A Little of Chantelle Rose Read online

  “Thanks for helping me bring the bags up and, of course, for getting us out of that mess Robbie.”

  Robbie, meanwhile, having heard me open the bathroom door, was looking straight in my direction. Thank God I’d waxed my legs last night, for that ridiculously small towel wasn’t doing a very good job of covering me.

  “See you tomorrow then,” continued Tammy as she closed the door, totally unaware that I was half naked behind her. Robbie, before having the door closed on his face, just gave me a good look up and down, with no attempt to hide the amusement on his face.

  “What’s that about tomorrow?” I weakly asked as Tammy turned to face me.

  “Oh! So that’s what he was looking at,” she observed, seeing me in my birthday suit sparsely covered by the mini-sized towel.

  “I’ve just arranged for Robbie and Ray and you and me to go out tomorrow lunchtime for a picnic.”

  Ding Dong. Round One to Tammy. She’s really taking this bet seriously – and by God was my heart racing. For the first time I was glad that Tammy had got the car stuck in the mud. It had been the best thing she'd done in ages.

  Chapter Two

  But before lunchtime came around the following day, Tammy and I were actually speeding back towards London.

  “They’ll think we've stood them up,” I said, for the umpteenth time.

  “No they won’t,” Tammy reassured me, though I could tell she felt just as bad as I did, especially after going down to breakfast and finding her Jag sparklingly clean and blue once more. There was a note on the bonnet: Having always wanted my own Jag, I’ve gone and made the most of it and cleaned yours. See you ladies at lunchtime. Ray.

  “I’d left him the spare set of keys” explained Tammy sheepishly. “I didn’t really expect him to clean it, at least not so quickly. Anyway, I’m sure that nice-looking girl in reception will pass on our note of apology and explanation. And will you please sit still missy? I’m not going to drive any faster just because you’re jiggling all over the place as if you’ve got ants in your pants.”

  Much to Tammy’s exasperation, I couldn’t keep still. In fact I hadn’t been able to remain calm or think straight since ten o’clock that morning. That was when I'd received the phone call.

  I'd been offered the chance of a lifetime, and there was no way I was going to let the opportunity slip.

  I was more excited than a four-year-old on Christmas Eve. I just hoped the phone call wasn’t a hoax, because it all just sounded too good to be true.

  I'd been offered the chance to earn one million dollars!

  The actual details of the film contract I'd been offered were all very vague in my head. After hearing one million dollars, I think half my brain cells died from sheer excitement.

  It had been arranged for me to dine that very evening at the Ritz with a Mr Guillem, an agent who had contacted me that morning. So that's why we found ourselves speeding back to the city. Tammy was driving, because in my state of nerves I would have probably crashed the car.

  “What am I going to wear?” I wailed as it slowly started to sink in that I was to have dinner that evening in one of the most expensive and snooty hotels in London, and I had nothing remotely appropriate to wear. The only semi-respectable little black dress I owned had a very inelegant deodorant stain on it. Also, I realised with a gasp, I couldn’t possibly pull up outside the Ritz in my psychedelic green Mini with its huge dent in the bonnet and designer scratch marks all down the right hand side.

  Tammy, of course, knew all about dining at the Ritz. The first time she'd been taken there was at the age of five for her birthday celebrations with the fun old gang of her parents, grandparents and elderly aunt and uncle. Say no more! It amazes me that we ended up in the same nursery despite coming from totally different backgrounds. Tammy’s father, however, thought that mixing with “ordinary” children – at least during nursery age – would do Tammy good, spur her on, and develop her social and survival skills.

  His little experiment almost got her killed. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I loved beating up and chasing off all the kids who took to pulling at Tammy’s fancy dresses and extravagant silk bows that always decorated her long pigtails, I don't know how she would have survived. I was such a rough little tomboy, and truly believed I was Luke Skywalker, protecting Tammy with my light sabre.

  And now, the time had come for her to rescue me. “You’ve got to come with me, Tammy,” I pleaded. Or rather, ordered.

