Sheri took in her reflection in her bathroom mirror and almost cried. Her eyes looked tiny, surrounded by dark hollow circles no amount of concealer would hide. Her hair extensions needed to be redone – the bleached-blonde hair imported from Russia cost a fortune and chunks had fallen out, taking some of her lank locks with them. She looked as bad as she felt. Last night had been a new low. A paparazzi contact had told her where Justin Timberlake was staying – the Landmark hotel in London – and she had hot-footed it along to nurse a bottle of white wine in the bar. After a couple of hours, around midnight, Justin had come back from whatever party he’d been at, then walked straight past her and headed to his room. The boring bastard. Just as she was about to leave, a guy offered to buy her a drink. Sheri was pretty sure he wasn’t famous, but he was wearing a Rolex so she agreed. Then he was joined by a woman who told her – when he’d nipped to the toilet – that she was his escort for the night. He was hoping Sheri would join them.
Dressed in a shocking-pink PVC miniskirt and cut-off white vest top which barely covered her boobs, Sheri wondered if they’d mistaken her for a hooker and prepared to tell this tart where to go.
‘We’ve got plenty of coke, enough for a top night,’ the woman – Sheri guessed she was in her late twenties to early thirties – told her.
Sheri could think of nothing better than hoovering up a few lines. She needed it after the crap end to the night. She deserved it.
And so she followed the tall Scouser with dark hair and a square jaw, who was wearing a wedding ring and introduced himself as Patrick, to a room in the hotel, along with the woman, who was called Tasha. She had peroxided hair with split ends and later told Sheri her four-year-old was at home with her own mum, who thought she was out on a date.
Sheri asked for some coke before they got started.
After a couple of lines, as well as the bottle of wine – and the champagne Patrick had poured – Sheri felt invincible.
When Patrick told her he wanted to do all sorts of things to her and Tasha, Sheri told him he could do anything he goddamn wanted – after all, the coke was seriously good stuff.
And now here she stood the afternoon after the night/ morning before, remembering what she had done in return for multiple lines of gak. Patrick had tired of straight sex pretty soon. As he whipped out another bag of the white stuff, Sheri agreed to anal. She had agreed to everything – kissing Tasha, oral with Tasha. And now she felt dirty, used and sore. What’s worse, she was broke and no matter how much charlie Patrick had given her, his lack of fame meant she couldn’t sell the story. He’d given her £300 in cash when she left but that wouldn’t go far; she owed her dealer £2,000. How the fuck was she going to pay for her extensions? She might have to ask Envy to cover her half of the rent this month. As she felt the familiar onset of comedown palpitations, she knew one thing for sure.
She had to find a celebrity. Quick.