Sin Tropez (10 page)

‘London.’

‘My plane is leaving in ten minutes, let me give you a ride.’

‘No thenk you. My plane is leafing now.’ And she turned away and wiggled purposefully off, but not so fast that he wouldn’t be able to catch up with her.

‘Please wait,’ he called. ‘W-w-what’s your name? I am Claude. At least let me have some way of contacting you.’

‘I am afraid that won’t be possible,’ Natalya replied, and tottered to catch up with Reza, pulling the Louis Vuitton trunk she had got for her birthday behind her. Before
disappearing completely from Claude’s view however, she was careful to drop her little pocket notebook on the floor as if by accident.

This time round, Reza had filled most of the plane with a group of British catalogue models in their late twenties over whom he had sprayed endless bottles of champagne at the Voile Rouge beach
club. In compensation for, according to the models, ruining their designer bikinis, he had offered them a ride back home and a shopping trip once they got there. Henry ushered them oohing and
aahing on to the plane. The prettiest one, with long, flaming ginger hair had whipped out her phone and was now yapping down it heatedly, ‘Oh my God, Dave, you should see this plane –
I’m actually on a private jet, it’s amazing! Oh, oh yes, I forgot you were leaving tonight. OK have a good trip, Davey baby, love you.’

As they boarded the plane with much shrieking and animation, they gossiped and giggled amongst themselves. Natalya rolled her eyes and went to sit in the back, trying to tune out the ginger
girl’s conversation with Henry, who was braiding a lock of her hair.

‘I’m a bit sad, Henry.’

‘Oh, Angie my love, why ever are you sad?’ Henry stopped playing with her hair and pulled a forlorn face.

‘It’s my boyfriend Dave, he’s in the army and he’s been called out to serve in the war in Afghanistan, I ’d forgotten he’s off today, and now I won’t
see him before he goes.’

‘Sweet Jesus! You must be worried about him!’ Henry exclaimed.

‘Yes I am – he’ll be so miserable out there, I mean all the poor thing will be able to think about is how many guys must be chatting me up back at home now that he’s not
around.’

Natalya smiled wryly, imagining this Dave character dodging bombs and bullets in Afghanistan but unable to give it his all because he was thinking of Angie being bought drinks at her local.

‘Dave once told me, there’ll always be war, but there’ll never be another Angie …’

‘Er … yeah,’ Henry said, ‘you’re certainly very special.’ He glanced at the back of the plane and caught Natalya’s eye.

‘I’m on my own now too,’ Henry added. ‘My boyfriend dumped me on our first night out here and now he’s staying on an extra week with some fancy hotelier. Never
mind, plenty more fish in the sea.’

Henry broke off when Reza clicked his fingers and beckoned him over. ‘Sorry, important business to discuss!’ he trilled, and grabbed his Filofax and BlackBerry ready for action.

Reza checked no one was listening before he spoke. ‘We need to update our records for next time.’

‘Oh yes,’ cooed Henry. ‘The girls have all been
very
happy to be here with you.’

‘Tatiana is fun, very good. Invite her next time.’ Reza’s face broke into a smile and he shifted in his seat as he remembered the zeal with which she had given him head under
the table at Club 55: he should drop his cutlery more often.

‘I liked Liliana,’ he continued. ‘And Ciara is sexy. Sexy girl. But those two … um … Abara and Tena, they’re no fun.’

‘Tara and Abena?’

‘Whatever.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Actually, no, my investors liked the look of them. Maybe keep them on the list and see how things go.’

One by one he listed the girls they had partied with that weekend and decided, on the basis of his singular set of criteria, whether or not they were any fun and would therefore be invited back
out. The rules were simple: had they, should they or would they sleep with him. Henry knew the answers to all three of those questions and made organized notes for his boss.

Initially, Reza had been reluctant to hire somebody like Henry as his main PA, finding homosexuality distasteful. After all, he ought to have a woman as his assistant. Men weren’t born to
serve, women were. But the problem with women was that if they were young enough to have all their marbles then they were young enough to be banged, and Reza needed to concentrate at work. Play was
one thing, but in his office he was all about focus. So he’d decided on a homosexual: neither man nor woman. He then put an advert out on one of the less murky Boys Only dating sites,
announcing his quest for the Ultimate Gay PA.

