Dirty Diana by January James
Chapter Two
Heads actually turned as I walked into the office the next day. I wore a navy blue pencil dress that showed off my slim calves and my partially starved waistline, and I’d blow-dried my hair for the first time in months. I thought my dryer was about to blow up, until I realized the smell came from the build-up of dust burning off into the atmosphere.
Today, the anxiety that usually balled in the pit of my stomach every morning was being held at bay by the yogurt and berries I’d picked up at the deli. I hadn’t made that much of an effort, but it was enough to stop my teams in their tracks as I passed. I guessed it was the smell of fruity shower gel, as opposed to my usual stench of eau-de-yesterday’s-outfit, that drew the stares.
I plastered a smile to my face until I reached the safe haven of my office, then I sank into my chair and heaved my eyes up to the computer screen for yet another Groundhog Day. I’d hardly taken a breath before Carlos knocked on my door. I waved him in while booting up the computer.
“Anything I should know about?” He asked, accusingly.
“Are you surprised I blow-dried my hair?”
He reached out and ran his hand through the surprisingly shiny, poker-straight strands. “I’m surprised you own a blow-dryer at all, to be honest, darling. But no, that wasn’t what I was referring to.”
“What, then?” I said, refusing to look at him.
“You look, dare I say it, pretty hot…”
“You don’t have to wince when you say that,” I interrupted. I’d known Carlos for three years now and had such intimate knowledge of his facial expressions—largely because he was so free in distributing them—I could feel them vibrate through the air without sparing him a glance.
“…and there must surely be a reason for it,” he finished, ignoring my observation.
“I just fancied making a bit of an effort, that’s all.” I keyed in my password.
“But…” he sucked in a breath. “Why now?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I opened up my inbox and scanned down the list for any emails Marla, my assistant, had flagged for my attention.
“You haven’t blow-dried your hair for over a year, darling. Not since…”
I sighed, heavily. “Say it.”
It was Carlos’s turn to sigh, but he managed to make it sound completely original and utterly dramatic, better than any attempt I could have made.
“Not since The Breakup That Broke Cherry.” He replied, referring to a moment in recent history in which Cherry got publicly dumped by a DJ she’d supposedly been madly in love with. If I’d thought her behavior was atrocious before then, I hadn’t seen anything.
“Well, yes, her ego has certainly kept me busy.”
“So, why now? What’s changed?”
I could tell he wasn’t going to drop it and, annoying as he was, I knew he persisted because he cared. I clicked on a couple of emails I knew needed immediate attention then turned to face him. It was only then I realized he too was graying around the temples. I felt as though I hadn’t looked at him in a long while. What was wrong with me? Had I really been so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed one of my best friends and employees prematurely aging right before my eyes?
“I had a chat with Jez last night, at Ted’s…”
“Jez?” There was that wince again, only this time it slapped me full on in the face. “Really, I’d have pegged you with someone more, um, manly, professional… I don’t know, someone who might own his own apartment?” He curled his hand in the air, while musing to himself who my ideal man would be.
“Not in that way,” I whined. “We were just chatting as I left. Anyway, he said something that resonated with me a bit. Something about changing my ways to change my life. Or, if I don’t change my ways, nothing else will ever change, something like that.”
Carlos tipped his head back and eyed me with the same caution a cat might eye a mouse that had just sprouted insanely large teeth and a wagging tail.
“After how many vodkas?”
That earned him a glare that said if he didn’t get out of my office by the time I’d counted to ten, I would hurl something at him.
“Ok, ok,” he said, holding his hands up. “It sounds… inspirational. Good for you.”
“Was there anything else?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so,” he sighed again. “Our darling little Billboard 100 has requested a re-record of her latest track. The studio in Brooklyn is booked out now for six months and the next best option will cost us triple.”
“Six months? That’s crazy! How is it booked for six months?”
“Aart Bakker, the hot new Netherlands producer, he only wants to work at Beats apparently—nowhere else. Feels a spiritual connection to the place, so he’s booked back-to-back sessions.”
“Jesus. With the money Sony is paying him, he can probably afford way better studios. And worse, it’ll force the price up for labels like us. That’s all we need.”
I punched the intercom. “Marla, can you make a note for me to call Bill at Brooklyn Beats? I should take him for a boozy brunch, Pastis perhaps.”