  “Darling, of course I’ll go with you. I couldn’t let you go by yourself. It would be like sending a child into a lions’ den. It’s silver service, my dear. You wouldn’t know which fork to pick up first.”

  ***

  As we pulled up outside the Ritz a bellboy rushed forward to park the Jag for us, and I nervously moved to step in line with Tammy as she strode confidently up the stairs to the main entrance.

  “Stop fidgeting,” she hushed in my ear. “You look fab.” I did, too; that impromptu mud mask I’d applied down by the river yesterday had done wonders. I had a healthy glow about me, and even my hair was remotely under control.

  The hotel doors were held open for us.

  “Good evening ladies,” the doorman announced, in the poshest accent I'd ever heard. It even beat Tammy’s dad. I wondered if the job qualifications had specified posh voice essential, or if the training for the position had involved intense elocution lessons.

  As we moved into the lobby I gasped out loud, and let slip the most unrefined Bloody Hell! The exquisite surroundings almost swallowed me up. I felt totally out of my depth, and I wondered why on earth I hadn’t insisted on meeting at Pizza Express. I didn't even need to read the menu there.

  We were greeted and escorted to the Rivoli Bar, where the walls are panelled in polished Camphor wood veneer enriched with Lalique glass panels and gold Keystone nuggets. Not that I actually knew this, of course, but Tammy kindly recited all the details. All I was able to comment was, “Got a bit of Art Deco going, hasn’t it?”

  I was so nervous, and relieved that Tammy was with me. The people around were extremely well-dressed; diamonds glinted in the light, and the air was heavy with expensive perfumes. In fact as I breathed in the perfumed atmosphere I was aware that it was making me feel a little woozy; quite sickly actually. Together with all the rush, the heady scent and my jangling nerves I could feel a dizzy spell coming on – just as I heard behind me a smooth, confident voice with a hint of a French accent.

  “Miss Rose? So pleased to meet you. I’m Frederic Guillem.”

  As if on cue, like in one of those horrid and embarrassing dreams where you find yourself walking down Oxford Street totally starkers, I felt my vision blur and fainted flat on my face.

  I came around minutes later, probably thanks to the freezing cool pack that had been placed on my forehead. I wondered for a while what I was doing lying down with my legs raised on a chair. As I remained slightly dazed I could hear a distant voice saying, “Is she always this dramatic? Bit of a Drama Queen, is she? I must say she’ll fit right in…”

  What the hell is the guy going on about? Grimacing, I put my hand to my forehead to remove the freezing ice bag. What with the rain last night and now this, I’ll come down with flu in the blink of an eye.

  My mind was still in a bit of a blur. What the hell was I doing in such a finely furnished bar? Then I noticed the dress I had on. I'd a vague notion that it was Tammy’s, because it was way too flashy to be mine, and with the long slit all the way up the left leg and my legs raised I suddenly realised that I had my g-string exposed. Then Tammy’s voice beside me brought me fully back to where I was like a steam train. Mortified I grappled to stand, trying to do so as elegantly as possible although in my three-inch heels it was nearly Mission Impossible. Finally on my feet, wobbling all over like I’d had one too many Bloody Marys, I cringed. I bet I’m the first person ever to faint at the Ritz. I was relieved to notice, however, that everyone else in the Rivoli Bar were engrossed in their own li
ttle word, all politely ignoring, in true British style, the fact that I'd just fallen flat on my face and had exposed my underwear for all to see.

  I found myself towering over Mr Guillem, a short, stocky middle-aged man dressed in a fine beige silk suit which would have cost him more than I earned in a whole year. His dark brown eyes danced merrily as they looked me over, though his voice was soft and there was a hint of genuine concern as he pulled out a chair for me.

  “Do you feel alright, or would you prefer to postpone the meeting for another time?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I feel fine. I honestly don’t know what came over me.” I flashed him one of my brightest smiles, thinking I had to win him over quickly before he concluded that I was a right nutter and I could kiss the million dollars goodbye.

  Totally at ease, Mr Guillem, with Tammy and me on either arm, waltzed us through to the restaurant like a real sugar daddy. Judging by some of the looks we were getting as we passed, I clearly wasn’t the only one to think this.

