Tasmina Perry - Gold Diggers

She crept backstage which, in contrast to the sedate dining area, was a riot of bodies in motion. Tall, skinny models, pouring themselves into primary-coloured bikinis, dressers flapping around with tit-tape, high heels and jewellery. Hairdressers fussing with gels and clips and sprays, make-up artists in a cloud of bronzing powder, their fingers black with kohl. In the corner, seemingly oblivious to all this chaos, reading a dog-eared novel, was Alexia Dark, the supermodel Erin recognized from the cover of this month’s Vogue . In the centre of the action was Madeline Barker, wearing an expensive midnight-blue Lanvin dress. She pulled on her cigarette in between gesticulating wildly at the models.

‘Hi Maddie, how’s it going back here?’ asked Erin, clutching her clipboard to her chest and feeling about four stone too fat.

‘Oh, hi honey,’ said Madeline. ‘Chaos, chaos, chaos, as always.’ She broke off to grab a stunning redhead who was naked except for her tiny pair of white bikini bottoms. ‘Not that one, Jemma! You’re in the forest-green tankini, darling.’

Madeline dropped her cigarette into a half-full flute of champagne and turned back to Erin.

‘Have you seen Karin anywhere?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like her not to be taking total control. We’re on in five minutes and I want her to check she’s happy with everything.’

‘I passed her a couple of minutes ago,’ replied Erin. ‘She seems to be engrossed in conversation at her table.’

‘Engrossed in Adam Gold, more like,’ smiled Madeline.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Erin.

‘Ah, the latest victim,’ chuckled Madeline, then glared at another model. ‘No Alana! You’re behind Mischa, get in line. And what is that necklace supposed to be? A Hoover hose?’

Sensing she was getting in the way, Erin headed back into the main room and went to stand by the side of the stage where she was in shadow. From there she could stand and watch both the catwalk show and the glamorous guests in front of her. She felt like Alice in Wonderland, tiny and confused surrounded by beauty and colour in the magic garden.

Suddenly the lights came down and a loud disco beat started pulsating around the room. Everybody put down their coffee cups and looked intently at the stage, which had erupted in a sea of flashing bulbs and colour. The red-haired model in a deep green bikini strutted onto the catwalk, her hips swaying seductively in time with the music. She paused at the end of the runway, flashed a brilliant smile as the audience erupted in applause. Behind her another goddess emerged, her buttocks peeking cheekily out of a pair of metallic lamé boy-shorts, her breasts barely covered by a strip of mesh fabric. A lone wolf whistle from the crowd said what every man in the room was thinking. The music kept pounding, the girls kept coming. And then finally Alexia Dark stalked onto the catwalk, her black hair flying behind her like a banner, the shimmering lights bouncing off her jewelled bikini and showering her bronzed body in iridescent light. What a finale! thought Erin. What a party!

‘Oi!’ shouted a voice as Alexia Dark was making her final strut back to the stage. ‘Oi you!’

Erin located the voice. It was coming from table twelve, a collection of footballers and their wives ten feet away from where Erin was standing. A girl, no more than eighteen, in a plunging scarlet dress and elaborately coiffed blonde hairdo was waving at Erin and clicking her fingers in the air like a flamenco dancer. Erin recognized her as Natasha Berry, glamour-model girlfriend of Ian Adams, the new Manchester United striker.

‘You! I need a drink,’ slurred the girl, shaking an empty glass.

Erin left the comfort of her shadow and scuttled to the table in a crouch, not wanting to block anyone’s view of the catwalk show as the models all came down the catwalk one last time.

‘I’m not taking drinks orders, I’m afraid,’ yelled Erin over the music. ‘You’ll have to ask the waiter over there.’ She pointed to a handsome dark-haired boy who was distributing coffee and petits-fours on the next table.

‘I want a kir royale,’ said Natasha, who appeared not to have heard. Erin rolled her eyes, knowing it was pointless to argue, and went over to the waiter, a handsome student called Carlo she had met earlier.

‘Sorry Carlo, but I think the lady over there wants a cocktail. Can you get her a kir royale before she takes off with all that finger clicking?’ The waiter smiled and nodded, quickly turning in the direction of the bar. As he went, a shrewish-looking blonde from his table shouted, ‘Hey! You forgot my latte!’

‘Sorry madam,’ said Carlo, ‘I’ll bring you one straight away.’

The music was now reaching a crescendo and Karin Cavendish had risen from her chair to take a modest bow in the spotlight.

What happened next, Erin could see unfolding as if in slow motion. Carlo was making his way back through the sea of tables, his outstretched arm carrying a tray balanced with a flute of kir and a tall coffee, when a man pulled out his chair to stand just as Carlo was walking past. For a second Erin thought that Carlo might be able to sidestep the man, but he was concentrating so hard on keeping the hot coffee from falling that the glass of kir tipped over, falling in an arc onto the next table. Erin heard an enraged cry. An elegant blonde now had kir royale all the way down the front of her white dress, like some vast unsightly birthmark. She cursed and Erin immediately recognized the word – a Russian obscenity – and grimaced. It was Karin’s precious table of high-spending Russian wives. Karin hadn’t missed the commotion; she leapt from her chair and was racing over. Erin got there at the same time. The blonde was now speaking in a fast stream of angry Russian. Erin could understand every word, but it didn’t take a Russian degree to tell what was happening as she snatched up her jewel-encrusted clutch bag. She was about to leave and take all her friends with her. Karin put a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she was clearly in no mood to be pacified by somebody she could not communicate with.

‘Let me speak to her,’ Erin whispered to Karin.

‘What?’ snapped Karin, glaring at her. ‘Speak to her? What do you mean …’

Karin tailed off in surprise as Erin started speaking in fluent Russian.

‘It would be such a shame if you have to leave now,’ she said quietly in the Russian’s ear. ‘You are the most important woman here; without you we really don’t have a party.’

The woman looked bemused, then pleased to hear one of the organizers speaking to her in her mother tongue.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ coaxed Erin. ‘We have another outfit backstage and you will look fabulous. Look, nobody has seen what’s happened. Everybody is watching the show.’

She led the blonde, who had now introduced herself as Irina Engelov, backstage, leaving Karin looking completely dumbfounded.

Shit, shit shit, thought Erin, desperately looking round at the racks of bikinis. Of course there were no spare outfits – it was a bloody swimwear show! She could hardly send Irina back out in a hot pink swimsuit. She spotted Madeline talking to a group of models.

‘Quick, Maddie, you’ve got to take off your dress,’ said Erin urgently.

‘What?’ said Madeline. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Erin. The show’s still on.’

‘Do as I say and I’ll explain later,’ pleaded Erin, handing Madeline a towelling robe.

Madeline looked at Erin, and, seeing the desperation in her eyes, quickly nodded.

‘Okay, but I’d better bloody see it again,’ she grumbled, wriggling out of the blue dress. ‘It’s Lanvin, you know.’

‘Maddie, you’ve just saved the day,’ said Erin, grabbing the dress.