Chapter 41
It turns out a Premier Inn Plus room is actually noticeably nicer than their standard fare.
A fancy coffee machine, wee bars of chocolate to enjoy with your espresso, the walls a less lurid purple.
The artwork is as devoid of emotion as one would expect from a hotel painting, but it’s pretty.
I admire it from where I stand at the end of the bed.
‘The production manager tries to act like I’m a diva when I ask for the Plus room. I think you can agree it’s well worth the extra tenner a night.’
‘Yeah, absolutely.’ I swallow, my mouth wet in the way it only usually ever gets right before I vomit.
Malcolm is on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shiny, heeled brogue shoes. When they’re off, he places them neatly beside his feet and then pats the space beside him, beckoning me to him.
‘Is this something you do a lot?’ I don’t know why it matters, why I need him to tell me I’m special before I ruin him.
‘Not as much as I’d like.’
I sit next to him, straighten the buttons of my dress.
‘The thing is, I have quite particular interests, so it’s about finding people who share them with me.’
The blue poly bag I noticed him holding when he checked in is on the desk, next to the coffee machine. I imagine its contents: whips, chains, handcuffs. And something worse, more degrading, that I can’t fathom because it’s so niche.
‘I’m extremely open-minded. I would love to hear what you’re interested in, if you fancied sharing it with me.’ I run a finger across his forearm, not able to force myself to touch anywhere more intimate.
‘Yes, well.’ He sniffs, jiggles his legs up and down a few times in preparation of the big reveal. ‘The thing is, I’m really into feet.’ I wait for more. Feet being pissed on. His feet being tortured. Sucking on fungal toenails.
‘Just feet?’
‘The feet of beautiful women. Younger than me, if possible.’
I am sure Malcolm feels exposed, like he’s baring his most vulner-able self, his secret shame, but it’s so pedestrian I could almost pat him on the head, tell him everyone is into everything these days, Malcolm, you shouldn’t be ashamed for liking the feet of a pretty woman.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I say. ‘I am also into feet.’
He lets out a puff of disbelieving air. ‘Yeah, right’.
‘No, really.’ I pull out my phone, bring out my hidden photo album of the pictures I sold to Dave. ‘These are all me. I love sharing my feet with the right men.’
The very first picture of my toes in the old tacky nail polish, the one I took after I’d watched my flat on Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer, has a nostalgic air to it.
I almost explain to Malcolm the significance of this image and how it leads to here.
I turn and consider Malcolm’s profile; we are both troubled people trying to find joy.
My intentions soften until he swipes eagerly at my screen wanting to see more than I’m offering him.
I’m aware, as he flicks through the shots – my feet in sandals, my toes splashing in shallow bath water – that the material over his crotch is bulging, and his desire repels me.
‘You like what you see?’
He grunts. ‘Very much.’ He’s whizzed through my entire portfolio in seconds. So greedy, not savouring the treasure I’ve bestowed upon him. Wanting more, more, more. It’s that kind of greed that’s got him into this mess in the first place.
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do with my feet?’
He licks his lips. That won’t help the chapped skin he has on them. ‘I would like to rub cream into them and then have you walk on my back.’
The idea of his hands on me takes some getting used to. I’m still in my heels. The removal of them is not time-consuming but I eek the task out as long as I can. At his crotch, a small patch of moisture creeps across the material.
‘You’re making my cock wet.’
He has barely seen a toe and this is how excited he is? No, I decide, he does not do this often at all.
He sinks to his knees – they crack and pop as he bends down – takes my feet in his cold dry hands and sniffs their soles deeply, then groans into them. ‘Delicious.’
Dealing with a feet pervert at a distance had been fine. Up close, when this is not a thing I am into, is difficult. I have to detach mentally from the situation. As it’s happening, I think about how interesting it is, the things people do to get through the day.
‘Where’s your cream?’ I expect him to go into his blue poly bag and produce a particular brand or scent that gets him going. I nod towards it, encouraging a break in proceedings so I can make sense of it all.
‘I don’t have any.’ His knees crack all over again. He goes over to the poly bag, pulls out an array of miniature alcohols. ‘Whisky?’
