A Pretty Penny

A struggling screenwriter, moonlighting as a driver for a high-end escort agency, is sent to collect a girl from an upscale London hotel. When she doesn't show, complications arise.

Written by Hash Rifai

I pulled up outside the Jumeirah Carlton hotel in Knightsbridge fifteen minutes early and with enough time for a quick cigarette. I stepped out of the car, zipped up my jacket, placed a Marlboro Gold between my lips, and lit it. It was a cold and crisp October night and the kind of night when I most enjoyed smoking. Inhaling in the warm smoke and exhaling out into the cold night air, the feeling was meditative.

Knightsbridge was quiet at forty five minutes past midnight. The only signs of life were the three Arab men stood outside the hotels entrance also smoking and every so often a sleek black chauffeur driven car would purr past.

In the quiet of the night and with my synapses firing I thought about a scene I had written earlier that day and where to take the story next.

I checked the time on my phone: It was five to one. Chloe would be down soon. I took one last drag of my cigarette, flicked the butt and stepped back into the car, turning the heaters on to full blast.

Fifteen minutes passed but Chloe had yet to appear. I wasn’t concerned. The girls would often freshen up with a shower after an appointment, keen to rid themselves of the remnants of bodily fluids. Showers were only foregone when the girls were desperate to escape a clingy or weird client.

But fifteen minutes soon turned to half an hour and then I grew concerned. I took out my phone and called Elle. She answered after a few rings.

‘Hello, London’s Leading Ladies,’ came Elle’s soft voice.

‘Elle it’s me,’ I said. ‘I’m waiting for Chloe outside the Jumeirah but it’s been half an hour and she hasn’t come down yet.’

‘Have you called her?’ asked Elle.

‘No. I don’t have her number,’ I replied, ‘Thats why I’m calling you.’

‘Alright, let me call her. I’ll call you back.’

Elle ended the call. I focused on the hotel’s entrance keen not to miss a sighting of Chloe.

Elle called me back a minute later.

‘Yeah hello,’ I answered.

‘It’s Jimmy,’ came a deep baritone voice.

Jimmy Lagos was the proprietor of London’s Leading Ladies, a high-end escort agency, and my boss. I’d been working for him as a driver for almost six months. Desperate to find a job that I could work around my writing, I came across an ad for a driver on Gumtree. The hours were twilight and the pay was cash in hand. It was perfect. My job was to drive Jimmy’s girls to and from appointments.

‘Hi Jimmy,’ I said.

‘Elle’s not answering her phone,’ said Jimmy, ‘And neither is the client.’

‘Ok what shall I do?’

‘Go to the room and knock on the door. Find out whats going on.’

‘Ok.’

‘Call me back.’

‘Ok. Wait! I don’t know the room number.’

‘Elle,’ said Jimmy, ‘Room number?’

‘The Royal Suite.’ I heard Elle say.

‘The Royal Suite,’ Jimmy repeated to me.

‘Got it.’

Jimmy ended the call. I remained sat in my seat feeling ill at ease. These were uncharted waters. I was a driver, not muscle, but I psyched myself up by reminding myself of the silver lining, and as a writer the silver lining was always the same: the promise of new material. So I stepped out of the car and headed for the hotels entrance.

The doorman, a short, portly man, with a thick bristle moustache, smiled as I approached.

‘Good evening sir,’ he said politely, as he held the door open for me.

‘Good evening,’ I replied.

I stepped into the heavily perfumed hotel lobby, my nostrils assaulted with the scent of rose and bergamot. The lobby was quiet, save for a lone man behind the check in desk typing something into his computer. I lowered my gaze and walked with feigned confidence towards the lifts at the far end of the lobby. Keen to pass without arousing suspicion, assuming the man knew the faces of his guests. My passing went undetected.

I arrived at the lifts and pressed the call button. The reflective golden doors of the middle lift parted and I stepped inside and studied the console. There were nine floors in total. Intuition told me that the Royal Suite would be located on the top, so I pressed nine. The doors closed and I began my ascent.