  A four-piece band had struck up as we walked into what has to be one of the most magnificent restaurants in the world. We sat down for what I discovered would be a multi-course meal and I began to have images of me exploding out of the tight-fitting dress I was wearing. Tammy, who was sitting opposite me with Mr Guillem to my left, winked at me as she picked up the first fork. I followed suit.

  The meal, though a superb blend of classical cuisine, was totally lost on me as I struggled to keep track of Mr Guillem's contract offer and at the same time played Simon Says with Tammy, copying her every move. Sitting still and tall, back straight, bust out, elbows off the table, sipping delicately – without slurping – at my wine instead of gulping it down as I usually did, I elegantly pressed the napkin on either corner of my lips after every other dainty and minute bite.

  By the end of the meal I'd signed a pre-contractual agreement (whatever that is), and nodded politely as Mr Guillem took my hand in his in a warm firm hand-shake.

  “Well, Miss Rose,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you shortly then. My secretary will be in contact with you with your flight and accommodation details. I’m truly looking forward to our project and business plans ahead. I’m going to make you a star!'”

  I had to lean on Tammy as we waited outside to pick up the car thinking I was going to faint again. I was really giving my blood pressure a hammering.

  “Do you think he’s a bit of a con-man?” I asked Tammy. I’d learned during the evening that Mr Guillem was supposed to be one of the leading and most sought-after movie agents. During the meal he'd told us the most unbelievable story. He'd been asked by Lionel King, his top star and the biggest name in Hollywood to date, to watch The Business and observe the girl in the red catsuit – and offer her a role in his next big production: an action-packed, multi-million-dollar-budget film.

  "'I want that girl,' he said. And what Mr King wants, Mr King gets." Mr Guillem beamed as he'd patted my hand like a kindly grandfather. "You see, darling, Mr King says you've got a million-dollar asset."

  Eyes wide, smile frozen, my mind boggled. Did he say "asset"… or "ass”?

  “His credentials all looked in order,” Tammy replied, “and he’s obviously used to pulling off important deals. He’s got that superior look of confidence about him that’s obviously not from his dumpy, chunky size. Anyway, there’s only one way to find out…”

  Chapter Three

  Ten days later I found myself flying First Class over the Atlantic. I sat back in the sofa-like plane seat and tried to let myself relax. The last ten days had been manic. What with cleaning up my flat, sorting out my visa, giving all my beloved plants to Tammy… Which, thinking about it, was probably a mistake – Tammy would never even remember to water them, let alone talk to them.

  The best moment had been the Monday morning after my meeting with Mr Guillem, when I waltzed into work, deliberately arriving one hour late. I worked in Café Cappuccino, a coffee shop down the road from where I lived, where I worked my socks off all hours of the day and night and most weekends. It was beyond Tammy why I put up with the crappy job, with its shitty pay and totally chauvinistic slave-driver of a boss. And it was beyond me to be able to explain. But that Monday morning I felt on top of the world. As my boss started having a right barney at me for being late, I picked up a tray laden with steaming coffee cups and just let it slip ever so accidentally to the floor. He went a deathly shade of yellowy-grey, and for a panicky split second I thought he'd have a heart attack. But he recovered in a flash, calling me obscene names and threatening to take the broken mugs and spilt coffee out of my wages.

  I smiled sweetly.

  “Go fuck yourself, you and this fucking job.”

  And with that I turned on my heel and left. Well, fled is probably the correct term: I really didn’t want to hang around for his reaction once he'd recovered from the shock at what I’d said, right in front of his customers. But I did notice, as I made my quick exit, the little old lady who was always in Café Cappuccino for breakfast turn purple as she choked on her muffin, no doubt flabbergasted by my language.

