Page 44 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘We were both getting a bit tipsy by then. I asked her whether her husband was a good lover. She said he was good technically, but he was selfish, and that once he’d had his fun, he fell asleep. And that’s when I knew I had her. We needed each other. We were both fired up. It was so erotic playing under the blanket while the other passengers were asleep. And that rush…’

Damien looked at Claudia, his eyes drawing her in. ‘Feeling each other’s heartbeat rise.’ Just thinking about it, Damien was up there with the gods flying.

‘And then the calm,’ he said. ‘We held each other and kissed. Intimate strangers who would probably never meet again.’

In LA he said the starlets had clamoured for his glamour. An endless queue of pretty misses were ready and willing to allow him any pleasure he wished, and basking in their adorationhe’d had no hesitation in taking all he could. TV chat shows, meetings with moguls eager to option the book, movie-star parties. Damien loved the glitz.

‘What better than to be an Englishman abroad? Especially in America, Claudia,’ he said.

Next there had been a quickie in Miami. He made small talk and signed books in the day and in the evening after dinner, to satisfy his appetite further, Damien paid a visit to the 10 Den, his favourite haunt. It was a downtown dive where the girls rocked and rolled on poles, fake breasts harnessed in leather straps, shimmying their perky-thonged bottoms in the air and inviting guests who sat on the periphery to flutter banknotes on their favourite body parts.

Sweaty men laughed and leered while their women, some dressed like Arkansas housewives, wearing high-necked frilly milkmaid frocks with their hair held neatly with plastic barrettes, patted the girls’ bottoms with the green notes, in exchange for a cheap thrill.

Damien, among the diverse clusters of night owls milling and drinking, spotted a pretty girl who took his fancy. Yes, she was ready for his pleasure.

Then he went to New York, where there was a more serious affair. A Manhattan party in the Museum of Modern Art.

A cool brunette with her hair slicked back in a ponytail, wearing a black polo neck and jeans, slid up to him.

She looked like a fifties beatnik. Damien liked her style.

‘It’s such a pleasure to read a thriller that digs deeper into the characters,’ she said. ‘I find your empathy with the somewhatdeviant villain very refreshing. Exploring the grey areas always draws me in.’

‘I find it more interesting than writing stereotypes.’ Damien noticed she had a serpent wrapped round a rose tattooed on her index finger.

‘The symbol of temptation?’ he said. ‘But you look so sweet.’

‘Yes, we all have our dark sides,’ she replied, and gave him an impish look. ‘Anyway, I would love you to sign my book.’

‘Of course. Your name?’ He took out his gold pen.

‘Desiree.’

‘Beautiful.’

‘…and perhaps after the party you might like to come to a nightclub in the village.’ She was enjoyable. He’d go.

When they arrived, the smell of dope hit him. They sat and smoked a spliff and danced close, and afterwards she took him back to her place. She was great, and for once Damien was happy for her to take charge.

‘My reputation as a lover almost matched that of writer,’ he said to Claudia with just a hint of conceit. ‘When I arrived back in London, Laura was beside herself. Everybody seemed to know about my peccadilloes. I said I was sorry, that I knew I’d been a bastard but… did she expect me to live like a monk? And that’s when she told me we both needed therapy. And I said, “Whywe? There’s nothing wrong with me.” She begged me. “Maybe,” I said to placate her, but I knew I wasn’t going to go. I spent nights and days away from her. Lied to her. My capacity for deception was immense. I slept with a different woman every day. Sometimes two or three.’

***

Sadly, the long weekend in Venice that Nicholas had planned was a washout.

He’d booked a suite at the Cipriani Hotel and, as luck wouldhave it, that first night whilst he and Sophie were sitting on the terrace sipping aperitifs, entwined, her head on his shoulder, his arm round her neck, they were observed.

Charles Lane, an art dealer whom Nicholas had known for years, came and sat at the table next to them. A few moments later he was joined by a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair and honey-brown eyes. She wasn’t his wife, either.

The two men smiled at each other, but neither spoke.

‘Who’s that?’ Sophie asked as she sipped her Bellini. ‘He looks dangerously attractive.’

‘Someone I’ve met a few times at auctions. Now just drink up and let’s go.’ He swigged his whisky down and caught the waiter’s eye.

‘The bill,’ he said without his usual smile.

Sophie hadn’t seen this side of Nicholas before. The silky charmer had disappeared, replaced by a stony-faced stranger.

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