Page 17 of Bad Star

Chapter Nine

When Jack got homehe opened a bottle of wine and slumped down in the sofa. Very soon he was on the harder stuff.

“Well, Jack, you imbecile,” he said to himself, the words filling the empty house. “Well done.” He raised the glass to the image of himself in the mirror. “Well done,” he repeated. “You took the one innocent, sweet thing in your life, the one thing that hadn’t all gone to shit and you defiled it.”

He walked around the house as if in conversation with someone unseen.

“The one thing that might have saved you, and you fucked her. Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He put the glass down on a table and wiped his brow.

“And what will she think of you now? She think you are a freak. A dirty freak.”

Jack poured himself another drink. “And she’d be right about that. Because that’s what you are.”

He picked up his phone and dialled. “Well,” he said, “you’re a freak, might as well hang out with the freaks.”

“Talking to yourself, stranger?”

“Chelsea,” Jack said. “How’s my freaky-pie?”

“How’s your new girlfriend?”

Jack laughed. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Didn’t I tell you, it was just some PR thing.”

“You said taking flowers to the hospital. I didn’t realize you had to bag her too.”

“Come on! Seriously? Can you imagine me banging that sack of spuds? You know you’re the one who’s got what I need.”

“Well, Jackie-boy, I’m afraid things move on.”

“Oh, shit,” said Jack. “You’re not out with some half-wit footballer, are you? You know he’ll only get you home so you can see who’s got the best leg waxing.”

Chelsea laughed. “He is kind of dull. But I’m not sure what you’ve got to offer me anymore.”

“Ask your boyfriend what a sugarloaf cabochon sapphire is. Don’t bother, he won’t know. But there’s one waiting for you here.”

“Interesting. Anything else.”

“Some first-class cocaine and outrageously good sex. Hop in a taxi.”

Jack put down the phone and took another gulp of his drink.

It was only twenty minutes before Chelsea rang the doorbell. She must really want that sapphire, thought Jack and climbed down to his cellar for a bottle of champagne.

It was polite of her to ring when she could have just let herself in. Still, she wasn’t a bad girl, not a bad girl at all.

When he came back up she was standing in the kitchen. Damn, thought Jack, she looked good. She looked like a young woman should.

“How do you keep your skin looking so good?” he asked for no reason.

“Clean living.”

“Clean living,” repeated Jack, swaying slightly. “What’s that?”

Chelsea laughed like honey. “You’re drunk,” she said. “Good.” She looked at the bottle. “I hope that’s good champagne.”

“What do you know about champagne?” he asked.