The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 9

HENRIETTA BEAUCHAMP-CHATTO

I met Barwick Ford and Max Ponds in the Hollywood Arms, a place that is always brimming with braying Sloanes. Peroxide blonde Henrietta Beauchamp-Slutto sat next to Barwick, with her incessant grin and loud outbursts of laughter as she sipped Pimms. I told them the story.
‘Oh I soooo want a pug that fucks handbags’ laughed Henrietta, rubbing the fine leather on her new Gucci zips bag. She was wearing tight dark blue Chloe jeans, a nice Ralph Lauren blazer and brown leather knee high boots by Vagina, over her jeans. Very high heels. ‘I would always make sure he gets the finest, ha ha ha’
I was looking at Hen’s boots for most of the tale. I watched her fiddle with the zips a few times.
‘Still parading about in semen-stained Dior pants then, Hugo’ laughed Hen.
‘I couldn’t see Hugo in any other form of attire’ brayed Barwick, taking sips of beer. He was on the Zipfer.
Max grinned ‘Fucking hell Hugo, good job she didn’t have to shoot across to New York!’
‘Yeah, it would’ve been a while getting back’ I said ‘Maybe next time, she did say there could be a second interview’
‘I very much doubt that now’ frowned Hen, crossing her legs. The fucking tease.
‘Let’s see this memento, then’ Barwick put his bottle of Zipfer on the table.
I flopped out my cock and there was a Sergio Rossi cock ring, glistening away. It had Sergio Rossi inscribed on it.
‘Jolly fantastic’ laughed Hen ‘that is sooooo trendy. I’m terribly jealous, darling. I wish I had a willy!’
‘Looks a tight fit’ said Max.
The barman wasn’t impressed and told me to put it away; some of the punters were twitching over their foie gras. Don’t ever call foie gras “potted meat” in front of the chattering classes. Those punters will surely twitch themselves into a seizure.
‘Potted meat’ I said, rather loudly.
‘Oh my god’ Hen was already offended. Ha ha. Her boots almost turned from brown to red.
‘Have you heard any news regarding the painting?’ asked Barwick, with his hand on Hen’s knee, giving the designer denim a good rub. They were sort of dating, on and off. It started to make me a bit trouty.
‘Well, we have a description of a so-called Tony the Leg. Moose was quite explicit in detail. The police are bumbling around in London somewhere. I suppose we’ll eventually find out it’s in the arms of some Russian aristo. I’m not really that fussed about it. I prefer “two dildos at Royal Ascot” personally.’
‘Oh yahhhhh! I’ve seen that one’ chewed Hen ‘It’s at Jibby Bream’s! Jolly risqué’
‘Jibby’s into that really kinky shit’ I said.
‘Old tart’ said Hen.
‘Fucking slut!’ Said Barwick directed at Hen.
‘Dirty old shit sex fucker Barwick’ replied Hen, rubbing her crotch with his Zipfer bottle.
‘Anyone fancy a race?’ said Max. ‘Across to Glaisters and back?’
‘Fucking hell, it’s only across the road mate’ I said.
‘Yeah, nice pocket race’ said Max, standing up.
‘A pocket race’ laughed Barwick. ‘Like a pocket battleship’
‘Glaisters and back’ urged Max. He had that serious race face on him.
‘OK, on your marks, get set, go’ said Barwick, firing off a small Beretta he always carried around. Several chunks of coving cracked and fell away as the bullet hit.
We almost broke the door of the Hollywood Arms the two of us neck and neck leaving the pub. A Porsche Cayenne parked up; we both jumped it like gazelles. Sarah Cavendish-Peel was driving it, she was amazed. Max wolf whistled. Oh no. A fucking Doberman’s head popped out of a manhole and grabbed my leg. Max you bastard. He’d set this one up! I was too slow trying to free myself from its snarling grasp. Max went on to win this one with ease. My leg had been savaged. Sarah took me across to A&E. She had to dash off, so I made my own way back.