Sin Tropez (18 page)

‘Excuse me, excuse me, can somebody help me?’ Tulip shrieked across the shop floor, gesticulating wildly so that everybody turned to stare.

‘Can you help me? I need this in black too but they’ve run out of the really
large
sizes. Can anyone do something or will I have to order it in especially? My client’s a
bigger
girl.’

There was a flurry of activity on the shop floor and to Sarah’s relief, just as Tulip was about to make an announcement over the tannoy, a young shop assistant triumphantly located a size
twelve.

Tulip and Sarah added stretch jeans, some spiky, dominatrix-style heels, and silk shirts in every colour of the rainbow to their collection of eight dresses. They decided to forgo jewellery as
they didn’t have a big enough budget for that and Tulip declared that if it wasn’t diamonds then it wasn’t worth wearing. Besides, the clothes were so striking and colourful that
it would look less garish to keep accessories minimal.

‘You mustn’t look like you’ve tried too hard,’ shuddered Tulip. Sarah found this hilarious coming from a woman sporting a denim playsuit and heels, a jet-black
pudding-bowl haircut, scarlet lips and a tattoo on her left arm that read ‘Mama didn’t love me’.

‘Right, come on darling, let’s pay up now and go sort your hair out and get you some beauty treatments.’

The shop assistant didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘That’ll be £11,130 please.’ Sarah gripped the counter to steady herself as Tulip handed over Willy’s company credit
card.

Despite wanting to murder Tulip, Sarah returned home with a spring in her step. A new haircut framed her face and swung elegantly around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure whether it was
simply because she was looking out for it, but she sensed she was turning more heads than usual on the tube. She could hardly wait to show Si her new look.

‘Hi Elton, this is my girlfriend Abbi.’

Sebastian shouted above the noise as the paparazzi clicked away in the background. Sir Elton and Abena kissed hello before he moved on to greet the Beckhams, in town for a few days. A
photographer moved in to collect Abena’s details.

‘Hi, what’s your name please?’

And then to Sebastian, ‘Sebastian Spectre, this way please.’

Sebastian ignored him.

‘It’s Abena Ankrah, should I spell that for you?’

‘Ooh yes please! I’ll need help with that one!’ the photographer replied.

‘Let me write it for you. Who are you with?’

‘
Hello!
magazine.’

Delighted, Abena made a mental note to pick up a copy next week. It would be wonderful to have a record of her and Sebastian dressed up together without having to ask him for a photograph and
risk looking over-keen. On the other hand, hadn’t Sebastian just referred to her as his girlfriend? It struck Abena as much too soon, especially given his playboy reputation, but she was
elated nonetheless. She was determined to forget past broken-hearts and not be too guarded with him. She would do everything to make this work. Right now they were at Elton John’s White Tie
and Tiara Ball and she hadn’t had such a fun evening out since she and Tara had gone wild in St Tropez. Waitresses were circulating with trays of champagne, weaving through the six hundred
guests milling around on the perfectly manicured lush green lawns.

The theme of this year’s ball, held in the Old Windsor home of Sir Elton and his partner David, was inspired by sixteenth-century Mogul India. Sitar players and the tinkle of temple bells
on dancers’ ankles made enticing background music for the spectacular scene, lit by flickering candles and the last glow of the evening sun. Men in dress coats, white bow ties and colourful
waistcoats strutted like peacocks among the women, dramatic in floor-length gowns and sparkling tiaras. It seemed that every other person was famous, and those who weren’t were discreetly
managing, finding, and paying the famous, be it to appear in their films or advertise their mega-brands. It was people-watching heaven.

Dinner was served in a magnificent white marquee designed like a miniature Taj Mahal and decorated with tropical vines and huge lanterns. Abena picked up a menu and thought she’d gone to
heaven. Courgette blossoms filled with feta, toasted walnuts, lamb and morel korma with truffle oil and basmati rice, followed by platters of exotic fruits and pistachio ice cream.

She was seated between Sebastian and his father, Simeon. ‘Hands off, Dad,’ Sebastian said. It was clearly meant to be a joke but there was no laughter in his eyes.

Simeon grinned at Abena, who couldn’t help but notice that hotness was a Spectre family trait. She grinned back. Simeon’s latest girlfriend, who’d been invited despite his
wife’s presence on the table, was to his right. Alex and his date – a hair-tossing brunette called Sammie – completed the picture.