The doors parted on the ninth floor and I was greeted by a sign directly opposite pointing me to the direction of the Royal Suite. I followed the arrow, walking down a plush carpeted and dimly lit corridor, towards a set of double doors at the far end. My nerves jangled as I approached. The corridor was vacuum still.

I reached the wooden double doors, beside which hung a plaque that read ‘The Royal Suite’. Carefully, I placed my left ear against the door to see if I could hear any voices, but all was quiet. I took a deep breath, raised a fist, and knocked three times.

I listened out for the sound of footsteps. Nothing. I allowed for a respectable amount of time to pass before I raised my fist to knock again, but before I could, I heard the sound of someone approaching. And then, very slowly, the door opened.

For reasons legal in nature, I cannot name the man who was stood in the doorway dressed in a fluffy white Jumeirah Carlton emblazoned dressing gown and nothing else. What can be said about him is this; he is one of the most famous and most recognised actors of our generation. A man with numerous accolades to his name, including an Oscar, and a body of work that encompasses some of the most iconic films of the last three decades. From this point on I will refer to him as J.B. The initials of a character he played in one of his most critically acclaimed roles.

‘Yes?’ said J.B, staring at me with wild eyes.

‘Hi,’ I said, completely starstruck. ‘I’m uhh…I’m looking for Chloe.’

‘Who are you?’ he asked, narrowing the gap between the door and the frame, and glancing nervously over my shoulder.

There were drugs in his system, that much I was certain.

‘I’m her driver,’ I replied.

‘We’re uhh…we’re done yet.’

‘Oh right. Umm, she was meant to done by one?’

‘Yeah well I decided to book her for the night,’ he said.

‘Oh ok,’ I said, and then paused not knowing what else to say.

‘So you’re not needed,’ said J.B, filling the silence. ‘You can go. Thank you.’ And he closed the door.

I remained rooted where I stood and soon found myself smiling. Talk about material. I turned and walked back to the lifts, still smiling and thinking to myself, of course J.B used escorts.

Stood by the lifts, I called Elle and gazed out of a window that overlooked Cadogan Place Gardens. A dark rectangle of nothingness at that hour.

‘Hello, London’s Leading Ladies.’

‘Yeah Elle, it’s me,’ I said, ‘Apparently Chloe’s been booked overnight?’

‘Has she?’ replied Elle, ‘I don’t think she has. Who told you that?’

‘The client,’ I replied, ‘By the way do you know the client is?’

‘No?’

I told her.

‘No fucking way?’ She said.

‘I swear to God. I just spoke to him.’

‘I’ve got Ryan Conrad here,’ said Elle, ‘And also she hasn’t been booked for the night. Two hours is what’s been paid for.’

‘That’s what he told me.’

‘Alright, let me talk to Jimmy,’ said Elle, ‘I’ll call you back.’

Elle ended the call and I replayed the encounter with J.B. He was much shorter he was in person. His presence on screen was grand and I’d always assumed that he was a tall man. But having now met him I corrected my assumption and allocated him a height of five foot five. He also looked a lot more haggard than photos suggested. Deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead.

My phone vibrated in my hand. ‘Yeah?’ I said, answering the call.

‘It’s Jimmy.’

‘Hi Jimmy.’

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Well after I spoke to you,’ I said, ‘I came upstairs, knocked on the door and J fucking B answered.’

‘Was Chloe there?’ asked Jimmy, seemingly unbothered by the fact that a major Hollywood star was a client of his.

‘I didn’t see her,’ I replied, ‘It was only him who came to the door. And I couldn’t see into the room.’

‘What else did he say?’ asked Jimmy.

‘He asked who I was,’ I replied, ‘I told him I was Chloe’s driver and that I’d come to pick her up. That’s when he told me that he’d booked her for the night and that I’m not needed.’

‘Have we definitely only been paid for two hours?’ Jimmy asked Elle.

