Page 19 of I Would Die for You

“Now, look as if you belong here,” says Amelia, as they walk toward a top-hatted doorman helping a woman out of a white Rolls-Royce.

Cassie pats down her poodle perm and pushes her shoulders back, but every part of her feels like a fan, and every doorman of every hotel in London must be able to spot one. It’s their job, when they have as many high-profile guests as they do. But the girls somehow manage to slip past as the doorman is busy unloading luggage from the trunk, only for Cassie to risk giving herself away when she stops, stock-still, in awe of the opulence inside.

Ornate pillars hold up a double-height ceiling hung with ten-foot-wide chandeliers that send shadows dancing across the polishedcheckered floor. Sumptuous green velour armchairs sit in front of dark mahogany paneling. Even the guests seem to move around as if they’re in a 1950s movie.

“Close your mouth,” laughs Amelia, as she confidently makes her way toward the lift.

By the time they arrive at the Royal Suite on the fifth floor, the party is in full swing. Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” is blaring from the boombox, and trendy people dressed in mohair knits and baggy pinstripe suits are making the room look effortlessly cool. Cassie pulls at her shocking-pink shirt self-consciously and wishes she’d worn something edgier.

“Do you want a drink?” asks Amelia, with a nod toward the row of boxed wine taking up the entire length of the oversized dining table.

Cassie nods absently, feeling like she’s outside of herself, looking in. This must be a mistake, a wind-up, because this doesn’t happen to normal people—to people like her.

Her attention is pulled back into sharp focus when she hears the indomitable voice of Michael, Secret Oktober’s drummer, booming from across the room. He’s always the most vocal of the group, the first to answer an interviewer’s question, the one seemingly without a filter.

It had got them into trouble more than once, when he’d questioned the need for a monarchy right before a concert for the Prince’s Trust and commented that the borders between San Francisco and Britain needed to be closed if we wanted to stop the spread of AIDS in our country.

Luke and Ben had jokingly passed it off as a need for attention from a natural extrovert who had inadvertently been forced to hide behind a drum kit, saying that being in the dark, at the back of the stage, didn’t come easily to someone who was clearly born to be a frontman. “Hence he feels the need to be seen and heard when he’soff-stage,” Ben was quoted inThe Sunthe next day, by way of apology.

“Did we just smash Wembley, or did we just smash Wembley?” yells Michael now, balancing precariously with one foot on the back of the three-piece suite and the other flailing for traction on the bookcase. “Does anyone have Duran Duran’s number so I can tell them how it’s done?”

The room concurs with whoops and cheers, but the flunkies will no doubt be brown-nosing Simon Le Bon this time next week.

Michael grins inanely as he shakes a magnum of champagne. “So, who’s with me? Who wants to get this party started?”

People instinctively back away from him, knowing what’s coming, but with little space to fill, there’s nothing they can do to avoid the foam spray. A girl in a tight flesh-colored vest rushes forward and holds a glass up into the air, as if she’s hoping to catch some of the bubbles. But all it serves to do is soak her top right through, exposing her braless breasts, as she screams in faux surprise.

“Micky Delaney, I’ll get you for that,” she shrieks, looking up at him.

“Not if I get you first,” he says, jumping down and planting a kiss on her champagne-soaked lips.

“Who’sthat?” Cassie asks, somewhat indignantly. Michael may well be her least favorite member of the band, but she still doesn’t want him to have a girlfriend.

“That’s Kimberley Banks,” says Amelia bitterly. “A model, supposedly.Sheseems to think they’re seeing each other, buthesays it’s just a casual hookup whenever they’re in the same room.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” says Cassie dejectedly, the girl’s ample assets making her feel immediately inferior. “So is Ben with someone too?”

Amelia laughs. “There’s no shortage, as you can imagine, but he’s a little more selective than Michael—though that’s not saying much.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” wheezes Cassie when she sees Ben coming out of an adjoining room with his arm around a girl wholooks like she’s just stepped out of the pages ofEllemagazine. With her glossy brown hair and legs that go up to her armpits, his taste in girls is obvious, and Cassie shrinks into herself as if to disguise the fact that she is the polar opposite.

“Hi, Ben, can I introduce you to my friend Bella?” purrs Kimberley, putting a territorial hand on his chest, much to the chagrin of the girl standing beside him. “She works with me and is a huge fan.”

Bella giggles inanely as Ben takes hold of her hand and brings it slowly to his lips. “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure,” he says, charm dripping off every syllable.

“You wereamazingtonight,” she pouts, her eyes drinking in every part of him. “You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. I saw you in Birmingham last year and thought it was the best gig I’d ever seen, but tonight…?” She shakes her head from side to side and blows her cheeks out. “Tonight, you knocked it out the park.”

Cassie is unable to tear herself away from the pantomime playing out in front of her. If nothing else, the sycophantic display of cheap admiration teaches her hownotto be, if she were ever to have a proper conversation with him. The fawning and stroking of both his body and his ego is so uncomfortable to watch that she’s embarrassed for him—and even more embarrassed for the girl, who wouldn’t give him the time of day if he were stacking shelves in the local supermarket.

“Well, thanks,” he says.

“My friend’s having a party on the other side of town,” she continues, looking at him hopefully. “If you wanted to skip here?”

Ben considers the proposition and Cassie wills him to say no, though what purpose that will serve she doesn’t know. She’s dreamed of this moment and was convinced that if it were ever to happen, it would be the best night of her life. Except, now that she’s here, it somehow feels like it would be less painful to be at home, in blissful ignorance, than to remain a wallflower who will never be noticed.

“I need another drink,” she says, pressing the tap on the side of the wine box that is thankfully within reach.

“Hey, Curly, you’re looking a lot better than when I last saw you.”

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