Page 115 of Guilty Pleasures

‘This is one fucking-awesome party,’ said Tom, taking a vodka shot from a passing tray and knocking it back. It was Sunday afternoon and in front of his eyes two hundred of Ibiza’s most beautiful people were partying around a huge, turquoise, infinity pool, as if it was their last day on earth. In Tom’s direct line of vision were two world-famous music producers, a hip Hollywood actress, and a smattering of West London socialites in various stages of undress. Roland Gonzalez, the white-hot techno DJ was at the decks watching as Alexia Dark, the supermodel, was thrown into the pool by an Eighties rock star whose face was so rigid with cocaine, he couldn’t even laugh.

The party was being held at the sumptuous villa belonging to Miguel Cruz, one of the richest men on the island. He was the owner of both the Desire nightclub and Sugar, the small Ibiza Town bar that Tom, Jamie and their other business partner Piers had commandeered for the summer.

‘Of course it’s awesome. It’s the last weekend of the season,’ replied Jamie distractedly, smiling over at a six-foot pneumatic blonde wearing a feathered head-dress and a tiny, gold, sequinned tunic. ‘Shit, check her out, Tommy. I think she wants me.’

‘Uh, I think she is a he,’ laughed Tom, trying to keep himself alert with another vodka shot. He couldn’t believe that he was going back to England at the end of the week. It had been a glorious, fun-filled summer; his bar had closed the night before and what a send-off it had been. Tom and sixty of his new best friends had drunk the bar practically dry and he’d celebrated by spending the night with Peaches, the Sugar Bar’s stunning promotions girl, resulting in only two hours sleep before coming to this party. Piers, the third partner in Sugar and Spice Productions came striding around the pool. Dressed in long white Bermuda shorts and a stripey Hackett T-shirt that did little to disguise his girth, he was fiddling anxiously with the signet ring on his little finger.

‘Whatsup?’ asked Jamie tipping his sunglasses onto the back of his head.

‘Miguel wants to see us in his office,’ said Piers, frowning.

‘Fine. Sure. Right,’ said Jamie. Curious, Tom studied his face and was concerned to detect the same level of apprehension in Jamie’s manner.

‘What’s going on, guys?’ asked Tom.

‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ said Jamie, ‘Completely fine. Miguel probably just wants to sign some paperwork or something.’

But Tom caught the look that passed between Jamie and Piers and it did nothing to reassure him that Miguel wanted to clear up some admin. They looked scared.

They were led away from the pool and into the house by a besuited bald-headed man and through to an expensively furnished study, with long shutters opening onto a terrace on the other side of the house. Miguel Cruz, an impressive-looking man with a hooked nose and wiry grey hair, remained seated sat behind his desk when they entered the room, while the bald guy waited silently by the window, his hands folded in front of him. Tom felt as if he had been hauled in front of the headmaster. Miguel picked up a document from his leather-topped desk and considered it for a few moments.

‘I have in front of me the accounts for the Sugar bar and the Spice nightclub,’ he said finally, looking at each of them in turn.

Not one for small talk then, thought Tom, feeling hot in spite of the cool mountain breeze blowing in through the shutters.

‘I see Sugar and Spice Productions has made a a340,000 loss.’

‘What? How can that be?’ asked Tom, completely floored by the news. He took a step forward to try and peep at the papers in front of Miguel. ‘But I did a bloody booming trade all summer!’

Jamie pulled him back and Tom saw the look of fear on his friend’s face. Jamie and Piers were responsible for the accounting. Tom had given the books only the vaguest look. His administrative responsibilities had amounted to no more than cashing up at the end of the week and banking the proceeds. He knew that the Spice club hadn’t been delivering the sorts of crowds that Jamie and Piers wanted, but a340,000 in debt! – they must have been haemorrhaging money. Where had it all gone?

‘We’ve a heavy outlay to get established,’ explained Piers nervously. ‘Publicity, alcohol, venue refurb and so on.’

‘I’m sure,’ smiled Miguel, ‘Many clubs have the same problem in the first season. I’m sure it will be better next year. However, it is in the terms of the contract that you must settle the balance within 28 days,’ Miguel added coolly.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Jamie confidently. ‘Perhaps we can talk again later in the week?’

‘No need,’ said Miguel taking a sip from his crystal tumbler of water. ‘Deal with my business affairs manager Carlos as you have already been doing.’

He stood up and walked to the shutters. ‘Now I suspect young men like yourselves would rather be out by the pool rather than in here with me.’

The three men stepped outside and into the strong September sun. They were all subdued; Miguel’s calm acceptance of their explanation had been far more unnerving than if he’d shouted and made threats. When he was sure they were out of earshot of the office, Tom turned on his friends.

‘Three hundred and forty thousand? Where the hell’s all that gone?’ he hissed angrily.

‘You heard Piers,’ said Jamie. ‘It cost a fortune to refurb the club, I mean the barstools alone! Ostrich doesn’t come cheap you kno

w.’

‘But that much? Miguel must have been screwing us on the booze. I knew we shouldn’t have let him supply us.’

‘You were the one who signed for most of the drink,’ replied Piers tartly.

‘That’s because I was the only one who sold any!’

‘Don’t be a cock, Tom,’ said Jamie, ‘I was there when you took that delivery, remember? Do you have any idea what they were loading into your cellar? Did you check the paperwork? No – you were too busy sniffing around the tart in the mini-skirt!’

‘Sod off, Jamie! I worked my arse off…’