Kate Moss stood in the elevator of the Hilton on Park Lane in London as it rose to the penthouse suite floor. She was alone, wearing a black skirt cut about six inches above her knees and white tank top with string shoulder straps. The top was tight, hugging Kate's round orange-size breasts. Her left hand held the top of a half empty bottle of Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon champagne, her left arm hung low burdened with the bottle, her back leaned against the rear of the elevator cab. Her right hand gripped the brass rail that ran around the cab. Kate’s drinking this evening had gotten a bit out of hand.The champagne bottle in Kate’s hand was the second one being worked on. A Gauloise cigarette was burning in Kate’s puffy lips, the non-filtered tip in Kate's mouth, the smoke rising into her face. She glanced up at the "No Smoking" sign and smiled. Signs did not mean anything to her. They had become silly. There did not seem to be any consequences to her behavior, bad or otherwise, and so she had decided to do whatever she liked.
The elevator doors opened and Kate walked down the hallway, occasionally tipping toward one side or the other, touching the wall as she moved to prevent herself from falling. She giggled. I mean, afterall, she was celebrating. That bitch Scarlett Johansson actually thought Chanel was going to use her instead of the great and beautiful Kate Moss. When Kate had received the diamond earrings from Alain Wertheimer, the Chairman of Chanel, apologizing for the unfortunate initial decision made by the Chanel CEO, Francoise Montenay, to cancel her modeling contract, Kate smiled. She called her agent, who called Chanel, who renegotiated her contract, upping Kate's compensation by a million pounds per year. That stupid little photograph of her snorting cocaine led to a series of events that made her more money.
Kate's cigarette was burned down to its last quarter centimeter, with a good two centimeters of burned ash still protruding from the front, sloping down. Kate removed the Gauloise from her mouth and tossed it onto the corridor rug. It hit with a little bounce, but continued to burn. So what. Let it burn. There are no consequences, and she was celebrating. Kate removed the key card from her hidden skirt pocket and opened her hotel suite door. The lights turned on automatically in the hotel suite. That’s cute, thought Kate. The hotel room was being paid courtesy of Chanel as an additional gift for welcoming her back to the perfume company. The French; Kate loved them. As if the one million pounds were not enough. They had to give the hotel suite for a week as well as the earrings. Like she really needed it. But hell, with the Zeta Bar downstairs giving her the two bottles of Dom Perignon for free, plus the bowl of strawberries and the two Pina Coladas, which she asked for, Kate had decided to make a nice celebratory weekend of it without the intrusion of Pete Doherty or anyone else.
Kate closed the door behind her and took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle. She placed the bottle down on the thick glass coffee table that sat between two large leather couches. The window beyond had a commanding view of the Mayfair district of London. A wicker gift basket with a card attached was on the coffee table. Another gift? She leaned down, but then lost her balance and fell to the floor. Kate laughed. In public, such moments were embarrassing. But in private, she could be sloppy and drunk and silly, and it all amused her. She noticed that the left string strap holding her tank top snapped, causing the top to fall below her left breast. She hoisted herself up and felt no modesty about her exposed breast. Why should she. She was alone with herself. She was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. She pulled off her black pumps and massaged the bottom of her feet. This made her laugh too because she felt nothing. Her feet were numb but for some reason this did not bother her. It was the champagne, Kate concluded.
Kate turned her attention to the gift basket and opened the small white envelope and removed a note card. On the card was written with a fountain pen in blue ink "Please accept my apologies." No signature. OK. Now who is this? More people apologizing to her. Alain Wertheimer had already showered her with expensive apologies. Maybe this was Francoise Montenay, the Frenchman that decided to fire her, then was vetoed by the boss, Alain.
Kate reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of Chanel No. 5. You've got to be kidding me. This is what whoever sent me to apologize? She doesn't even wear the stuff, except when she has to. The idiot. Wait. Wait. What's this. Kate pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag which contained a white powder, a healthy amount of white powder, possibly the size of a large cigar.
