But night-time was the best time to find my wayward uncle. The more I saw of his twilight world, the more I wondered if he ever made Andrew accompany him on one of these jaunts. It would explain a lot about why my cousin fled for the frogs. After a few nights following the car but never actually going into the establishments that Lee frequented, I took the plunge. I never attempted to get into the VIP sections of the clubs he visited, it seemed too degrading to tart myself up and try to beguile a bouncer. But the bars were easier, and the Chinatown dives a breeze. I could end up nursing a drink right next to his posse, watching, listening.
The main object was just to be seen, as far as I could tell. Champagne was bought by the bottle, air kisses were showered on young women, men grabbed each other in wrist-wrapping handshakes, jewelled watches throwing patterns on the ceiling. Thirty minutes later, with new people picked up and others discarded, Lee and his crew would head out and on to the next venue. By about 12 a.m., trips to the bathroom would become more frequent, and Lee would start to get lively, insisting loudly that people ‘party’， and trapping his burly mates in headlocks. By the time it hit 3 a.m., I was deathly bored and drinking water. None of them noticed me, I wasn’t a girl that would turn their heads. Not young enough. Not displaying the goods. I would always wear a black trouser suit and a T-shirt, some red lipstick for effort and a pair of heels. The heels were my only concession. If you tried to wear sensible flats to bars like the ones Lee frequented, they’d assume you were some kind of undercover police officer and view you with suspicion.
I spoke to Uncle Lee on my third scouting mission. I hadn’t planned to – nothing rested on getting to know him better – but I figured it would be more fun than watching him down shots and try to dance badly enough that one young model type actually winced and shrugged his arm off her shoulder.
Lee and his posse had gone to a private members club off Berkeley Square in Mayfair, and I headed to the bar opposite, knowing not to try and blag my way into an establishment with red ropes around the door and an old man in a top hat standing guard. I sat at the window nursing a glass of rosé, waiting for the moment the Bentley was brought round, which would signal the next move. The club must have been quiet that night, because the car pulled up outside at 1 a.m. I hurried out of the bar and flagged down a cab, telling the driver to follow my friends who were travelling ahead. The explanation sounded weak, and I cringed internally, but he didn’t bat an eyelid. As expected, we went straight for Chinatown, pulling up outside a venue I’d not seen before. In fairness, it wasn’t obviously a bar. It wasn’t obviously anything. It was a tiny door with no sign or menu, squished between two dim sum restaurants, a place you’d walk past a million times and never notice. I watched Lee and two burly mates buzz on an intercom and push the old door open. Just before the door slammed shut, I got my foot over the threshold and slid behind it. I let their footsteps recede before I followed them, not wanting to bump straight into them on the narrow stairs. The place was dingy, with dark red wallpaper and faded carpet. Everything about it screamed brothel to me, except for the loud house music I could hear coming from above. That gave me the confidence to at least try to gain access. Silence and I would’ve left immediately.
I waited a couple of minutes on the stairwell and then made my way up. The door that met me was a big black fire door, and I pushed it open tentatively. Behind it was a small room, presumably the old reception area for an office, with black lace blinds over the window. Two attractive women of about my age sat on raised stools behind a table upon which were champagne glasses and a bowl of condoms. The women were smiling at me.
‘Hi there,’ said the one with a blunt bob and eyeliner winged up to her brows. ‘Welcome to the Pleasure Parade. Do you have your invitation?’
I have always been able to think fast, without stammering or avoiding eye contact. The trick is to smile and not over explain. This was clearly a sex party. I’d never been to one, but I’ve read enough articles in women’s magazines about the rise of private parties where beautiful people meet up and shag to recognise what was happening here. Vogue had endorsed these gatherings. Why be bashful?
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, putting my hand on the table, ‘I’ve been out in Soho and remembered that this was happening tonight, but stupidly forgot to bring it. I hope it doesn’t matter – Flick said it would be OK.’
The other woman, wearing a headband made of green silk and large gold hoop earrings, looked me up and down and flashed a glance at bob girl.