I turned back to face Carlos, remembering the true root of his exasperation. “Why does she need to re-record?”
“She wants to try the final bridge of After You in a higher octave, see what it sounds like,” he said through gritted teeth.
“She can’t do that with a MacBook Air and a microphone?”
“You try asking her that,” Carlos said, forcing his gritted teeth into not quite the fakest smile I’d ever seen on him, but it was close.
“I’ll get onto Eric. He’s her manager; he needs to be able to stand up to her on stuff like this. It can’t keep bouncing back to the label all the time.”
“So, the studio space?” Carlos ventured.
“A hard no.” I turned back to my screen feeling Carlos’ opinion of me do a neck-cracking double-take.
“Is that an absolute, definite hard no?”
“Yes. I’m not playing ball with this girl anymore.” Something had emboldened me, and I wasn’t sure what—possibly the brief conversation I’d had with Jez, the turning heads as I walked into the offices, or maybe it was the black velvet card lying dormant in the bottom of my bag. “We have no fucking money, and until she stops spreading herself around bars and nightclubs, and starts doing a bit more promo, she can just make do with whatever we can afford to give her.”
I felt Carlos’s eyebrows rise, and many a sarcastic comment swallowed. I had to hand it to Jez who, even though I barely knew him, had triggered a chain of events that, oddly enough, had all begun with my hairdryer. I’d simply dressed reasonably nicely and washed and dried my hair, and now, suddenly I was standing up to an artist who’d previously held me captive with her ridiculous demands and entitled behavior.
“For what it’s worth,” Carlos said, a genuine smile forming on his face. “I think it’s about time we stood up to this girl. I have high hopes for Ayda, you know. It won’t be long before Cherry isn’t the star of the label anymore; she’ll have to eat some humble pie.”
“Exactly. Speaking of which, is Sheridan around today? I need to speak to her about the launch of Ayda’s next single. I’ve got such high hopes for this one; I really want all the stations to play it like crazy.”
“She is. I’ll send her in,” Carlos replied, standing up. “And I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. Her first single went down a storm—everyone’s on tenterhooks for the second. She’s going to kill it.”
* * *
I satdown on the bench beside Sheridan who was eyeing my Caesar salad with suspicion.
“Everything ok?” She asked.
“What do you mean?” I was still buzzing from the meeting we’d just had with Publicity about Ayda’s next release. I hadn’t felt anything like it for over a year. It reminded me of why I loved the industry so much and made me wonder why I’d let a petulant pop star like Cherry ruin all that for me.
“You’re eating, for a start. And more to the point, you’ve actually stopped and sat down for the event. I’m impressed.”
“I’m having a good day,” I said, cracking open the take-out box. “It may not last, so don’t get too used to it.”
It still felt alien to me to be feeling so positive, and I refused to commit to the idea my mood had been enhanced merely because I owned a damn hair dryer.
“Carlos told me about Jez’s prophecy…”
“Motto,” I corrected. “It might be a load of crap, but it made me stop and think.”
“Well, fantastic, I say. Make the most of it,” Sheridan smiled, as she tucked into her pasta salad. We’d walked across to Central Park and were sitting overlooking the boating lake. It always felt so weird to me that there was a giant green sanctuary right in the heart of the world’s biggest skyscrapers. Because I would always be a tourist in a way, I probably marveled at these things more than most.
“I have a good feeling about Ayda’s single,” I said.
“Me too. We need some good luck; I really think this is finally going to put us on the map.”
“It will have been a long time coming,” I sighed.
“Tell me about it. You deserve some success, you know,” Sheridan’s voice was stern. “You work so hard. Although, I do sometimes question where you focus most of your attention…”
“Cherry… I know. That’s changing,” I assured her.
“I’ve worked for many people, and you are by far the most committed, and the most passionate. I mean that.”
I set my salad down on the bench and gave her a giant hug.
“I’m not just saying it,” she continued, as I squeezed her tighter. “I hate that the board gives you so much grief, and you take it, every time, like an ox. It wasn’t so bad when Alex was still here but since he left, I’ve noticed how much harder they are on you. You’re so resilient. I would have left a long time ago if I was you. I know your day will come, if only those dicks in suits would cut you some slack.”