My answer would have been no regardless, but I give it more forcibly upon noticing it’s Famous Grouse. The brand doesn’t seem to bother Malcolm; he swigs from his, emptying the lot in one go.
I excuse myself. ‘You keep yourself entertained, I’m going to go freshen up in the bathroom.’
My handbag is deposited on the shut toilet lid, and then I briefly allow myself to panic about not really knowing what happens next.
Killing him isn’t an option. Too many people have seen me with him, and even if they hadn’t, I just don’t think I could do it.
It would be like murdering a part of myself.
So not killing, but something worthwhile needs to happen.
Over the bath is the shirt Malcolm was wearing when I first met him.
Without knowing why, I bundle it up and cram it into the bag.
My makeup case is near the top, and inside it is a tiny miniature hand cream that’ll do the job for Malcolm to rub it into my feet.
My nail scissors are in there too, and it gives me an idea.
I take the shirt, cut the arms off it, then pull each sleeve from both ends to test the fabric’s strength.
Finally, I get the hammer and put it and the sleeves at the top of my bag, carrying it with one hand, the cream in the other.
Reemerging back into the bedroom, I singsong, ‘Lucky you. Guess who found the perfect thing for their tired tootsies–’
Malcolm naked, Malcolm with his penis in hand, Malcolm sniffing my shoes. There was lots I was prepared for, but not what I find – Malcolm asleep in the foetal position, three empty whisky miniatures beside him, a fourth in his fist at an angle, drops of whisky dripping onto the sheets.
‘Malcolm?’ When he doesn’t react, I put the cream away.
My loose plan had been to wait until he was on his knees rubbing my feet and then brandish the hammer, maybe give him a smack with it before tying him up and filming him slagging off buy-to-let landlords and apologising for his part in the whole wretched system.
Him sleeping, this opens up a whole load of cleaner options.
Looking around, I find what I want: Malcolm’s mobile phone.
I swipe up to see if he has face recognition or if it’s his fingerprint or a passcode that’ll gain me entry.
It opens right up, no security on it at all, onto his home screen, which is a picture of a beach at sunrise or sunset next to a calm sea. It’s warm, cosy, unremarkable.
Malcolm’s messages are my first point of call.
Initially, nothing exciting is uncovered.
I search for swear words, for ‘feet’, for ‘landlord’, for ‘show’, for ‘filming’.
What I learn is that he thinks Pip is a ‘dozy cunt’, that he sucked the toes of a waitress at a Premier Inn in Plymouth eighteen months ago, that he’s ‘too good for this show and you know it. Why am I not on Strictly yet? I’ve been on telly for decades, I’m due my spot on Strictly’.
All of this I screenshot and AirDrop to my phone.
I can release these bits if this is the best I can get, and it will damage his public image but it won’t fully destroy it.
Malcolm turns over and his tiny drink fully empties onto the sheets. I wait for the moisture to rouse him. He licks his lips, scratches his belly, but doesn’t wake.
Next stop are his emails. I do a similar search and find a fantastic email chain from three years ago.
Malcolm expressed concern about the state of a house they filmed at, believing it was uninhabitable.
The series producer responded saying they wouldn’t include it in the show if it was dangerous.
So far, so good for Malcolm, then he responded.
Malcolm: Look, I know we’re used to showcasing shitholes and encouraging people to improve them only as much as makes them barely liveable, but it’s my face fronting it all. Please consider my reputation when deciding whether to continue with this or any other hellhole for inclusion in the edit.
Series Producer: Malcolm, I appreciate the show is a large part of your public image. The decision to broadcast a property or not is dependent on what is safe and aspirational for our viewers – NOT YOU.
Malcolm: I am the show. No one cares about the punters, people are watching for me. No one cares about some scummy bedsit in Blackpool but they do care about Malcolm Havisham.
A huge chunk of the landlords we feature are lazy bastards, they do the bare minimum and you know it. Me, I work my absolute cunt in for this show. And the poor souls renting what we show, that can’t be much of a life at all.
Boom. That’s Malcolm’s life exploding.