Sin Tropez (11 page)

‘Hey, Bendy!’ Carey shouted at the laughing captive, who had now regained his balance and composure. ‘Come and meet Abena, she lives in London too; you guys should
talk.’

‘Bendy’ came over immediately and introduced himself as Benedict, or Ben. Abena was shocked to realize he was probably in his late twenties – not an old man at all. She felt an
irrational annoyance at young guys who did the whole beard and glasses thing, especially when they hid what looked like attractive features, probably thinking it made them look intellectual. Ben
was tall and slim with dark skin and a slightly lopsided grin. His thick-rimmed spectacles almost concealed his eyes. Unable to place his looks, Abena wondered where his family was from. Other than
the long beard, his hair was short and the darkest brown. He wore a sixties-style billowing white shirt over a pair of Levi’s cut off at the knee.

‘This is Abena.
Winter Sunrise
is her favourite film,’ Carey announced proudly.

‘I’ll bet it is,’ Ben said drily, already bored by the thought of yet another empty-headed groupie trying to pull a rich Hollywood mover and shaker.

‘It was actually a book first, but oddly enough that didn’t seem to capture the imagination of the unthinking masses the way the film did.’ He looked at her scathingly.
‘How about
Sorrow
, did you like that?’ he asked.

‘Yes. But as a member of the “unthinking masses”, of course I prefer
Winter Sunrise
– the leading man had better abs.’ Abena couldn’t be bothered to
defend her choice seriously to someone who had clearly already decided she was a bimbo.

‘Ben also worked on
Winter Sunrise
,’ Carey said.

‘Oh?’ Abena asked. ‘In what capacity?’

‘I was a runner.’

‘A runner?’ And after all that showing off, she thought.

Seeing that Carey had been waylaid by an actor and was now engrossed in a new discussion, she thought she’d better continue their conversation. ‘How come you’re out here with
Carey?’

‘Carey knows my parents – they used to work for him – so I’ve helped out on quite a few of his films. He flew me out here as a birthday present. There’s no way
I’d be able to afford a holiday like this otherwise – and it’s not as if I could just flirt my way into a party like this.’

Abena was furious. This guy didn’t know the first thing about her, so who was he to judge? And besides, he’d only wangled his job – as a paltry runner – through contacts
of Mummy and Daddy.

When one of Ben’s previous captors re-emerged and grabbed his arm, Abena was only too pleased to wander off into the crowd.

There was a colossal difference between Abena and Tara’s flight in, and their flight back. Without Reza, the girls had to make their own way to Nice airport, from where,
to their bitter disappointment, they would be flying cattle-class to Heathrow. Tara gazed wistfully at first-class check-in and was horrified to spot a little girl of no more than three years old
carrying a tiny customized Hermès Birkin Bag.

‘Oh my God, Abena, look at that kid. Tina’s been on the waiting list for one of those for a year.’ Her mother liked to be referred to by her first name as it made her feel
young.

‘Probably a good thing they won’t sell it to her if she’s in as much debt as you say she’s in?’

But Tara was too busy seething over the bag to hear. She didn’t want to feel this way about a three-year-old, but she couldn’t help envying her. Imperious little cow in her
high-heeled jelly shoes and mini-Birkin.

‘Piss off,’ she muttered inaudibly as the bewildered child toddled past.

The girls reluctantly joined the economy-class queue behind three large teenagers sporting a uniform of velour tracksuits with matching pouches of flesh hanging over their waistbands. As Tara
turned to point this out to Abena, the biggest teen swivelled round, put a hand on her formidable hip and gave Tara a petrifying stare. Taken aback, more by the pinkness of the adolescent’s
sunburnt face than by the venom of her gaze, Tara bit back a giggle. This girl was clearly susceptible to a condition Tara liked to call ‘fattitude’, and she had no intention of
suffering the consequences of a sudden outbreak.

Never had the differences between the haves and the have-nots been more clear to Abena – well, apart from when she holidayed in her sprawling family home in Ghana, designed and built by
her wealthy grandparents long before Abena was born and raised in England. They had wanted to be sure that no matter what, the many children and grandchildren they hoped to have would always have
somewhere full of love and joy that they could retreat to.

‘It’s going to be a long flight,’ Abena said, grinning at Tara.