“That means a lot, Shez,” I said, resting my head on her shoulder. She wasn’t exactly like a mum to me, but she was certainly a welcome maternal presence in my life since I’d left England to start over in New York. “I miss Alex. I still don’t know what happened to him.”
“I expect he’s having a well-earned break before taking another CEO job somewhere quieter.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Alex won’t go for quiet. He loved music. He was out gigging right up until he left, which is why I still find it weird he’s gone. And without a trace, too.”
“He’ll show up again at some point, I’m sure. In the meantime, we’ll have a new CEO to impress soon.”
“Hmm,” I wasn’t looking forward to that. Alex had always championed me. It was his idea to turn me from a mere talent scout into the vice president of a brand new label. He’d coached me through my early days of poor numbers and was always there if I needed advice, or a shoulder to cry on, or just someone to make me laugh until tears rolled down my face. We were friends, Alex and I, which made it even harder to understand why he’d fallen completely off the radar.
“Work aside, I do think you should get out a bit more,” Sheridan said, patting my head as though I were a pet poodle. “I know I keep saying it but, look at you today; you look great! You need to show yourself off more, meet some guys, have a few dates. Anything to give yourself something to live for other than work.”
I sighed and released her, picking up my salad again, only suddenly, I’d lost my appetite.
“I know I sound like a broken record, but this Jez guy knows what he’s talking about. If you carry on doing what you’re doing—just coming into work, fighting fires then going home or to the bar to drown your sorrows every night—nothing’s going to change. And I know you want it to. You wouldn’t have made this effort today if you didn’t. I bet you feel good, don’t you?” She grinned.
“A little,” I admitted, begrudgingly.
“I won’t bug you about it anymore, but just, for me… will you think about it? You’ve made a start, but you’re not getting any younger. I should know. Finding a man in your forties is a hell of a lot harder than finding one in your mid-twenties.”
“Late twenties,” I corrected her. “I’ll be twenty-seven next week.”
“Ach,” she spat. “It’s mid until you reach something-nine, in my expert opinion.”
* * *
We finished our lunch,or rather, Sheridan finished hers while I pushed mine around its take-out box with a fork, then we walked back to the office on Madison. After a morning of meetings and mayhem, I was thankful to have the afternoon to myself to read through paperwork, sign off contracts, and check through our budget reconciliation. But my mind, for the first time in a long time, insisted on wandering.
I’d been knocked for six by everyone’s reaction to me looking half-decent, and I felt empowered by standing up to the spoiled Cherry Tatum, and boosted by the forthcoming release by my favorite act—another one I’d spotted and nurtured myself—Ayda. I thought about all these things, and one thing more: the little black card that sat anything but quietly in the bottom of my bag. It had been calling out to me all day and I’d steadfastly refused to succumb to its velvety allure.
I forced myself to read through the last of the papers Marla had laid out on my desk, then I reached down to pull the offending creature out of its hiding place. I held it up and flipped it from front to back. It shared no further information with me, regardless of how much I willed it to. All that it revealed was the name of a place I still had no idea about, a telephone number, and a code that supposedly self-combusted in almost twenty-four hours.
I looked over my shoulder to check I was alone—another old habit that wouldn’t die—and picked up my cell. Before I could talk myself out of it, I dialed the number on the card and held the phone to my ear.
Rrrrrrring.
If it rings more than three times, I’m hanging up.
Rrrrrrring.
If no-one answers by then, it wasn’t meant to be.
Rrrrrrring.
Thank Go—
“Decadence Concierge. How may I help you?”
Fuck. Hang. Up. Now.
My hand was frozen. It wouldn’t compute. My brain had stopped communicating to it. I was having a stroke.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“Um…” My voice had also disconnected from my brain. My body was staging an intervention. “Yes, thanks. I have a card. Um… with a code.”
Shut up. Shut up. Shut uuuuuup.My brain was screaming.
“Congratulations, ma’am. Welcome to Decadence. I just need to take a few details from you…”
Her voice was as velvety as the card which was still poised between my fingers laughing hysterically at me. But I felt instantly soothed, as though I was going to be safe in her hands. I wasn’t going to be sold into sex slavery, after all.
“Can you read out the code from the back of the card?”
“Um, ok, it’s S9ZEH,” I said, my voice breaking with adrenalin.
