Rising Star – 4

Lilly and I were sitting on the floor, resting against each other’s back. “How was Bertie?” I asked. “Fucking useless. Came in his pants poor love. I hardly touched him.” Knowing Lilly as I did that was probably enough to make anyone cum. “How was Ros?” “I don’t know.” “Don’t know?” But I’m getting ahead of myself. I had it all, nearly. I was almost famous, fairly wealthy, more work was being offered and by most standards, I was now a successful actress. I’d done a film in which I had played a rather sinister Russian spy called Anastasia Lenkov and that had been very well received. But, and there’s always a but, I was still miserably single. I’d come home to England, leaving the madhouse that is Hollywood for a while to recharge my batteries and, I hoped, get a bit of stage work. Felicity, Flick Caterham, my agent, had sent her right-hand girl Hattie out to run her American agency and it was doing really well. Hattie had been replaced by another of Flick’s beauties, a woman of about thirty. A product, like me, of a private school but, like Hattie, Phoebe was tall, svelte, elegant and absolutely gorgeous. Flick only employed classy beauties on the basis that the industry was run mainly by males and her ‘girls’ helped keep clients loyal. “The trouble with stage work,” said Flick one day over a glass of champagne in her office, “is that it keeps you from doing other stuff for too long and doesn’t pay nearly as well. Films are far better. You can make more money, keep making money and it keeps your profile up.” “Maggie Smith and Judi Dench do both.” “Yes, darling, they do but then they are A-list plus.” Meaning I wasn’t which, of course, was true. “Now, that said, I might just have a little tickle that could appeal. Chesty Morgan,” Chesty was a director of stage and television and known as Chesty because she had a large rack like the porn star after whom she’d been named. “She’s doing a tv series for the Beeb and there’s a part in I think you’ll like. For some reason she likes you and she came to me.” “What’s the part?” “The role is a barrister, works criminal cases, high profile and does a lot of prosecution work, mainly murders and serious crimes.” “That’s a change.” Flick pressed a button and spoke on her intercom. “Phoebe, get that delicious arse in here. Another bottle of bubbles, a glass for yourself and the outline of Chesty’s tv series.” Flick had no idea what ‘please’ meant. “How’s Hattie getting on?” “Wonderfully well. She spends most of her time schmoozing at my expense but it pays Beşevler escort bayan dividends. It seems American men cannot resist her.” Nor, I thought, could I. Enter Phoebe, stage right and presented the series outline to me then opened the new bottle as I read it. “So, this barrister is a serial killer.” “Right up your alley, I’d have said, wouldn’t you, Pheebs?” Phoebe dutifully nodded, the cork popped and her delicious chest wobbled enticingly. “I was a bloody assassin in the film.” “And very good you were too, everyone says so.” “Am I destined to be a murderer for the rest of my career?” “Look, this is big budget, class and it’s already funded by the BBC and a Yankee consortium. It’ll sell all over the world and you’ll cop a wonderful fee, plus repeats, and so shall I! And, don’t forget, you get to wear the lawyer’s robes and wig. You’ll be a global gay icon.” I snorted derisively but Flick was on her way and nothing would divert her. “This is a fucking brilliant part for you and if you don’t take it you’re a bigger tit than Chesty’s left one.” The truth was that I’d worked with Chesty before and liked her, trusted her so, needless to say, I said yes. I spent a few nights in my apartment in London then went down to my house in the country. It was quite large and I had a permanent staff of housekeeper and gardener/driver. The former was a woman called Mrs Glenn, about fifty-five, motherly and efficient, the latter an ex-Royal Marine known as Chalky White, still hard and fit. He too was about mid-fifties and like an uncle to me. The house was in good shape but somehow empty. I called Flick’s sister, Lilly, my best mate ever and she immediately invited me to a party. Lilly was a determined party-er, she had an insatiable appetite for men; married, single, gay, straight; as long as they had money, a functioning penis and looked moderately decent, Lilly was up for it. “Oh, darling, it’s so good you’re back. I want you to come to my summer selection party. I’m between men and I need to choose someone new so I am throwing a bash and inviting hundreds. Women too, so you can have a gander and see if there’s anything takes your fancy. One, in particular, I just know you’ll love.” Lilly made matches like other women make cakes. “She’s not an exotic I’m afraid, rather horsey and county in fact, but she is gorgeous, as bent as a dough hook and recently lost her last mount.” “Lost how, Flick, did she leave her on a bus?” “Hush. To a rich Australian woman. They Escort Çankaya went down under for a few months and it seems her bird fell for a lady sheep farmer or some such