‘Yeah.’ I heard her reply.

‘Alright, wait there,’ Jimmy said to me, ‘I’m coming. I don’t care who the fuck you are, payments come through us.

‘Ok,’ I said.

The call ended.

I made my way back down to the lobby and as I passed the check in desk, my eyes met the man stood behind it. He smiled at me warmly, and I nodded politely and smiled back. My Arab features had clearly worked to my advantage.

Outside, I stood beside my car puffing on another cigarette and scrolling though J.B’s Wikipedia page. The career bits were of little interest to me and I scrolled straight to the Personal Life section. Here I learnt that J.B was a seasoned bachelor. He had dated some of the most beautiful women in the world, models and actresses, but had never spent more than two years with any of them. How strange. Here was a man who could get any woman he wants, but instead chose to keep the company of escorts. It reeked of sex addiction. I read on and learnt that J.B was a former alcoholic who had been teetotal for over a decade. That figured. Most, if not all addicts, have a tendency to replace one addiction with another.

I heard a car pass in front of me and I looked up to see Jimmy’s blacked out Range Rover pull up outside of the hotels entrance. I knew he wouldn’t be long. The office for London’s Leading Ladies was located on the second floor of a three story building on Beauchamp Place, less than a five minute drive.

I flicked my unfinished cigarette and made my way to his car as he stepped out, phone to his ear. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

‘Jimmy,’ I called out.

Jimmy turned, saw me and ended his call. My phone stopped vibrating.

‘I was just calling you,’ he said, as the valet handed him a ticket.

Jimmy Lagos was an imposing man. He stood tall at around six foot three and was broad shouldered, muscular but lean. Impressive for a man who I figured was in his mid to late forties. His closely cropped hair and beard peppered with grey, but it was a sign of aging that did not extend to his face.

‘Let’s go,’ he said to me.

The doorman held the door open for us and we stepped into the lobby.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Jimmy.

‘This way,’ I replied, leading the way.

We walked past the check in desk and this time I could feel the sustained gaze of the man stood behind the desk. Jimmy was an imposing man, but he was also black, and in institutions such as luxury five star hotels, racism had a tendency to seep out like an ugly poison. We were however, left undisturbed.

‘Still nothing from Chloe?’ I asked as we approached the lifts.

‘No,’ replied Jimmy.

I called for a lift and again the middle lift parted its door. We boarded and I pressed nine.

‘What’s the plan?’ I asked as we ascended.

‘To get paid,’ replied Jimmy, staring at his reflection in the golden doors. ‘He can have Chloe for as long as he likes, and as long as she’s willing. But he has to pay me for that privilege.’

We arrived on the ninth floor.

‘This way,’ I said, stepping out first.

I led Jimmy towards the Royal Suite, feeling somewhat excited in anticipation of whatever was about to unfold. More of that sweet writers material.

As we approached the door, we heard footsteps behind us. We both turned to see a big, burly and thickset man walking towards us. He was carrying a large, black canvas suitcase in one hand and blue plastic bag in the other. His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he approached.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the man. He spoke in a gruff American accent.

‘Who are you?’ asked Jimmy, eyeing him up.

‘Don’t worry about who I am,’ replied the American, placing the suitcase and plastic bag down on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to find out where my girl is,’ replied Jimmy.

‘Your girl?’ asked the American.

‘My girl. Chloe. Works for me. Last seen at this address.’ Jimmy pointed at the door of the Royal Suite.

‘She left,’ said the American.

‘She left?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When did she leave?’

The American paused. ‘About an hour ago.’

‘She left about an hour ago?’ asked Jimmy.

‘That’s what I said,’ replied the American.

Jimmy nodded slowly. I sensed, that he sensed, there was fuckery a foot.

‘Alright,’ said Jimmy, after a long pause. ‘Open the door anyway. I want to chat to your boss. Ask him how the service was.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said the American, clasping his hands in front of him in a defensive stance. He was wearing a tight navy suit. Too tight for a man of his build.

