Flared bandage dress – Herve Leger
Steel band choker – Coco-de-mer.com
Patent Stilettos – Christian Louboutin
Black bob wig – Camden Market
Slightly too much foundation – Mac
Barren wastelands for ovum – Model’s own
I did 5 more laps of the hotel room before caving and wedging an entire packet of nicotine gum between my cheeks. I was utterly fucking nauseous with nerves. Fortunately for my dress’s sake, teenage bulimia had left me with the gag reflex of a 60 yr old Battersea prostitute.
In approximately 7 minutes time I would be en route to a private party in Chelsea hosted by my friend Alex -a rather well known British male model I met when I was 15. Who happened to have gifted me multiple orgasms.
Flora, I honestly don’t know why you’re so bloody worried, getting wasted and shagging someone happens all the time. Hell, the poor girl I woke up with last Sunday did me the pleasure of pointing out my nose looks ‘ever so slightly like a bell end.’ The gorgeous wench. Needless to say, someone didn’t get her toast soldiers buttered both sides that morning. Besides babe, you could probably seduce a fucking used condom with your manner, take it as a compliment. Now look, party starts at 11, next Friday, dress theme is Sex, Drugs and Rocks Through Your Window -you still got the address written down, yeah? Call if you’ve got any problems finding venue, A xx
Yes, well how about you wake up at 6.45am to a distinctly unresponsive penis grinding against your left thigh. I looked out of the hotel window down onto the aseptic hipbones and bad sex bait shuffling past Kensington Gardens on the street below. There was something rather homely about the groggy taxi horns and faint sexual leers the capital perspirated in the evening. And not a bottom in a 500ft radius.
My blackberry went off. Taxi. I leapt for my clutch, checked cash, my long suffering mirror and swifly threw back my (approx.) 19th vodka and orange, before a cymbal crashing performance of how to baste your own minimal cleavage in alcohol. Well done, fucko. Fortune wanks up my tweed nightdress and hits me in the eye once more.
* * *
‘This is a travesty,’ Alex declared, peeling my fingers from my empty glass before flamboyantly leaning over the bar and helping himself to an opened bottle of something expensive. ‘Now, let’s think.. surely there’s one you ain’t heard of..hmm, ‘ow about the time I spiked the Bollinger Rosé with GHB so that ballbag from Razorlight looked even more shitted than usual when he went to pick up his NME award?’
The first thing I was reminded of upon arrival inside the venue was something between a cartoon warning children on the dangers of smoking and the BP oil spill. Models in silk and pvc bondage outfits twisted around guests, offering cocktails before slipping off between great cascading black drapes. Iggy Azalea – Pu$$y was thumping from somewhere behind the bar.
‘Yes ..mother of..yes, darling, because you made me flipping record it, I was there!’ I did a double take as a woman in black latex leggings and leather nipple tassells, holding a board of champagne wove around us. Please don’t let me die here. The plan was I was going to pop it drinking moet and smoking Richmonds to the sound of my neighbour finding dogshit smeared under his car door handle. Not this! We agreed! My soul for the Jimmy Choos! I threw back another drink -in my mind stemming the venereal diseases I’d be picking up simply via inhalation tonight.
Now, I don’t go wimp eyed and watery nosed when bad things happen to me but I confess, as I sat on that toilet looking down at my vomit stamped Mcqueen clutch between my feet, fully aware that at some point before the year is over I will actually have to leave my current lavatorial safe house, and return to the great heave of plucked areolas and failing nipple tape, I did feel a little bit shit.
By the time I returned to the main venue lounge, the place was utterly heaving. I spotted Alex standing on the bar with his hand in his crotch, brandishing a cigar from his fly.
‘Is he retarded?’ A young beige haired woman uttered next to me.
‘Sadly not retarded, no. Well. Not exactly.’
‘Then what?’ I gave her a solemn glance. I was versed enough in the fine art of botoxed facial-deciphering to recognise she was, with applaudable effort, ruthlessly grinning.
‘He’s incredibly rich.’
* * *
So that was an interesting start to the weekend. But I had a life to get on with. And not even that party would prepare me for the horror in the week to follow.