’

‘What tenner?’

‘Were they real?’

‘Oh the bet. Er—’

‘Be honest now?’

‘Blue, they were a-
mazing
,’

‘But were they real?’

‘Oh okay, I owe you ten pounds.’

‘Wooh hoo! Damn I’m good! I know silicone when I see it!’

‘Good for you. Now go get the champagne.’

‘Yes, ma’am. I brought up your mail from yesterday by the way.’

Blue threw the pile of envelopes on Tiger’s duvet. Tiger had been avoiding the mail deliberately. In amongst the circulars was a pink envelope that bore a striking resemblance to the one she had been given in New York. Oh what the hell, she was still pleasantly alcoholised and glowing in the wake of Libertina, and she decided that whatever the envelope offered, she could handle it head on. Boldly she picked it up and ripped it open.

‘I. Watch. You. Sleeping. You. Will. See. Me. In. Your. Nightmares.’

Tiger let out a snort of relief. Is that it? I watch you sleeping? Impossible, she thought to herself, flicking her eyes over to the heavy sash window. Nightmares? What kind of a threat’s that! She held the paper to her nose. It
smelled of Chanel. Tiger heard Blue clinking glasses loudly as he wobbled up the stairs with the tray of champagne and juice. Quickly she stuffed the pink letter under a cushion.

‘Breakfast is served!’ announced Blue as he swept through the door. Gravy followed and jumped up on to the bed, tail wagging ten to the dozen.

‘I won’t crack any “hair of the dog” jokes,’ promised Tiger as she cuddled the little ball of fur tightly.

‘Hold your horses, babes, because breakfast in bed wouldn’t be complete without …’ Blue paused, picking up Tiger’s stereo remote control. ‘Disco!’ he squealed, as ‘Ring My Bell’ blasted out through the speakers. ‘Who needs
Songs of Praise
when we’ve got the seventies!’

‘Oh my head,’ groaned Tiger.

‘Here. Get this down you.’ Blue jumped on the bed and wafted Buck’s Fizz under Tiger’s nose like smelling salts. ‘Ring my bell, ring-a-ling-a-ling,’ he sang tunelessly, leaping up and swinging Gravy in the air as he minced round the luxurious bedroom, swigging champagne to the thumping music. ‘Now this is my idea of Sunday Mass! Amen!’

Lewis’ eyes adjusted to the bright daylight as he exited the cinema. Finding himself a space at the bar he flicked through the pages of his programme idly, whilst keeping one eye on the world that passed by outside on the south bank of the Thames. The National Film Theatre was
running a month-long retrospective on one of Lewis’ favourite actors, Robert Mitchum. He knew Tiger would have dearly loved to watch
Night of the Hunter
that afternoon, what with Mitchum being one of her all time favourite idols, but Lewis had the boundaries of their relationship strictly defined. A Sunday movie accompanied by Tiger would stray into the ‘personal’ zone too much. Instead he had sent a bored Georgia off to Sloane Street for some sponsored retail therapy whilst he indulged in movie classics on his rare day off.

Lewis felt unusually relaxed staring out of the window and people watching. He watched as the resident batty old flute player twiddled his melodies between the passing tourists like Methuselah on Ecstasy. People hovered at the rows of second-hand bookstalls to choose dog-eared thrillers for fifty pence a go. Hoodie boys sped by on their skateboards. A skinny blonde stringbean picked her way awkwardly over the cracks in the pavement in unfeasibly high heels, all flailing arms and legs. Lewis gave a double take as the girl came into focus and he realised it was in fact Georgia stumbling over to meet him as arranged. What on earth is she wearing, he thought grimly, rolling his eyes in their sockets.

‘Hey hunny!’ screeched Georgia as she piled through the door into the bar, laden down with bags of shopping. She clattered her way past chairs and tables towards Lewis, before dropping her bags at his feet and throwing her arms around his neck dramatically.

‘Wait ’til you see what I bought!’ said Georgia excitedly.