‘I ain’t asking,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m telling. Open the door and call your boss.’

‘I need to ask you both to leave,’ said the American, stepping forward.

‘Mate you don’t want this,’ said Jimmy, ‘Trust me. Open the door and let’s keep this civil.’

‘I need you both to leave. Now.’

Jimmy let out a disappointed sigh, and in a flash, reached behind him and whipped out a small calibre pistol tucked in his waistband. He aimed the weapon low at the American. My heart thumped furiously as I stared at the gun, adrenaline gushing through my veins.

The American unclasped his hands and raised them. He took a slow step back, his wide eyes darting between Jimmy and the gun.

‘Open the fucking door,’ ordered Jimmy, with surprising calmness.

The American nodded without protest and very slowly reached into the breast pocket of his blazer

‘I’m just going to take out the key card,’ he said.

Jimmy raised his weapon slightly.

I quickly looked up and scanned the ceiling for cameras. But there were none, and I wondered if Jimmy had already known this before his ballsy move.

The American took out his key card and then knelt down to pick up the suitcase and plastic bag. Jimmy and I moved to the side to allow him passage to the door of the suite. He walked up to it and tapped the keycard against the doorknob. The LED light flashed green and he turned the handle and opened the door. We followed him in.

With the pace of a funeral procession, we emerged into the living room. The suite was decorated in the style of a Parisian apartment; wall trims and herringbone floors. Abstract art hung on the walls, and the space was lit with warm light from various lamps dotted around the room.

J.B was sat in an off white armchair, sipping something from a whiskey glass. The liquid was clear and given what I had read earlier, I suspected it was water.

‘Did you get what you needed?’ he asked, gazing absently at the floor. He took another sip from his glass and then looked up. He spotted me and Jimmy. ‘Who are these…’ And then he spotted gun. ‘What the fuck!’

J.B sat bolt up right, eyes darting between the three of us.

‘J.B,’ said Jimmy, ‘Big fan.’

‘Who the fuck are you?!’ stammered J.B, ‘Who the fuck is this?!’ staring wildly at the American.

The American shook his head, wearing an expression of defeat, and slowly placed the suitcase and bag down on the floor. Jimmy observed his movements carefully and then turned to J.B.

‘Where’s Chloe?’ asked Jimmy.

‘She…uhh…she…she left,’ replied J.B.

‘She left? That’s not what you told him?’ said Jimmy, nodding in my direction.

J.B looked at me and then returned his scared and nervous eyes back to Jimmy.

‘So I repeat,’ said Jimmy, ‘Where’s Chloe?’

J.B said nothing. He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and looked at the American, eyes pleading for help.

Jimmy moved towards J.B, and on instinct, the bodyguard moved towards Jimmy.

‘Stay there,’ said Jimmy, pointing the gun at the American.

The bodyguard halted his advance and stared venomously at Jimmy. Satisfied that the bodyguard would heed his words, Jimmy turned his attention back to J.B.

‘I’m waiting for a fucking answer,’ said Jimmy, slowly approaching him.

‘Please,’ pleaded J.B, staring at the gun and moving deeper into the armchair.

‘Where is Chloe?’ asked Jimmy.

My eyes were locked on the bodyguard. He had the look of a predator waiting for the opportune moment to strike, and so I had taken it upon myself to make sure that I would alert Jimmy if and when the time came.

I noticed that when Jimmy posed his question to J.B, the bodyguard's eyes flickered to the far end of the suite.

I followed his eye line to what I assumed was the bedroom. I then looked back at him and he was looking straight at me.

‘Jimmy,’ I said.

‘What?’ replied Jimmy, his focus still on J.B.

‘Over there,’ I said.

Jimmy turned to me and I pointed to the bedroom.

‘I clocked him looking in that direction,’ I said, nodding at the bodyguard.

The bodyguard stared at me with a clenched jaw, the muscles in his cheek pulsating.