He asked them all to come to the interview in casual dress – he needed to make sure that whoever was chosen wouldn’t turn up in a tutu to a football match where Reza was entertaining
clients in his box. Henry had clearly done his research as he arrived in exactly the same leisure outfit that Reza always wore, right down to the brown crocodile-skin belt. As obvious as it was,
Reza appreciated the flattery and decided that the boy’s lack of subtlety marked him out as honest.

Henry had astounded Reza by surpassing even his exacting standards. From ordering him the most zealous tarts to scheduling his Botox appointments, Henry attended to Reza’s every need and
whim speedily, discreetly and willingly, and made his life a whole lot easier without getting in his hair. Moreover, Reza sensed a certain similarity between them, the foreigner and the fairy, in
that they’d both had a rough ride at school. Over the years, Henry had become the only person in Reza’s life for whom he felt genuine warmth and affection
.
He congratulated
himself once again on such an inspired decision.

And the best thing of all was that Henry was proving wonderful with all his girls. He could ferry them around and organize them all without Reza ever worrying that he would try to steal any for
himself. What’s more, particularly with the very young ones, it made them feel safer, more comfortable. They could relax and get tipsy with fun-loving Henry, oblivious to the fact that the
real reason Reza always arrived so late at his own parties was to give the saucy things time to get into a far more receptive mood.

****

While Reza’s plane was heading north across the Channel, Tara and Abena were wandering through the port at St Tropez, hoping to bump into Alex. Out alone for the first
time on the trip, they felt that buzzy excitement that comes from not knowing what a night will bring, but knowing that the possibilities are infinite. They sat down outside a loud, lively bar
crammed with people, choosing seats that looked out directly on to the port. Ominously, there were no prices on the drinks menu.

‘Good evening, ladies, can I ’elp you?’ asked the friendly French waitress.

‘Bonsoir, please could we get, er, actually, how much is a vodka tonic?’ asked Abena.

‘Is fourty euro,’ smiled the waitress.

‘Oh right, erm, what about a glass of house red?’

‘Is fourty euro,’ said the waitress, looking less impressed.

‘A glass of water?’ Tara cut in.

‘Laidees, all drink is fourty euro.’

‘OK, so it looks like it’s one cocktail each and we’re gonna have to make it last two hours, at least, until the clubs open,’ Abena grinned. She felt as though she was
poorer these days than when she’d been a student. At least then she’d had a student loan and could also justify scrounging off her parents from time to time, after all, to their minds
anyway, she did have textbooks to buy. Since then, though, Mallinder Films’ paltry offerings had been her only income.

Just as it seemed they couldn’t nurse their Bellinis any longer, Tara noticed a small man bounding eagerly towards her. ‘Why is it that even though I’m five foot nine I always
seem to attract midgets?’ she groaned. ‘And the less interest I show, the keener they get!’

‘Maybe they’ve got some dominatrix fetish.’ Abena caught sight of the subject of Tara’s disapproval and chuckled. ‘They probably get off on fantasies of being
stamped on by the spiked stiletto of a towering goddess.’

‘Oh God, just don’t look at it and maybe it will go away,’ whispered Tara, shuddering as he reached their table.

‘Hey girls!’ he boomed, ‘I’m Larry. I gotta couple friends who wanna meet you real bad. We’ve been watching you for an hour now, and I gotta say, you twos are
really som’in’.’ He grinned goofily at Tara. She stared at him in amazement, unable to say what she was really thinking, which was ‘look at you, look at us; I don’t
think so honey!’.

Abena wondered whether they wanted a second drink desperately enough to invite him and his friends over to join their table. Eventually she decided that she’d at least take a peek at his
sidekicks before making up her mind.

‘Where are your friends?’

‘Oh we’re just up on the yacht,’ said Larry breezily, and pointed to the largest boat in the port, from which Balearic beats boomed out of a state-of-the-art sound system.
‘They’re just some friends of mine, in film.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tara replied. ‘We’re quite enjoying just chilling here over drinks, but we may wander on up in a bit.’

‘Gotcha,’ Larry said, high-fiving them both before jogging backwards away from the table then turning and running back on to the boat. He gave out more high-fives as he climbed
aboard.