“Ah, I should have guessed. That was Sienna, one of our most experienced recruiters. She knows exactly what type of clientele enjoys our offering; if she chose you, you have definitely made the right decision by calling us.”
“Hmm,” I muttered, thinking back to ‘Sienna’ and her cruel words. Seeing you every night like this makes me fucking sad. If she really did have a sixth sense about what I would like, she had a damn funny way of showing it.
“Ok,” the velvety woman continued. “I’m going to explain who we are but only briefly. We are a highly exclusive organization and if you’re interested in taking this further you’ll need to come in and meet with members of our board and sign a non-disclosure agreement before signing up to become a full member.”
“Ok…”
“Decadence is a private member’s club, the emphasis being on the word private. If you’ve tried to google us, you’ll have found nothing, and that’s how we like it. In fact, if the search engines ever pick up even a sentence about us, our lawyers will rapidly shut down the offending source. So, you can rest assured that no-one will ever know who we are and what we do, without our express consent.”
She paused to allow me to digest what she’d just said, not that the whole thing made any more sense. She’d said a lot in a couple of minutes without actually telling me anything.
“We operate an identity policy which extends from non-disclosure of personal information between members, to facial coverings. So, no-one will ever know you are in any way connected with the club and its activities.”
My mind was reeling now. “Facial coverings?”
“Yes. Not only for your personal privacy, but many of our members say it enhances the pleasure they receive when interacting with other members.”
I gulped. “P… pleasure?”
“Yes,” the voice said, confidently, with a reassuring smile that reached down the phone line. “I like to describe Decadence as a dating agency that allows anything but dating.”
“You’ve lost me,” I said, not disclosing exactly how long ago she’d lost me, which was approximately as soon as she’d answered the phone.
“We provide a secure and luxurious venue where handpicked clientele can meet other carefully selected individuals, in safe, private surroundings where they can express themselves freely without worrying about any repercussions or impact on their daily lives.”
My mind was still reeling. I had no idea what she was saying through all the delicately chosen words.
“Express themselves?” A venue? Meeting other members? No repercussions? Finally, my brain seemed to lock the pieces together. “Is this a sex club?”
“I can’t give out any further information over the telephone,” she said, and I could still sense her smile, but she wasn’t denying it. “I want to assure you that everything that happens under our watch is consensual, enjoyable and not available with this level of privacy and security anywhere else in the world. We pride ourselves on maintaining a service that has kept members coming back year after year ever since they first joined. Our members are high net-worth, impeccably mannered, extremely respectful, and incredibly well-maintained. If you join us, you will never find out who these individuals are—they will never know who you are—but you will be free to enjoy their company in a setting that values your safety and anonymity above everything else.”
I felt my spine hit the back of my chair and the air slowly seep out of my lungs. If someone had brought me this proposal a few years earlier, I might have given it some thought without feeling as though my legs were about to crumble. But the last four years had eaten into my confidence, my esteem, my soul. I really didn’t think I had the balls to do it. Just as I was about to say so, the woman spoke again, this time quietly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she almost whispered. “I was hesitant when I got the code. I wasn’t in a good place. I was strung out, miserable, single and institutionalized. I didn’t really trust anyone. I couldn’t understand why some random stranger had supposedly offered me this way out I couldn’t refuse.”
“So what changed your mind?” I asked, intrigued and desperate for something to relate to.
“Well, getting the code made me realize how empty my life was. I went home that night and swallowed twenty-eight sleeping pills and half a bottle of vodka. It was a lame cry for help really, which was ironic since I had no-one to cry to. When I woke up the next day and saw the note I’d written on the back of the card, I realized I could either take a chance on this thing, or finish myself off properly. I chose the former. And believe me when I say this… it was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.”
“How?” I pressed.
“I can’t tell you any more right now, but I really hope you’ll take a chance on this. Let me make you an appointment to come in and see us. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
I decided she was either genuine, or the Oprah Winfrey of salespeople. If she was the former, maybe this was exactly what I needed. If she was the latter, at the very least I might be able to learn some skills that could help me resurrect my rapidly decaying business.
I could sense the woman holding her breath. I took a deep breath of my own and renewed my grip on the phone. I took one last look at the card, then at my screen, then at the four walls around me—walls I’d gradually become sick to death of seeing—then squeezed my eyes closed.
“Right,” I said, slapping the card onto my desk. “I’ll do it.”