‘What’s over there?’ Jimmy asked J.B.

J.B remained silent, eyes still fixed on the gun.

‘Get up,’ said Jimmy.

J.B remained seated.

‘Get the fuck up!’ said Jimmy, raising his voice for the first time.

Slowly, J.B raised himself from the armchair.

‘Move,’ said Jimmy, signalling the direction with his gun. ‘You too,’ he said to the bodyguard. ‘Move.’

We followed J.B and the bodyguard towards the bedroom. The atmosphere was charged. Something ugly had happened in the suite. You could feel it.

We entered into the master bedroom. The curtains were drawn and lying in the centre of an emperor sized bed was a figure wrapped in thick rope. I couldn’t see her face but I knew immediately that it was Chloe. I knew that hair. That dyed jet black hair that lay still against the white sheets.

‘What the fuck,’ whispered Jimmy, as he took in the sight. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ he hissed at J.B and the bodyguard.

Jimmy approached the bed. ‘Chlo?’. There was no response. ‘Chlo?’ Jimmy repeated. Still no response. He gently adjusted her head so he could see her face. The expression on his face relayed bad news. He then placed two fingers against her jugular and felt for a pulse. After a long and anxious silence, Jimmy stood, a face of rage and seemingly growing in stature, he marched towards J.B, grabbing him by the lapels of his dressing gown.

‘What the fuck have you done to her?!’ Jimmy hissed, shoving his gun under J.B’s chin.

’I…I don’t know,’ replied J.B, quivering.

‘What do you mean you don’t fucking know? Why the fuck is she tied up like that?!’

‘Shi…shibari.’

‘What?’ spat Jimmy.

‘Shibari,’ repeated J.B

‘What the fuck is shibari?!’

‘It’s a…its…its Japanese bondage,’ whimpered J.B.

‘And that powder around her nose? What the fuck is that? Is that coke?’

J.B shook his head.

‘Then what the fuck is it?!’

‘Ket.’

Jimmy raised the gun and smashed the butt against J.B’s nose, three times by my count. He let go of J.B’s lapels, and J.B fell to a crumpled heap on the floor, clutching his nose with both hands.

‘Put the gun down,’ said the bodyguard, holding his hands up in a show of peace. ‘You’re not going to discharge it, so put it down and lets talk.’

Jimmy stared at him, saying nothing. And then, calmly reached into the breast pocket of his black bomber jacket and pulled out a silencer. A fucking silencer. I felt dizzy.

‘You’re right,’ said Jimmy, screwing the silencer onto the barrel of the gun. ‘I wouldn’t discharge it. Not in a confined space like this. Not without a silencer. Too much noise.’

The bodyguards eyes widened. Jimmy pointed the now silenced weapon at the bodyguards left foot and fired two muffled shots. The bodyguard cried out and fell to his ass on the floor. Startled, I raised my own hands and ducked my head.

‘What the fuck!’ screamed the bodyguard, staring wildly at his foot.

‘You’ve been pissing me off for a while now,’ said Jimmy, ‘And you fucking lied to me you cunt.’

The bodyguard backed up against the wall, his shaking hands hovered around the two bullet holes in the vamp of his thick black boots.

I put my hands down and slowly returned to a normal upright posture. J.B had stopped whimpering and was staring at Jimmy and the recently discharged weapon. His face a wet sheen of blood and tears.

Jimmy raised the gun and aimed it at J.B.

‘Please, please, please!’ J.B pleaded, sinking further towards the ground.

‘Do you know what that girl meant to me?’ said Jimmy.

‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed J.B, ‘Im sorry. It was an accident, I swear to you. I didn't mean to kill her.’

‘You tied her up and gave her ket!’ spat Jimmy.

‘I’ve done it so many times before with other girls. I don’t know what happened this time! I swear! I don’t know!’ J.B placed his face in his hands. His sobs were that of confusion and deep regret. ‘I don’t know.’