‘Anyhow, we haven’t had a proper chance to catch up about last night. Did anything happen with that actor, I didn’t catch his name?’

‘What? Oh him, yeah, no, I wasn’t really interested in the end so I didn’t pursue it. Anyway, he was so up his own arse he was practically tickling his tonsils,’ she
huffed. ‘Great party though, who was that old guy you were chatting to all night?’

‘Only the most talented man in film,’ Abena announced smugly.

Finally the girls arrived back at their ground-floor flat in Ladbroke Grove.

‘And we’re home,’ Abena said, taking in their colourful surroundings. The decor consisted of shoes and exotic dresses strewn everywhere, clashing gloriously with the hundreds
of pictures tacked haphazardly on almost every spare surface, a shameful number of which were of themselves. Abena tried to suppress the dull dread building up at the thought of returning to work
the next day by browsing the ASOS website for an affordable fashion hit before checking her emails. She perked up when she saw a note from Sarah about going to interview some star – she must
invite her over for a drink so they could swap gossip.

Meanwhile Tara was in the kitchen, chatting on the phone. ‘Yes Papa, Natalya Ozolin. Why, do you know the name? I don’t think you’d know them – she only came over here a
few years ago … Anyway, how are the little dogs? Are they missing me?’

Tara ended the call and groaned, flouncing into the sitting room and throwing herself on to the sofa. ‘Ugh! Work tomorrow …’

‘Where are you this week anyway?’

‘Still on reception at that hideous novelty paper-clip manufacturer run by Harry the Hobgoblin. How can such a tiny, odious little thing have his own company?’

‘Is he really that gross?’

‘Abbi, he’s shorter than you, he’s perennially pompous and hideously smug. Monday to Thursday he’s just about tolerable to look at I suppose, because he wears a suit, but
dress-down Friday kills me every time.’

‘Oh God, the Sad Friday Outfit – tell me about it. Just when you think someone’s looking amazing, they swap their hand-tailored Savile Row suit for a pair of granddad jeans
pulled up really high and then belted so it gives them a wedgie.’

Abena closed her eyes as she conjured up the unpleasant image in her mind, adding mischievously, ‘You know what I think? I think men should be born into one female-approved, standard
outfit and have to apply for a licence and take a test before they’re allowed to dress themselves.’

‘Oh my word, yes!’ Tara shrieked with glee. ‘Yes, something simple and classic, no coloured lining or any of that vulgarity.’

‘Oh my God, listen to us!’ Abena laughed.

****

Reza and Henry were ensconced in the spacious basement office at Reza’s Mayfair home. Giant screens covered every wall, on to which share prices were constantly projected,
so that even while eating a power breakfast Reza was always on top of any market fluctuations. He removed his tailored suit jacket, classically cut and in elegant navy, but lined in a sumptuous
purple silk. He finished the business section of his newspaper and quickly skimmed the gossip pages. Its contents made him spit with rage.

‘How could the Sorellensens have missed my party to go to Billionaire in Sardinia! Pah! I have much, much more money than Flavio Briatore,’ he spat. ‘Why shouldn’t
I
have my own nightclub?’

‘Oooh,’ Henry said, his eyes flashing, ‘you’d be a brilliant club proprietor. But you’d need to do something bigger and better than anything out there at the
moment.’

‘Go on.’ Reza looked pensive.

‘Well, I don’t know exactly, maybe a new idea like, like a club on ice, or on water.’

Reza banged his hand down hard on the desk and a vein at the side of his neck began to throb.

‘I have an idea!’ he roared. ‘A floating nightclub. I’m going to buy another boat – a motor yacht four times the size of
Deep Pleasure
, with a huge helipad
for guests to fly in from all over – and create the world’s only floating nightclub.’ He rose and began pacing the room. ‘Yes, and people will pay to come – no
fifty-euro entrance fee here, men will pay in the tens of thousands, but women will come for free. All guests will have to be invited to pay and party. It will be … a members’ club of
sorts. Henry, take notes.’

Henry was already scribbling away in his Filofax, nodding his head furiously.

‘We will cultivate an aura of exclusivity so potent that men will do anything to become members, and pay anything. And every beautiful woman the world over will kill to set her painted toe
down on this historic vessel. It will be wonderful—’

Reza was interrupted mid-flow by the ringing of one of his phones. Henry looked to see who it was.