and cut loose. Rosalind was heartbroken for about three hours but you know these horsey types, get back on as soon as you can!” I couldn’t help laughing. “Rosalind? My God. You are a wonder, do you ever stop trying to set me up?” “My mission will be complete when you are in the rose-festooned cottage with the woman of your dreams. Anyway, glam up, darling, it’s evening frocks and you’ll be such a welcome addition. A bit of showbiz talent always raises the tone.” As I dressed for Lilly’s party I thought back over previous occasions. Lilly had introduced me to the lovely Indian doctor at a party a long time ago when she, Lily that is, had been celebrating a wonderfully lucrative divorce from her first husband. She, the doctor, had very nearly been the one. Life, I thought, can be a cow. I ‘glammed up’ as Lilly had said; long, red evening dress that barely covered my tits, not that they were likely to fight their way out of it; regulation underpinnings and a pair of heels that made me about five-foot-eight-inches, adding three inches to me. My hair had been cut short for the Lenkov role and I’d liked it so kept it. I checked myself in the mirror. Best I can do, I decided and went downstairs where Mrs Glenn stood with Chalky waiting for me. “Oh, Miss, but you look wonderful, doesn’t she Chalky.” “She surely does, Mrs G.” Chalky had donned his Marine uniform for his role as chauffeur and bodyguard. I strongly suspected Mrs Glenn (I never called her anything else) held a bit of a candle for Chalky. “Right, come on then. Once more into the breach and all that. Lilly Caterham’s parties are not for the faint-hearted!” Chalky opened the car door outside Lilly’s impressive porch and I swung my legs out and made my way up the three steps to the huge oak door. It opened as if by magic. There stood Lilly. She looked, as always, fabulous. Like her sister, Lilly is a force of nature and she took my arm and began her usual barrage of words. “Rosalind can’t wait to meet you. You’re my guest of dishonour, darling, and don’t forget it. My guests are all desperate to meet my famous best friend and they will fawn and grovel at your feet. Nice shoes by the way. Bertie Foreman is my main target tonight, he runs a hedge fund, whatever that is, and is stinking rich. I’ve got a couple of backups in case he turns Cebeci escort out to be impotent. What is a hedge fund? Larry Porter is here, remember him? He sold you dope in that pub near the school and has taken holy orders. He’s a fucking bishop now. Let’s hope fucking is still on the agenda.” And so on. She gabbled all the way into the main room where her revellers were gathered. Nobody noticed us, so engrossed were they in each other. Lilly grabbed me a glass of champagne then pointed to a man across the room. “Bertie. Isn’t he simply gorgeous?” “Go and ruin the poor bastard, Lill. I’ll find my own way from here.” “That,” she said, pointing to a tall woman of about forty-five, brown hair, slender and wearing a calf-length dress of silver and blue that did nothing to conceal a great figure with splendid breasts, “is Rosalind. She’s right up your street, darling. Go and impress.” With that, she was off, waving her hand distractedly over her shoulder at me as her arse wiggled seductively towards her target. I stood, almost relieved that she’d gone, she can be so tiring, bless her. I took in the room and recognised a few people including Larry Porter, the former drug supplier and apparently now a bishop. He was wearing a dog collar and a black evening suit. “Hi, Larry, remember me?” “Fucking hell, Faye Millerton! How marvellous.” I smiled. “Not terribly episcopal language, Larry.” “I’m off duty. You look fantastic.” “Still flogging dope?” “Christ, no. I’ve gone straight. Whereas, according to Lilly, you haven’t?” “Hardly. Are you married?” “Nope. I decided to keep myself single. You’d be astonished how many women like a bloke in the old clerical garb. Some of them are under ninety too, which is a bonus.” “Not tried the laying on of hands with Lilly?” “Way out of my class, Faye. Anyway, Bishops don’t make enough money for her needs. I rather think Bertie Foreman is the rabbit currently caught in her headlights, don’t you?” It certainly looked that way. Larry suddenly smiled over my shoulder. “Lady Connors, Rosalind. Do you know Faye Millerton?” Rosalind extended her hand to me. “We haven’t met but I loved your latest film, I’m a big fan.” “Thank you so much. I love your dress.” “What, this old thing?” She laughed. “Do people actually say that anymore? I love it and it cost me a fortune. Not my thing really, a bit girly for me but I decided I’d be a lady tonight.” “You’re always a lady,” said Larry. “I may be a lady with a capital L, Larry, but I’m not always a lady.” She looked into my eyes. “If you get my meaning?” “Oh, I think so.” I wondered if Lilly had told her I’d had a few flings with butch girls. “Let’s get a drink?” I followed her, watching her arse move under the slinky dress. She stopped by a table laden with drink and food and handed me a glass. “You, I am told, are single.”