While that was happening, I glanced at the distance between me and the doorway, wondering if I should make a run for it. Yes Jimmy was my boss, but the man was clearly unhinged. And the longer I stayed in the room, the more complicit I became. But, I had to resign myself to the fact that I was not faster than a moving bullet. I had a vision of Jimmy pumping two into my back had I made the attempt. So there I remained, cemented to the spot.

Jimmy lowered his gun, walked to the foot of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. He turned and looked at Chloe with deep sorrow.

I was sad too. I’d driven Chloe to a fair few of her appointments and in that time I’d got to know her relativity well. She loved to chat. I learned that she’d been with Jimmy a long time, one of his first girls. He plucked her from some seedy strip club in Leicester Square and offered her the opportunity to make some real money at a new agency he’d set up to offer high-end clientele the girlfriend experience. Not only would she earn more money, he told her, but the experiences would be more pleasant. No longer would she have to sit on the laps of sleazy bankers and perverted cab drivers. Instead, she would be taken out to nice restaurants and lavished with expensive gifts by men who just wanted some company. She would show off her gifts to me whenever I picked her up; designer bags, expensive shoes and glittering jewellery. Chloe always spoke highly of Jimmy. He looked after his girls she would say, and they were loyal to him because of it. I understood then why Jimmy was acting the way he did. I think he felt like he’d failed Chloe.

‘What was your plan?’ said Jimmy, breaking the silence and turning to face J.B.

J.B looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face a mess. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What was your plan?’ repeated Jimmy, ‘Before we got here, what were you going to do?’

‘We were…we were going to get rid of the body,’ said J.B, with the honesty of a man no longer able to hide behind lies.

‘How?’ asked Jimmy.

‘We were going to put her in a suitcase and…and throw it in the river.’

Jimmy closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Fucking Americans. What, you think this is the movies? Just casually throw a body in the river? This is central fucking London. There’s CCTV everywhere. Was this your idea big man?’ he said, addressing the bodyguard.

The bodyguard stayed quiet and gave Jimmy a dirty and glowering stare.

‘Calm down,’ said Jimmy, ‘It’s only a foot. Consider yourself lucky. I usually go for the knees.’ Jimmy then turned to me. ‘You alright?’

‘Yeah,’ I replied, quickly and nervously.

Jimmy nodded. He then took out his phone and typed something.

‘You’ve done alright for yourself,’ said Jimmy, looking at his phone. ‘An Oscar, a BAFTA.’ He began typing again. ‘J.B net worth.’ He waited for the result. 'Wow, you’re worth a pretty penny. All that from acting?’ He looked up at J.B, but J.B didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the floor.

‘Look at me,’ barked Jimmy.

J.B slowly raised his head and looked at Jimmy. Jimmy then stood, opened the camera app on his phone and began recording a video. He walked up to J.B and aimed the camera at his face, and then he aimed it at the bodyguard. He then turned and approached Chloe and recorded her lifeless body. The look of sorrow returning to his face as he did. He then stopped recording, put the phone back in his pocket and turned to J.B.

‘Alright here’s whats going to happen,’ said Jimmy, ‘And I want you to listen to me very carefully. You’re going to transfer me ten million pounds. An affordable sum considering you’re worth over a hundred. And if you don’t, the video I just took will make its way to the Daily Mail or TMZ. And I’d be very surprised if it isn't the top news story around the world given your class of celebrity. Understood?’

I couldn’t help but be impressed. Ten million pounds! There was no way out for J.B. Jimmy had his balls in a vice like grip.

‘Do you understand?’ said Jimmy, raising his voice and his gun.

‘Two,’ replied J.B, flinching.

‘What?’

‘I’ll give you two.’

‘Two million?’

J.B nodded.

‘No. You’re in no fucking position to negotiate here. No position. I’m the one setting the price and the price is ten. Understood?’

J.B closed his eyes. He looked exhausted, and slowly, with his eyes still closed, he nodded.