Drink loosened the revellers’ tongues and conversation soon flowed freely. Abena and Simeon found themselves in a light-hearted debate about
droit de seigneur
in the medieval
period. After conceding that maybe Abena had a point, and that allowing rich men the right to sleep with any maiden on their lands on the night of her wedding was
not
a civilized way to run
a country, he ran his eyes appraisingly over her body and reached over to slap his son on the back.

Turning to Abena, he asked, ‘So what did you bother with studying for?’

‘Sorry? Er, to give me options, I guess.’

‘A girl like you has enough options already, no? I’m sure you could take your pick of the men here.’ He winked suggestively. ‘Oh, wait a minute, don’t tell me you
mean
career
options?’

He turned to the rest of the table. ‘Help!’ he cried. ‘This one’s about to take off her bra and burn it.’

‘Now this I’d like to see,’ drawled Sebastian.

‘Off with your bra!’ shouted Alex across the table.

Simeon picked up his knife and fork and started banging on the tabletop, chanting, ‘Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!’

The two brothers joined in.

When Abena giggled, showing no sign of offence, Simeon turned to his youngest son. ‘You’ve got yourself a goer here, son. Better look after her.’

Sebastian leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘I knew my folks would love you.’

Abena wasn’t so sure about his mother. Lucy’s steely glare had pierced the side of her face throughout the meal, and when Simeon rushed off to the bathroom, his wife jumped at the
chance to seize his seat and interrogate Abena.

‘What a delightful dress you have on. Elie Saab, no?’ Lucy enquired.

Abena glanced down at her dress, a designer gem she’d found languishing at the bottom of a pile in a Notting Hill thrift shop. ‘Yes, it’s Elie Saab, and yours is fabulous
too.’ So far so good, but she was still cautious. Her face had been burning with the heat of Lucy’s stare.

‘Thank you, I thought it looked pretty with these.’ Lucy fingered the string of pearls nestling in her crêpey bosom. ‘They were passed down from my grandmother. I think
she wore them with her debutante ball dress. We’re a very old family; Sebastian has a long tradition to uphold.’ She tittered.

Abena smiled back sweetly. She knew that Lucy’s grandfather had been a relatively successful tradesman, but by no means the aristocrat Lucy would have liked him to be. She also knew that
Lucy had been a struggling waitress when she and her husband had first become acquainted, long after Simeon had built his advertising empire from nothing.

‘Where do you come from … A-bee-na is it? Do forgive me; I struggle with African names.’

‘Yes, it’s Abena. I was born in London, and my family is originally from Ghana.’

‘Oh.’ Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘It must be very different for you here in the English countryside. How long have you been in Britain? You sound almost more English than I
do.’ Lucy gave another shrill titter.

‘I was born in London,’ Abena repeated, ‘but my family are based in Kent. I went to school in Sussex and then on to Oxford, where I would often venture out with friends into
the Oxfordshire countryside.’ Abena didn’t mention that those breaks had usually consisted of alcohol-fuelled rampages through the woods, organized by the cross-dressing party boys of
the weird and wonderful Piers Gaveston Society – an Oxford institution. ‘So I suppose I am fairly used to the English countryside.’

Happily, Abena didn’t have to carry on the conversation, for all of a sudden the chattering that had filled the marquee stopped, and the charity auction was announced. With lots including
a luxury trip to India accompanied by Richard Gere, and a Bentley Continental GTC, the marquee soon raised an incredible £4 million. But it was the final item that really got everyone
excited: the chance to have a medley of award-winning singers record a personalized CD in the winner’s honour. The bidding was furious. When the bid reached £500,000 Abena thought that
must be the limit, so she was shocked to see a mumsy red-head on the adjacent table throw off her jacket and shout across the room to the previous bidder, ‘That all you got? I’ll raise
you £100,000!’ The crowd whooped, cheering on the charitable largesse. The auctioneer was in his element.

‘You gonna top that then or what?’ he shouted to the other bidder, a fat man in his forties. ‘You gonna let a woman trample all over you?’

The crowd roared with laughter.

‘£650,000,’ retorted the fat man.

‘Ooooh, someone’s got a small penis!’ mocked the auctioneer. ‘Come on lady, please. Someone needs to put this show-off in his place!’

