quite what I'd expected, given that the Mayfair advertised its 'attractive government rates' for American servicemen. I had a hard time picturing George W. Bush in there, visiting the troops. But it was easy picturing Carl and me on that bed. If only the two of us had killed time here before the rocker showed up, instead of going to tried-and-true Rio's.
'Isn't this fantastic?' I asked. I felt slightly ridiculous, voicing what was blindingly obvious.
'Hey, Fran,' VZ shouted through the door to his manager. 'The next time I'm in London, I wanna stay here.'
'I was worried this might happen,' came a low, female been-there-done-that voice from the other room. She was no fool. The suite was £2,500 a night and, although VZ was a star, he was no Mick Jagger or Bono.
The stylist began to pull clothes out of the bedroom wardrobe and, as I chatted with her, VZ brushed past me, managing to run his hands along my ass. Suddenly his flirtatiousness didn't seem as meaningless as I'd assumed. Does he want me, I wondered, or does he just think he'll get more press by being nice?
'That pencil skirt is so damn sexy,' he said, sotto voce.
'Thanks.' I shrugged.
He moved closer and whispered in my ear, 'Are you wearing any panties under that?'
'Of course not. I never wear knickers.' I looked at him and smiled. Never done a rock star before, I thought.
'Let me take a picture,' he said, and grabbed a disposable camera I'd not noticed before. He handed it to the stylist, a blousy brunette who'd landed this amazing job straight out of college, touring around the world and clothes shopping for the band. 'Jen, will you take a picture of us?'
He moved back to the doorway and pointed to a long glass table in the reception room. 'Here.' He turned to me and said, 'Bend over the table.'
'How did you know?' I said. 'My favourite position.'
VZ got behind me and I pushed my ass into his crotch. I felt his hard-on underneath his trousers. I jiggled my behind and flashed a grin. Click.
Whilst VZ and the crew did the shoot, I took a walk. I wanted to give him a little present, figuring a book with a sexy picture and the words 'erotic memoir' on the cover might whet his appetite. Now I wanted him. I picked up a copy at a nearby Hatchards and returned to the hotel just as the shot was wrapping up. VZ had been moussed, made up and dressed up. He'd exchanged his torn jeans for Prada, put on a black single-breasted Nehru suit over a black shirt, and looked every inch the wealthy well known rocker that he was. And sexy.
'I bought you a present,' I said. 'How should I sign it, to VZ or Vincent?'
'Vince.' He seemed impressed I knew his real name. I'd done my research.
'Wow, that's really sweet,' he said, putting his arms around my waist as I wrote an inscription in the book. I reached for my bag and pulled out my YSL Rouge Pur, applied the lipstick, and kissed page one.
'Something to stop you from getting bored on the plane,' I said, handing it over.
'So, why this book? This ... erotic memoir?' The corner of his mouth curled up.
'Because I wrote it.'
'Think you can you get me some weed?' VZ asked, pulling me aside after the last picture was taken. Everyone was in the suite, getting their things together.
I shrugged.
'We don't really need to stick around, do we?' asked the manager.
'No, it's fine,' I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant. 'I think we're all done here.'
VZ changed back into his torn jeans and crumpled striped Nicole Farhi T-shirt. His manager and agent cleared out soon afterwards, as did the photo crew and stylist.
I picked up the phone. 'Sorry to bother you, Carl, but could you spare a little grass?'
I'm a media whore. I've pimped for a dancer who wanted a date with an attractive journalist who interviewed him. I've served as personal shopper to actors who needed something flash to wear. I've run for macrobiotic snacks for Hollywood directors, and cigarettes for practically everyone. And now I was a drug dealer. There was no end to my
'Isn't this fantastic?' I asked. I felt slightly ridiculous, voicing what was blindingly obvious.
'Hey, Fran,' VZ shouted through the door to his manager. 'The next time I'm in London, I wanna stay here.'
'I was worried this might happen,' came a low, female been-there-done-that voice from the other room. She was no fool. The suite was £2,500 a night and, although VZ was a star, he was no Mick Jagger or Bono.
The stylist began to pull clothes out of the bedroom wardrobe and, as I chatted with her, VZ brushed past me, managing to run his hands along my ass. Suddenly his flirtatiousness didn't seem as meaningless as I'd assumed. Does he want me, I wondered, or does he just think he'll get more press by being nice?
'That pencil skirt is so damn sexy,' he said, sotto voce.
'Thanks.' I shrugged.
He moved closer and whispered in my ear, 'Are you wearing any panties under that?'
'Of course not. I never wear knickers.' I looked at him and smiled. Never done a rock star before, I thought.
'Let me take a picture,' he said, and grabbed a disposable camera I'd not noticed before. He handed it to the stylist, a blousy brunette who'd landed this amazing job straight out of college, touring around the world and clothes shopping for the band. 'Jen, will you take a picture of us?'
He moved back to the doorway and pointed to a long glass table in the reception room. 'Here.' He turned to me and said, 'Bend over the table.'
'How did you know?' I said. 'My favourite position.'
VZ got behind me and I pushed my ass into his crotch. I felt his hard-on underneath his trousers. I jiggled my behind and flashed a grin. Click.
Whilst VZ and the crew did the shoot, I took a walk. I wanted to give him a little present, figuring a book with a sexy picture and the words 'erotic memoir' on the cover might whet his appetite. Now I wanted him. I picked up a copy at a nearby Hatchards and returned to the hotel just as the shot was wrapping up. VZ had been moussed, made up and dressed up. He'd exchanged his torn jeans for Prada, put on a black single-breasted Nehru suit over a black shirt, and looked every inch the wealthy well known rocker that he was. And sexy.
'I bought you a present,' I said. 'How should I sign it, to VZ or Vincent?'
'Vince.' He seemed impressed I knew his real name. I'd done my research.
'Wow, that's really sweet,' he said, putting his arms around my waist as I wrote an inscription in the book. I reached for my bag and pulled out my YSL Rouge Pur, applied the lipstick, and kissed page one.
'Something to stop you from getting bored on the plane,' I said, handing it over.
'So, why this book? This ... erotic memoir?' The corner of his mouth curled up.
'Because I wrote it.'
'Think you can you get me some weed?' VZ asked, pulling me aside after the last picture was taken. Everyone was in the suite, getting their things together.
I shrugged.
'We don't really need to stick around, do we?' asked the manager.
'No, it's fine,' I said, hoping I sounded nonchalant. 'I think we're all done here.'
VZ changed back into his torn jeans and crumpled striped Nicole Farhi T-shirt. His manager and agent cleared out soon afterwards, as did the photo crew and stylist.
I picked up the phone. 'Sorry to bother you, Carl, but could you spare a little grass?'
I'm a media whore. I've pimped for a dancer who wanted a date with an attractive journalist who interviewed him. I've served as personal shopper to actors who needed something flash to wear. I've run for macrobiotic snacks for Hollywood directors, and cigarettes for practically everyone. And now I was a drug dealer. There was no end to my
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