When Jimmy started recording the video, I suspected that blackmail was to follow. And at the mention of ten million pounds, I suddenly got excited. Maybe I too had the opportunity to profit from this situation. A situation in which I currently had everything to lose. Here I was, stood in the Royal Suite of the Jumeriah Hotel, with my boss, a pimp, who I’d just witness shoot a man, whilst the body of a dead prostitute lay only feet away, killed by one of the most famous men in the world. A man, as it so happens, was one of the most powerful figures in the film industry. The very industry that I had been desperately trying to claw my way into. But seven years, four screenplays and hundreds of rejections later, I was no closer. However, in the midst of the fuckery that I found myself in that night, and with Jimmy having set the precedent for blackmail, I saw an opening.

‘Can I…sorry…can I just add something,’ I said.

All eyes in the room turned to me.

‘I’m uhh…i’m a screenwriter,’ I said, addressing J.B. ‘I’ve written a few screenplays, but it’s been so difficult trying to get any of them produced, and God knows I’ve tried. Unsolicited submissions, two words I’ve come to hate. Anyway, one in particular I think you would really like. I think its right up your street. Would you consider reading it?’

At first there was no reaction from anyone. But then, as my words settled in, Jimmy slowly smiled. A proud twinkle in his eye. J.B however looked confused, and the bodyguard, well, he looked pale and uninterested.

‘You trying to blackmail him too yeah?’ asked Jimmy, still smiling.

‘I just want him to read it, thats it,’ I replied, and then I addressed J.B. ‘If you like it, you like it, if you don’t, you don’t. I think you will though. I think you’ll like it.’ I added.

‘I rate the hustle,’ said Jimmy. ‘So J.B, you going to read it?’

J.B’s eyes narrowed. I sensed that he was annoyed. It seemed as though having to cough up ten million pounds to the man with the gun was a burden he could shoulder. But having to read a screenplay written by the driver, was in his eyes, taking the piss.

‘We’re waiting for an answer J.B,’ said Jimmy.

‘Yeah sure,’ replied J.B flatly.

It was evident by the look on his face that J.B was not in the slightest bit interested in me or my screenplay. His answer was clearly to appease Jimmy and bring an end to these proceedings. But I didn’t care. I had faith in my work. And even if there was only the slimmest chance that J.B would read it, for me that was hope enough.

‘Thank you,’ I said politely. ‘I appreciate it. And I really do think you will like it.’

J.B said nothing.

‘Ok, so ten million and the reading of a screenplay,’ said Jimmy. ‘Now let’s wrap this up. Your man needs medical attention.’

***

The night concluded with J.B calling his accountant and telling him to transfer ten million pounds to an account in London. We couldn’t hear what the accountant was saying, but it was clear by J.B’s side of the conversation, that the accountant wanted desperately to know why. J.B refused to give him answer, and after some back and forth, J.B finally snapped. The night had taken its toll.

‘Just fucking do it!’ he screamed into the phone, its not your fucking money! You do with it what I tell you. If I tell you to transfer ten million pounds you say “yes sir, where to sir.”’ And he hung up.

The money arrived in Jimmy’s account some moments later. He tried his best to maintain a strict poker face as he stared at the new eight figure balance on his phone. But the gleeful look in his eyes betrayed him. The cat that got the cream.

Jimmy then asked J.B for his email address so that I could send him my screenplay. Which I did. Jimmy made sure to check that J.B had received it. He then called someone, telling whoever it was on the other end of the line to come to the Jumeriah Carlton to help ‘move some furniture.’

Jimmy then turned his attention to the bodyguard who was looking rough. The pain had drained the blood from his face, and there were shimmers of sweat on his brow and cheeks. Jimmy told me to grab him a towel from the en-suite, which I did, and when I returned he had taken off the bodyguards boot. I’d expected the worst. A mangled or deformed foot. But it was neither. It was just really swollen. The bodyguards thick black socks concealing whatever damage lay beneath. Jimmy wrapped the bodyguards foot with the towel and told him to go downstairs and get a cab to Chelsea and Westminster hospital. He told the bodyguard to tell those at the hospital that he had sustained the injury at a pheasant shoot. I sensed he was being sarcastic.