‘It’s your brother.’

Reza paled. ‘Answer, for me Henry, tell him I am not here.’ He loosened his tie and waited.

‘Er, OK,’ Henry said. He never, ever passed on messages to Reza’s brother. He was the only person in the world who Reza seemed truly in awe of, maybe even a bit afraid of,
despite, or perhaps because, he was the polar opposite of Reza and adored by all who knew him. He was quite simply the kindest, most loving and trusting of men. He didn’t have Reza’s
financial acumen but he was comfortable enough, and much of what he did make he gave away to charitable causes, including a foundation run by his beloved wife that funded educational projects
across South East Asia.

‘Good morning, Reza’s office,’ Henry sang.

Reza watched Henry’s plucked eyebrows express shock, pity, and finally resignation as he listened to his brother shout, cry and rant down the phone for five minutes. Finally the tirade
stopped and Henry cleared his throat to speak.

‘I can see why you’d suspect your brother, of course, given the circumstances, but I know that Reza certainly did not sleep with your wife that night.’

There was a pause, then Henry continued, ‘No, no, no, I know that for a fact because Reza was at the hospital with me.’

Another pause.

‘Yes, it was a severe asthma attack and when that happens it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. There was no time to wait for an ambulance and we were already near the hospital so
Reza instructed the driver to take me there. Now, although my boss is a very special man, I can say for sure that even he couldn’t get to Dubai from London in the space of twenty
minutes.’

After the final pause, Henry began to laugh. ‘Yes, yes, it’s quite alright. I know the feeling. When we love someone that much we all sometimes become a wee bit oversensitive
don’t we. Oh of course not, no of course I won’t tell him you suspected him of anything. That’ll be our little secret. Aha … Alright, bye bye now, I’m so glad
it’s all been cleared up.’

Henry hung up the phone and looked at Reza. ‘I just hope he doesn’t ring the hospital to check.’

Reza rang a bell by the side of his desk and a uniformed maid appeared at the door.

‘Bring me the Montrachet 1978.’

‘Sir.’ She bowed and left the room, and returned carrying a dusty, ancient bottle of white wine. She held it reverently in her arms as though it were a newborn child. Reza took the
£15,000 bottle and handed it to Henry.

‘This is my most valuable bottle of wine. It’s for you.’ Henry wiped away a tear.

‘Enough of that. I’m off to my meeting. Organize some girls and a dinner for tonight.’ With that Reza turned and left the room.

Natalya had returned home to find a red slip from the Royal Mail in her letterbox. Someone had sent her a parcel and she couldn’t wait to pick it up. It can’t be
from Gregory, she reflected; she had just come from his place and he hadn’t mentioned anything. If he’d sent her something, he wouldn’t have been able to resist gloating about it.
He didn’t buy her enough presents, but when he did, he wouldn’t let her forget about it for months afterwards. ‘Wait a minute, Natalya. Look at that ring in the window over there.
Blimey, how much is it? It’s a bit like the one I got you, only the stone is smaller.’ How pathetic. No, this package was not a gift from Gregory. Her mother couldn’t afford to
send her anything. And she had no friends. By process of elimination Natalya reached the conclusion that best suited her. The gift was from Claude.

There was a time when she’d juggled multiple wealthy men. That had been lucrative, but she’d had to stop after the dangerous stunt she’d pulled last Christmas when she’d
been seeing Oleg and Gregory simultaneously. Oleg could have bought Gregory a hundred times over, so when she’d met him at a party she hadn’t hesitated in going back to his house. They
began seeing each other and each time they met she came dressed up in costume according to his instructions. Gregory must have sensed something was up as he started beating her soon after she met
Oleg, once smashing her head so fiercely against a wall that it left a dent. Oleg had seen the bruises and was outraged that she was sleeping with someone else.

One day, she arrived at Oleg’s door hunched and small-looking in a man’s greatcoat. That evening she was playing the part of a down and dirty street-walker, and everything from her
ripped stockings to the cheap PVC bustier was designed to arouse him. ‘Leave me your tramp stamp!’ he demanded. ‘Leave your mark on me. I want your hoe-bag lipstick on my schlong
and your filthy scratches on my back. I want the world to know I was savaged by a street-walking slag.’

So she used her long red costume nails to leave deep scratch marks all over him.