Emma Sayle - Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make--and Break--the Rules

Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.

Socrates

I have two hours to kill before I am to host this evenings party. Tonight, its in a stately home in Londons exclusive Mayfair, and that always draws a particularly upmarket crowd, but my members come from all walks of life. For the most part they are young and curious, drawn by the glamorous settings and the enticing atmosphere of anticipation, for my parties are places where anything can happen. Members apply through my website and they must supply a photograph and some details about themselves (some like to send pictures that arent strictly of their faces). Acceptance is not based on looks or wealth, but on a certain mind-set: will these people fit into the hedonistic environment and do they have the right spirit of fun and adventure mixed with respect for rules?

Tonight, 200 paying members will be attending my party. They expect something special and I intend to make sure they get it. As well as pleasing the regulars, Ill also be making sure the new members are having a good time and fitting in nicely. Anyone who doesnt play by the rules will be asked politely to leave. But thanks to the careful vetting process, there isnt usually a problem. A good time ought to be had by all.

Before then, Im meeting a friend in Claridges Fumoir bar. Im not strictly following the dress code, but no one seems to mind my silky black sleepwear, which is a trademark of mine. If anyone has a discreet word, it will take me less than two minutes to whip on the chic Italian designer dress Ive stuffed into my handbag. I love to be comfortable, but I never go anywhere without something smart I can slip on, just in case.

The glamorous Art Deco 1930s bar feels like a haven of tranquillity as I step inside. Its dark, sensuous, alluring and, best of all, tucked away behind a secret door, which appeals to my inner sense of drama. Inside, the decor is a rich aubergine with dark leather seating and low crystal lighting, and the walls are adorned with vintage photographs of beautiful women. I slip onto a seat near the horseshoe-shaped bar and order my wake-up call, a Bull Shot, which consists of vodka and beef consomm and tastes 10 times spicier and more potent than a Bloody Mary. And a bottle of ros too, please.

While Im waiting for my drink, I get out my phone and start checking my messages. After a moment, I look up and see my friend Miss D striding slowly and gracefully towards me. Im not the only one whos noticed the new arrival: all eyes are on her, which is just the way she likes it, and probably why she handed her coat to the cloakroom attendant before waltzing into the bar. Shes wearing a sexy black strapless dress with sheer panelling down the sides that highlights her derrire to excellent effect. At first glance, she looks perfectly proper and very alluring with her bee-stung lips, olive skin and thick, glossy dark hair falling around her shoulders, but on closer inspection theres something missing. Her underwear! Typical. Shes getting in the mood early.

Hi, Ems! she says, and gives me a kiss on each cheek. Before sitting down, she glances about the room, scouting out any attractive specimen who might be worthy of her attentions.

Miss D never misses a Killing Kittens party. Shes totally hooked. Her only stipulation is quantity the more the better. I cant help it, shell say with a shrug, looking innocent. Its just that Im a sexaholic.

Miss D and I have known each other for years because our mothers were friends and fell pregnant at the same time. We were born just weeks apart, with me making my entry into the world first. Our friendship didnt have the best of starts: whenever we met, we fought. Later we went to different schools and Miss D became one of those girls with a high-octane social life and an expensive wardrobe, all paid for by her rich parents, who owned a townhouse off the Kings Road in London as well as a sprawling country estate. She spent her time hanging out in Chelsea, dating boys from Eton and transforming herself into a real-life Sindy doll. Miss D adored Sindy, and by the time she was 13 she had manicured nails, a glossy pout, coloured hair and designer clothes. By contrast I was a complete tomboy and liked nothing better than playing with friends in our back garden. I adored hanging outdoors with my father. If he went fishing, I would try to fish, and if he was climbing a mountain, so would I. As a result, I was permanently clad in trainers and jeans and was pretty much continually filthy, much to Miss Ds horror. Not that her disapproval put me off or dampened my spirits in fact, it probably made me even more of a sporty and adventurous type. Then disaster struck for Miss D her parents lost all their money and were declared bankrupt. Fortunately, her grandmother paid for her schooling, so she stayed at her boarding school, but her cool friends dropped her like the proverbial hot potato and her hoity-toity arrogance was completely deflated. One day, when she and her mother were visiting us, Miss D and I were sent off to amuse ourselves together. Instead, we listened at the door and heard her mother breaking down and sobbing like a baby as she confessed all about their woes. Miss D reached for my muddy hand and in that instance all was forgiven. I gave her a hug and weve been bosom buddies ever since.