Shortly after the bodyguard left, and with J.B still sat on the floor deep in thought, there was a knock at the door. Jimmy went to answer it and came back with a strange looking man in tow. An Albanian, short and built like a Staffordshire terrier; wide neck, big hands and thick fingers. He stank of cigarettes and red bull.

‘He’s going to take care of Chloe,’ Jimmy told J.B. ‘Go into the living room.’

J.B stood, went into the living room, and assumed the same position in the same chair that we found him in. And then Jimmy and I left.

Outside, we stood by my car and digested the events of the night over a cigarette. Our conversation began with Jimmy telling me in no uncertain terms what would happen if I snitched. He locked eyes with me and said, ‘I’ll cut your fucking tongue out, understood?’

‘Jimmy come on,’ I replied, ‘You don’t even have to say it.’ While wondering whether using the events of the night as inspiration for a story would constitute as snitching.

Three weeks had passed and my hopes of hearing back from J.B had dimmed. In that time I'd sent two chaser’s, both of which went unanswered. I cursed myself for not asking for money like J.B did. Of course J.B wasn’t going to read my screenplay. What was I thinking?

But one Saturday morning I woke up to an email from the man himself. In the email he said he read the screenplay, and loved it. I got out of bed, splashed my face with water, and re-read the email. As luck would have it, the screenplay I had written, which was about the Russian oligarch Boris Berezovsky, famous for plucking a relatively unknown Vladimir Putin and installing him as Russian President, was a story that J.B had been trying to get make for the past four years. He already had a script, but said he preferred mine.

Later that night at the office of London’s Leading Ladies, I told Jimmy about the email. He looked genuinely pleased for me and asked if I would send him a copy. Jimmy was an old school movie buff and once had aspirations of being an actor. In his early twenties he’d been an extra in two Guy Ritchie films.

That same week I had a call with J.B. in which he informed me that he had a studio and financing and distributor on board, all that was left was financing. He told me to hold tight. I was to receive an offer for my screenplay by the end of the week.

Jimmy asked me how the call went when I went into the office that night and I shared with him what had been said. I noticed his eyes turn from interest to calculation as I told him that financing was the last hurdle.

‘How much does he need?’ asked Jimmy.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

‘Arrange a call with J.B,’ said Jimmy, after a brief pause. ‘I want to talk to him.’ His phone started ringing and he went off to his office to answer it, leaving me stood in the reception area worried that Jimmy was about to jeopardise a good thing.

‘You ok?’ asked Elle, who was sat behind the reception desk.

‘Yeah, good, good,’ I replied, snapping out of my trance. ‘Tell Serena I’ll be waiting for her downstairs.’

Downstairs, I stood outside 48 Beauchamp Place smoking a cigarette to calm my nerves. I’d been smoking a lot recently.

But as it turns out I needn’t have worried. The call began with J.B apologising. He said the incident at the hotel was the last straw in a long series of events that had forced him to reevaluate his life choices and finally seek help. He checked into the Cirque Lodge that same week. Jimmy accepted his apology and the events of that night faded away to make room for conversation about the film. Jimmy listened carefully as J.B walked us through the technicalities of getting a film made and the difficulties of financing non-tent pole projects. Jimmy then made an announcement. He said that he would invest five million of the blackmail money into the project. Like J.B, he too had been re-evaluating his life, and after years of illegitimate enterprise, he wanted to go legit. Jimmy’s partner had recently given birth to a baby girl, his first child, and it had changed his perspective on the future.

Three years later and the film had its world premiere in Leicester Square and Jimmy and J.B went on to become producing partners. It turned out that Jimmy had a natural talent for it. I got more writing gigs. And the bodyguard, whose name it turned out was Ryan Conrad, was demoted the J.B’s driver. He still hates Jimmy.