‘Yes, I can see!’ said Lewis, looking her up and down and noting that she was in an entirely different outfit than the one she left in this morning. It looked expensive. It didn’t exactly suit her frame either. And what was with the platform skyscraper heels? They made her skinny legs look like golf clubs. Georgia fished in her purse and retrieved Lewis’ Amex Titanium card, and pressed it into his palm.

‘Thank you for today,’ Georgia whispered in his ear, ‘I desperately needed some smart new clothes, thank you. Hey, I even bought a little something for us to share when we get home later,’ and with that, she proudly reached into one of her bags, and waved a lacy thong under Lewis’ nose.

‘Very good, darling. Can I get you a coffee or something?’ asked Lewis, hastily putting his credit card back in his wallet, wondering how much that bootlace masquerading as underwear had cost him. He daren’t ask. He simply turned to the bartender.

‘I’ll have an espresso and a …’ Lewis turned to Georgia.

‘Glass of champagne please,’ she replied automatically. ‘So, how was the film?’

‘Good.’ Lewis nodded.

‘What was it again, a thriller or an action movie?’

‘Film noir.’

‘Film what?’

‘Film – never mind.’ Lewis folded his programme and tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Do you like my outfit?’ asked Georgia, waving her hand over her dress; slim fitting, grey, over the knee, and tightly belted with cute button details. On Georgia it certainly looked sleek and, well, very straight. Lewis decided it would benefit from someone of Tiger’s shape to carry it off better.

‘Actually I spotted you from outside,’ he replied, side-stepping her question, ‘it’s not your usual style is it? Who’s it by?’

‘Dior.’

‘Oh, one of Tiger’s favourites.’

‘Really?’ said Georgia in a clipped tone. ‘Well, Tiger couldn’t fit into this, it’s a US size zero.’ She sniffed.

Lewis wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and instead just watched as the waiter placed the drinks in front of him. He chugged back his espresso. Pow, the caffeine hit his bloodstream in a shot. He remembered when he used to live on the stuff. Twenty of these a day would keep him on an even keel. But back then he was putting in twenty-hour days too; though not much more than he was working now, being Tiger’s ‘back end of the horse’ as he put it.

Fourteen years ago Lewis was an ambitious thirty-year-old high flier heading up a huge soft commodities division for the global investment group Mayall Plc., trading coffee, cocoa, sugar, nuts and spices on the futures market. He bought companies and factories for millions and just occasionally managed to sell them for billions. The kind
of people he dealt with on Colombian coffee plantations were the kind of people who made the wicked world of showbiz look like the Teddy Bears’ Picnic. With so much money at stake, the business of commodities had its intrinsic dark side. Out on the road men would die; blown up in Russia, or stabbed in Cuba, and in the office your colleagues would be your worst enemies, ready to stab you in an entirely different way.

Lewis used to train hard every morning in the East End boxing ring; he believed that maintaining peak fitness was what gave him the stamina to snare his opponents in the boardroom at the end of a long day, when their mental reflexes were flagging. Not only that, but punching the crap out of someone first thing in the morning released Lewis’ primal instincts, so that taking on adversaries in the office felt positively civilised. His gruelling schedules took him across time zones and continents, and with his notorious mental resilience, he was well regarded for taking tough negotiations in his stride.

Then along came Tiger Starr. No amount of punches and blows dealt him by knuckleheads in the ring could prepare Lewis for the hit between the eyes when he was confronted with the vision of Tiger pelting towards him backstage at the Duke of York’s Theatre in London like a crazed wildcat. She nearly knocked him over as she made a bid for freedom through the stage door.

‘Ooff! Watch yourself, lady!’ Lewis had yelled fiercely.

‘Are you investing in this piece of crap too? Tell the
director to keep his fucking hands to himself. I’m outta here as of five minutes ago!’