Kate Moss rose from the carpeted floor and sat on the leather couch. She grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon and took another swig, actually a big swig, the alcohol going down her thin throat in gulps. She felt the liquid warm her aging and abused stomach, and she got a rush of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness associated with nausea, but more that of a gentle high. This surprised her given the amount she had consumed in the last two hours. It must be the site and anticipation of the plastic bag of powder. Cocaine. It must be cocaine. What a gift. Though she had spent a good deal of time in the Arizona desert drying out from drugs, the Arizona thing was more for show than anything. She still smoked her sixty to eighty cigarettes a day. She still was able to drink. Alcohol, that is. She even had a few Demerol here and there to keep her smiling through the burning Arizona sun. As she saw it, it was a vacation.
Kate Moss opened the Ziploc bag and stuck her right index finger in, scooping a small amount of the powder with her unpolished nail. She noticed that her nails were becoming very yellow from the constant nicotine that swirled around her fingers, not to mention in her arteries. Hell. Big deal. There was always polish to cover such things. The powder looked like cocaine. She placed it on her gums. It tasted like cocaine, but then she was so drunk it was really difficult to discern one taste from another. Before she was able to feel the effects of the gum absorption, Kate scooped some more with her nail and snorted a small mound. Well, maybe a big mound. She really didn't focus on the amount.
The drug went straight up into her forehead and seemed to tingle her eyeballs, the tingle spreading around into her temples, and then a drape of a euphoric calm waterfall plunged down into her chest. OK. OK. This was not cocaine. Damn. This felt like heroin. Her throat tightened, which Pete told her might be a sign of too much heroin too fast. Her first instinct was to grab the bottle of Dom Perignon. Kate went with her instinct. She gulped, trying to open her throat with the bubbly liquid. The champagne went down the wrong tube, and Kate started to choke. She then felt a tightness in her chest and had difficulty breathing. Fuck. She was celebrating. Who sent this shit. Pete? Was it Francoise Montenay? Or was it some demented asshole, someone she pissed off? Was it Scarlett Johansson? No. No. It couldn't be Scarlett. Kate was not thinking straight. She tried to stand, but immediately fell backwards, hitting her head on the leather couch.
Kate could feel herself slipping into a sleep state. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. She forced herself into an upright position. The bathroom. Get herself to the bathroom, she thought. Cold water. Cold water. She was not going to call for help. The drugs. All the drugs. The bad publicity would start all over again. Of course, she would probably emerge from another bad spat of publicity. But she wanted to deal with this herself. Kate Moss crawled to the bathroom. He white tank top dragged on the rug and completely pulled off, her black skirt also pulled down off her hips. Then Kate felt a sudden urge to vomit. She had to stay awake for this, otherwise she risked choking to death. She raised herself up with her arms and it came in several bursts, vomit, waves of vomit, mostly the champagne and the cashews and the Quail eggs she had at the Zeta Bar. The puke had this disgusting odor, but Kate did not care, she had to get it out of her. She always felt that vomiting was the best medicine for everything. She even did it at the Arizona resort.
The pool of vomit formed on the lush red carpet below her face as she held her chest up with her arms, her bare breasts dangling in a manner that were no longer firm even though small. Kate dropped her head. It was over. It was all out. This is when the wave of swirling dizziness hit like a hurricane. Kate's eyes rolled back into her head, but she had the presence of mind to lower herself, her right cheek coming to rest in the pool of warm vomit as she fell into a deep unconscious sleep.
Twelve hours later, Kate Moss awoke with dried vomit on her face and in her hair. She had fallen with her legs and arms in contorted positions, restricting the flow of blood, and so she barely could feel any of her limbs. She had a pounding headache which she attributed to the champagne and the heroin, not realizing that it was nothing more than a nicotine withdrawal since she had not had a cigarette during the twelve hours of being unconscious, a period of time where she would have normally smoked sixty cigarettes. Kate pushed herself up and slowly stood, her tank top pulled down and her skirt at her knees. She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and saw a skinny, disheveled, wasted girl. She smiled because she was so skinny. She smiled because all she saw was a wasted millionaire who would take a shower, have some coffee and a thousand cigarettes and start a new day. More mischief. And no consequences.