‘That someone is me,’ she screamed. She took to her feet in excitement and shook down her curls from their uptight bun. ‘One million pounds!’

All eyes swivelled round to see if her competition could top that. He waved the auctioneer away in good humour and shook his head to signify defeat. Victory was the red-head’s and the
crowd put their hands together and clapped her on.

Sir Elton even took to the stage and serenaded her.

By now, even po-faced Lucy had relaxed. She beckoned Sebastian to follow her on to the dance floor and began a strange variant of the tango, cackling as she led her son across the floor. Simeon
had sloped off with his girlfriend and Alex appeared to have been kidnapped by two sweet gay guys who clearly fancied him rotten. Annoyed with Sebastian for deserting her, Abena gathered up her
clutch and went for a wander through the grounds.

Having done a fifteen-minute circuit, Abena was just about to sit back down at her still deserted table when she caught sight of someone who looked vaguely familiar. She realized with a jolt
that it was Benedict Lima, the bearded man on the boat in St Tropez, now with a very seductive-looking woman on his arm.

‘Ben!’ she called, grateful for somebody to talk to even if they hadn’t exactly hit it off when they’d met. She hurried across the marquee’s shiny floor in her
precariously high heels, conscious that she was tottering in the way that always really annoyed her in other girls. ‘We meet again!’

‘Abena!’ Ben started in surprise, catching her about the waist as she tripped and fell slightly.

‘These shoes are a bloody nightmare!’ Abena cursed.

‘Well, at least you look good.’ Ben smiled, disparagingly.

Abena checked out his date – a doe-eyed, wavy-haired Indian girl with that enviable combination of a slender body and naturally large, shapely breasts. How on earth did he pull her, and
what was he doing here in the first place?

As if reading her mind, Ben announced, ‘My friend Hasna is an actress – we met when I was working on a film she was in and she invited me along.’

‘Oh right. I’m here with my boyfriend, Sebastian Spectre,’ Abena said proudly, turning to point him out. They both looked in the direction of her table, where Sebastian and
Alex were playing some sort of drinking game with two very excitable raven-haired actresses. Sebastian had taken off his waistcoat and one shoe and was shooting Alex amused looks.

Sensing her embarrassment, Ben drew Abena and Hasna off to the dance floor. Filling glasses for all three of them, he started to dance with both girls, until Abena had cheered up slightly.

Abena watched Ben dancing. He had rhythm and danced in an easy, unselfconscious manner, but as he noticed her watching him he camped it up, wiggling obscenely to make her laugh.

‘We love to dance in Brazil,’ he smiled.

‘Oh, is that where you’re from?’

‘My family is, yes, but I’ve been living in LA until pretty recently. I—’

‘Angel, where have you been?’ Sebastian charged over and grabbed Abena around the waist, kissing her and singing love songs into her ear, loudly, off key and completely at odds with
the music that was playing. He tried to slip a hand down her top but Abena hit his hand away playfully, ecstatic to have him back. She was oblivious to the look on Ben’s face as he watched
them, and to the flirtatious glances Sebastian was giving Hasna over her shoulder. All Abena was aware of was Sebastian’s magnetic presence, and how dull she felt when, seconds later, he was
off again.

‘Well, it worked for a while at least,’ Ben muttered.

‘What worked?’ Abena asked, surprised.

‘You made your boyfriend jealous … Nice to know I’m good for something, huh?’

‘That’s ridiculous! I don’t
need
to make my boyfriend jealous. And what business is it of yours anyway?’

‘None. But I know girls like you, tripping about in your heels, expecting everyone to fall for you – twisting men round your fingers.’

‘What do you mean, girls like me?’

‘Well, you know … gorgeous, but … you know, just flirt their way through life, not a care in the world.’

Abena shivered as the evening began to cool, annoyed but also slightly flattered.

Watching her, Ben removed his dress coat and went to drape it around her shoulders when, suddenly, the marquee fell silent. Abena looked up to see an ocean of awestruck women with their mouths
hanging open and turned to find out what was causing such a stir. She caught her breath as she watched Sebastian stride coolly through the parted crowds, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein
underpants and a single Turnbull & Asser sock. Beating Ben to it, he enveloped her in a bear hug and kissed her ravenously.