  Champagne was offered around by the flight attendant, who looked like she'd just stepped out of primary school, whilst I settled down and browsed through the choice of interactive entertainment. To my horror, The Business flashed up on the film list. I desperately tried to sink further into my swanky First Class seat, hoping to remain unnoticed by my fellow passengers, especially dismayed on observing that several had opted to watch it. In a flash I fished out the sleep mask from the gift bag given out at the start of the flight. It was more like a first aid travel kit that had everything in it bar the kitchen sink. So with the big black mask on cutting out the light and my view of the other passengers, hoping with childlike naïvety that as I couldn’t see them they couldn’t see me, I settled down, and for the first time in ten days felt sleep overcome my exhausted body and mind.

  ***

  I woke all hot and flustered. I'd had one of those really sexually-charged dreams, Robbie being at the centre of my fantasy. As I shifted in my seat to shake off the tingling sensation that enveloped my whole body, I caught the guy sitting in the aisle opposite staring right at me. I wondered if I'd cried out loud in orgasmic delight whilst dreaming, or if he could have recognised me from The Business. Rudely I turned my back on him. Either way, I didn’t want to know.

  It was a real bumpy flight over the Atlantic, a bit like a never-ending roller-coaster ride. I'd flown over the Atlantic before, but to east-coast Florida, and that journey stands out clear in my mind. Not so much for the bumpy ride on that flight also, but rather for the fact that the “new friend” I'd made on the flight – one of the many new friends that I kept picking up, as only children can – threw up all over me in a severe attack of motion sickness. What did I do? Well, with the smell of vomit right up my nostrils, I threw up all over her, too. Looking back with humour at the incident, I imagined that we must have looked like two possessed little devils having a puking contest.

  I remember that holiday in Florida very clearly. I'd gone out with my parents. It was to be our last holiday together as a family. I was too young at the time to truly understand, but as I chased around Disneyland after Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck to have my photo taken with them, and got soaked to the bone by Shamu the Killer Whale at Sea World, my mother, sweet and gentle to the end, was dying of cancer. My father, who'd been totally devoted to her during all their years together, never got over her death, and eighteen months ago, after suffering for fifteen years with a broken heart, passed away too. I was the only person not to cry at his funeral, as I knew that at last he'd stopped suffering and that finally Mum and Dad were together again.

  I’m aware that this is the reason why none of my relationships with guys last more than a few months. It’s simply because I always compare what I have and feel to what I witnessed with my parents. As it never comes close, I keep searching. It’s almost as unrealistic as hunting for a pot of gold at the end of
a rainbow.

  Twelve hours later, thought it felt more like at a week had passed since I'd left England, I arrived in sun-kissed California. I got the whole body search and had all the items of my luggage turned upside down as I went through passport control and customs. I wondered, not for the first time, what it is about me that made people automatically assume I'm either a fully-trained terrorist or some kind of drug pusher. Ever since I'd started travelling without my parents I'm always given the whole once-over. I'm obviously the kind of person who's described in airport anti-terrorist classes as the type to have on their A-list of suspicious-looking passengers. I put it down to my frizzy black hair; they obviously think it’s a wig and that I’m in disguise.

  Finally released from the bombardment of questions of What? Why? Where? Who? thrown at me with reference to my visit to the States, I walked through customs and out to the arrivals lounge. There was a mass of people milling around, and I suddenly realised that I'd no idea who was picking me up or where I would be taken. Visions of an evening newsflash screaming YOUNG WOMAN KIDNAPPED AND TAKEN HOSTAGE AS SEX SLAVE raced through my mind, and not for the first time I wondered what the hell I was letting myself in for. I'd thrown myself head-first into accepting this crazy project without really knowing what I was getting paid to do.

  What I did know was that ten days earlier, leading a perfectly normal if rather boring life, I'd come across the house of my dreams. Now, given the opportunity to earn more money that I'd ever thought possible, I planned to buy it and set it up as a little rural getaway. All right, I’ll be fair, I won’t kid anyone – though I wince to admit it – I hadn’t just fallen for the house; I’d fallen head over heels for Robbie too. I couldn't stop thinking about him. He was the first person I'd ever come across who'd had that overwhelming effect on me – not counting ET. I'd a real obsession with him when I was around seven, and then there was Kermit the Frog from The Muppets who'd been my hero in my earlier years, too. But then, neither of those were real people.