Lewis had then watched bemused as Tiger struggled violently to free her ballet-cardigan sleeve which had entangled itself in the iron bar of the fire exit door. Her curses turned the air blue. Menacing Cuban sugar plantation owners had nothing on this hellcat, he remembered thinking. Lewis had eventually calmed Tiger down, liberated her sleeve, and had sat with her outside on the concrete steps for some fresh air. Tiger was unlike anything he had ever seen. She had a huge mane of untamed pink hair, almondine eyes in a striking shade of green, and an olive colouring that confirmed she was definitely not entirely of English descent. Lewis wondered where on earth this creature had come from. He couldn’t put an age on her. She had the body and face of a girl in her late teens to early twenties, but she spoke with the knowledge and wisdom of someone quite older. As she managed to relax, her breasts stopped heaving and her face softened. She looked, quite simply, extraordinary.

Lewis carefully explained to Tiger that he had been brought in to invest in the show. He was a personal friend of the producer, Camelot Mackie, who had called on Lewis to lend a further cash injection. What Lewis hadn’t mentioned was that Camelot’s offer was timely; Lewis secretly had idle cash from an illicit backhander at work. He figured that ploughing some of it into an interesting project; a remake of Gypsy Rose Lee’s infamous film
Lady of Burlesque
, adapted from her novel
The G-String Murders
, turned the cash into good karma. Supporting the British arts had to be a decent thing to do, surely. Deep down Lewis knew that nineteen out of twenty West End shows never made their money back, but he had fancied the diversion from the intense world of commodities and hey, just looking at this beauty in front of him convinced him his decision was already paying off. It was good for him to remember there were other things in life than commodities and cash.

Lewis used his well-honed skills of negotiation to convince Tiger to move on from the incident with the director and resume her rehearsals. As Lewis watched her dance on stage he was captivated. She was raw, on fire. She was sensual and knowing; yet untouchable, at times even coy. The way she moved, and the way she made him feel like he was the only person she was dancing for, had him hooked like a drug. Off stage she was detached and defensive. She had a story there was no doubt. But once on stage, there was something hypnotic about her that left audiences fixated. This woman was the real deal from the inside out – a class act.

Tiger lasted another week before leaving the production for good, after she caught the director in the dressing room one lunchtime, chewing at the crotches of the girls’ panties. Tiger’s departure pretty much killed the production and
Lady of Burlesque
closed after poor previews.

The spell had already been cast and Lewis had made
his decision. He left his job at Mayall, unsure of exactly how to make it in show business, but knowing there wasn’t a contract in the world he couldn’t negotiate, and that he simply had to work with Tiger Starr. His colleagues mocked and laughed like old biddies over the garden fence. The odd one actually patted him on the back and congratulated him for the transition from ‘City Boy’ to ‘Stripper’s Pimp’. However, a gut feeling told Lewis that the last laugh would be his.

Lewis set about moulding Tiger. He saw a way to channel her raw passion into a more high gloss, more commercial version of herself. He was travelling against the tide at that time, for back then, any kind of erotic entertainment either involved lots of neon Lycra and splayed legs, or it had to be intellectualised as ‘edgy’, ‘gritty’, or ‘subversive’ by goatee-stroking feminists in order to be regarded as art. As for the proper old-style showgirl ‘tit ’n’ feather’ revues – well they had been experiencing their own wilderness in Britain for simply decades. Lewis therefore focused Tiger on all the gloriously glamorous, expensive, chic and camp elements of her shows; why shouldn’t erotic entertainment tick all those boxes? After all, he thought it should be for women as much as men. Lewis was intent on bringing back big budget, unashamedly glamorous, theatrical erotic shows that didn’t have to masquerade as anything but that. Shows that would put the notion of the Goddess centre stage once again.

Lewis listened carefully to Tiger’s vivid dreams, visions
and ideas for flamboyant tableaux and elaborate costumes. He helped her source the best costumiers from Paris to New York. She went about smoothing any rough edges, taming her hair into sleek and shiny curls, softening the bright pink into a more powdery hue. Lewis agonised that subconsciously he hadn’t moved on, that he was just dealing in a far more specialised commodity, but he came to view his role as the gardener nurturing a new rose; he watered it, pruned it, tended to it, and watched it blossom gloriously.