Once I was fully made-up, I drank a glass of wine while standing at the kitchen sink. These kind of parties don’t start until late, and I didn’t think being stone-cold sober would be comfortable. The event I went to is run by the son of a peer of the realm. He’s been in the papers many times, promoting his debauched club nights, but he is much more low key about this side of his work. I only knew he was involved because it’s held in the same building tucked behind Regent Street which his company is registered to. It makes sense. Entertain the rich and beautiful at your parties, and watch them. Find the ones who still seek more, whose eyes glaze over at the dancing and the champagne on tap. They have everything they want but they want more. A discreet black calling card, with a website address embossed on it, handed to them with the enormous bill. Exclusive, the card signals. For those who require something extra. It’s a good spin-off for the Hon Felix Forth. He knows those clients. He is one himself. I’d submitted my application and waited for three weeks for a reply.
When I finally got one, it was simply a pop-up invitation with the date and the venue. Nothing else, no welcome or instructions. I guessed I wasn’t supposed to email back asking whether to bring my own ball gag, so I did what any millennial would do, and googled it. From the three places I’d looked into, this one was the most exclusive. The reviews on a site called Sleeksexperts spoke smugly of how hard it was to get an invite （I think I’d proved that wrong）， how opulent the venue was and how ‘dark’ things could get. Everything was vague and infuriating, but it was clear that if I was looking for a place where serious kink was encouraged, then I was on the right track. More than one person said that they’d never been able to indulge in such serious depravity before, which came across as strangely mundane on a review site modelled to look like a TripAdvisor knock-off.
I had no way of knowing whether Lee would be there, but it didn’t matter much. I was mainly going to see what the limits were at these gatherings. He liked choking, he told me. But was that a brag, designed to make him seem more edgy than he really was, or did he truly indulge in walking that precarious line between life and death? And if so, did these parties allow him to do it, or did he have to carry out his practices in discreet hotel rooms where nobody could ever interrupt or disapprove?
I took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked the rest of the way. I’ve always liked walking around the city. When I was younger and the Latimer house got too much for me, I’d tramp around Hampstead Heath for hours with their old dog Angus, letting my thoughts float around, moving in and out of my head with each step. Nothing can stick in my brain when I’m moving. That’s why I love running. I can get away from my obsessional thoughts, disconnect from the plans I’ve made, quieten down the urge to hurry and get on with it all. If I didn’t have that time, I think I’d have been weighed down to the point of inertia by the business of my brain.
I got to the venue at 11.45 p.m. Late enough not to look unduly keen and be prey for the prompt and the sleazy, early enough not to walk in and confront sex within seconds. If the Chinatown bar was the last-minute budget airline ticket of erotic parties, then this was a private flight. Complete with free drinks. And free nuts obviously. The vast double doors were opened from the inside by a woman wearing a dress which looked suspiciously like something Chanel sent down the runway last season. I stepped onto marble floor, and ahead of me a grand iron staircase split in the middle, sending you up to a palatial entrance room where a man in a tuxedo and a black mask covering his eyes silently offered champagne from a salver. He held up an identical eye mask made of flimsy black silk, which I assumed was mandatory. Once on, I smoothed down my hair and went into the main room, which was already teeming with bodies, the vast windows behind them giving a view over the shop lights of Regent Street. I briefly wondered how sexy it was to be able to see the Apple store as you came to orgasm before I realised rich people are exactly who would find that erotic.
I drained my glass and took another one from a woman dressed like she was going to a black-tie charity ball, and walked the perimeter of the room. There were three people stroking each other’s arms to my left. I saw one woman kissing another as a man in a bowtie inched towards their faces, keen to join. The carpet was so thick my heels sunk low into it with each step. The stroking and kissing was boring. The masks were slightly cheesy. If I was going to be out this late, I might as well see some action.
I went towards a door draped in black fabric, which took me into a hallway with several other doors leading off it. The rooms had names, which I could just about see in the dim light. They must have been offices for virtuous Victorians at some point. Now they had signs which told you that you were entering ‘The Playroom’。 Still, we don’t have consumption anymore, so that’s progress, I guess.