An hour later, when the dregs of their cocktails were beginning to congeal, the pair strolled over to the yacht. Like Reza’s, it was gleaming white inside, though slightly smaller, but
there were film posters on the walls and, outside, the seating was made up of a smattering of director’s chairs. Everyone was gathered on the large deck at the front. The girls spotted Larry
immediately. He was standing to the side, looking out on to the water, and Abena realized with a jolt that he was surrounded by some of the cast of
Lost
. Tara helped herself to a drink and
went in search of a bathroom. Abena started to walk towards Larry but was intercepted by a tall man with a shock of grey hair, a kind, weathered face and sparkling light brown eyes.

‘Hello. And what brings you to this party? Friend of Larry and Rufus?’

‘Actually I don’t know anybody,’ Abena admitted. ‘I was just having a drink on the port with my friend Tara who is … well … she’s in here somewhere,
and Larry approached us and invited us to the party! It’s a great bash though, glad we came,’ she said, looking around.

‘Ah, so you met Larry – brilliant director. I’ve worked with him on a couple of projects.’ A knowing grin illuminated his face.

‘Oh I see, then you must be an actor? Producer?’

‘I produce films.’

‘Really?’ Abena’s eyes widened with interest as she gazed up at him. ‘What sort of stuff have you done?’

‘Oh, you know, a few films you may have heard of:
Winter Sunrise
,
My Father
,
Constance and the Colonel,
and then of course
Red
, which was nominated for best
film at the Oscars, and
Surface
, which won best director and best producer.
A Day in Siberia
won best female lead …’

‘Oh, you must be Carey Wallace!
Winter Sunrise
is one of my all-time favourite films! I think it may actually be the only film adaptation I’ve ever seen that has exceeded the
strength of the original book.’

‘Yes I am. And, wow, thank you. Actually, of all I’ve done,
Winter Sunrise
is my favourite too.’

‘How was it to work with such an experimental director?’ Abena asked. ‘I loved his use of language – high register for street kids and low for the poncy society lot
– it was fantastic, just so clever.’

Carey smiled. ‘Good question. But actually it was awful. Sure he thinks he’s so liberal-minded, but he didn’t want to work with any actor who he felt wasn’t bright,
because of course his scripts are incredibly “intellectually taxing”. Yawn, yawn, yawn! He upset a lot of great actors who he vetoed even though they would have been mega box-office
draws. He’s an even worse snob than the people he writes about. Social snobbery is funny because it’s so absurd, but intellectual snobbery – that’s a whole different thing.
I’ve seen many a man broken by intellectual snobbery, utterly humiliated.’ He laughed. ‘Here, would you like one of these?’ he asked as a waiter passed by with a tray of
glistening Kir Royals.

‘Love one, thank you!’

‘So, tell me about you, what’s your name? What’s your thing?’

Abena was enthralled with Carey’s tales of producing high-grossing hit films. It seemed a whole different world to what went on around the mostly struggling, low-budget, British films for
TV or DVD that Mallinder ended up trying to distribute internationally.

An hour later they were still engrossed in conversation when Larry approached with a man who Abena vaguely recognized from television but couldn’t put a name to.

‘Hey, you can’t monopolize her all night,’ Larry teased Carey. ‘This young thing is dying to meet her.’ A scene from last Monday’s episode of
Lost
swam
enticingly through Abena’s mind. It featured this rugged, lean actor running shirtless across a tropical island, muscles glistening with sweat. But she mustn’t let her mind wander; she
was just getting to arranging a meeting with Carey in London.

As if out of nowhere, Tara appeared and made a beeline for Larry, midget complex clearly on hold. Anyone would have thought Larry was a long-lost relative judging by the way she launched herself
at him before shimmying strategically into the tight gap between him and the actor. This was exactly the distraction Abena needed to turn her attention back to Carey and she smiled and left Tara to
do her worst with the star.

‘Well, so …’ Carey said, picking up where they’d left off. ‘I always stay at the Charlotte Street Hotel when I’m in London, so we can catch up for lunch in
the area soon. I fly home to LA tomorrow, and we’ll wrap up principal photography on the current project next month, so I may be in London a little after that. I’ll definitely call
you.’

‘That would be fantastic,’ Abena beamed
.

Just as the two were about to part company, they were interrupted by the screams of three women as they tried to throw a bearded, bespectacled old man overboard.