Sin Tropez (37 page)

Natalya knew she must never underestimate Claude’s need to be in control. To never let anyone get one over on him. When Claude had started out in business, he had wanted to make $10
million. Then it became $100 million. Then $1 billion. There was always somebody richer for Claude to try and outshine – and there was always a hungry young chancer waiting to pounce if he
messed up. He could never take his finger off the pulse. He must remain in control at all times.

Natalya ran through the historic streets of Mayfair and down to Piccadilly, past the Wolseley and the Ritz and then into the tranquil oasis of Green Park. Claude wanted her back in half an hour,
but it felt wonderful to breathe some fresh air at last. She kept looking over her shoulder, jumping at every shadow. She could never quite feel free, even when she was alone. Amid the crowds of
shoppers and tourists, she didn’t notice the small Korean man training his long lens on her from inside his nondescript car. He took another photo before placing the camera in the glove
compartment beside his loaded gun.

****

Tara couldn’t believe how quickly the weeks had flown by. It seemed ages ago now since she’d been at rehab, and so far she hadn’t relapsed. Her father’s
condition had affected her more than she let on; it wasn’t so much the alcohol, it was the overdose. As miserable and misunderstood as Tara had thought she was, the thought of losing her life
was appalling. She didn’t want to die, so the fact that her father had deemed life so hopeless that he was prepared, no,
willing
, to give it up had had an immensely sobering effect on
her.

Lately, Tina had been the most loving and selfless wife and mother Tara had ever known her to be and, for her part, Tara was avoiding histrionics or confrontation of any kind. It was blissfully
relaxing to be in the country and she so enjoyed riding through the lush Cotswold hills and spending time in the library reading books and magazines, even rediscovering some of her old texts from
her English course at Oxford. But there was still something missing. She longed for Philip. His letters had dried up now and she assumed that, for him, their friendship had gone the way of all
friendships made in such intense, artificial situations. The two of them had felt so intimately connected through their shared problems, but now that their issues had been resolved and they’d
each returned to their normal lives, perhaps he couldn’t even remember any more how close they’d been. But Tara remembered. She missed Philip every minute of every waking hour –
and most of her sleeping hours too.

She tried desperately to forget him by getting stuck into her work. Abena had suggested Tara try to launch herself as a freelance fashion stylist, which would give her the freedom she needed as
well as the chance to indulge her creative side. She had already started sending out emails to friends at magazines to let them know of her plans, and she was organizing a bunch of test shoots with
model and photographer friends so she could create a portfolio to show prospective clients. She hoped Natalya would test for free. Now that she’d been booked for the Mirror Mirror campaign,
Natalya was becoming quite a name. She wouldn’t contact her just yet though. Not many people knew that Tara was already out of rehab and she wasn’t quite ready for the inevitable flood
of calls, which might tempt her to start partying again. When the time was right she would rejoin her old life.

****

Simon Tamarand had reacted to the painful break-up with Sarah, the only woman he’d ever been in love with, in the only way he knew how: he threw himself into his routine.
Like clockwork he was up at 6.45 every day, fitting in an hour at the gym before work. He found it invigorated him, and it gave him less time to torture himself with thoughts of Sarah. In addition
to his tennis at the weekend he had started playing Sunday League football, and every Friday night without fail he went out drinking with the lads who worked in credit-control at his office.

The upside of this post-break-up routine was that his body was incredible. His torso was rock hard and his arms and back rippled. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on him, and this
didn’t go unnoticed on a lads’ night out. Having been with Sarah for most of his adult life, he was both amazed and pleased at how easy he found it to pull.

This particular Friday evening was cold and gloomy, but Simon was excited, or as excited as he could get these days without Sarah in his life. The big boss had intimated only a few hours earlier
that Simon was up for promotion very soon, but he just had to have a word with Simon’s immediate superior, Dan, about the exact remuneration package. Consequently Simon was determined to try
and impress Dan – a legendary drinker – when they went out that evening.

Simon hated the competitive point-scoring that often happened on their lads’ nights out and was relieved when the suggestion that they play ‘Rough-Girl Rodeo’ – where the
loser of a drinking game had to pull the ugliest girl in the club – was roundly rejected. Unfortunately for Simon, who had always felt strongly about the plight of sex workers, the
alternative to ‘RGR’ was a trip to a lap-dancing club in Soho.

As they approached the club, hidden away in a side street, Simon wondered if it was too late to just turn around and go home. He felt horrible entering a place where girls titillated men for a
living. He’d heard all the arguments, including the one that ‘some of them really enjoy it’, but he wasn’t so sure. He felt that these must be desperate women and he, by
paying to watch them, was an exploiter. But he was here now, and he didn’t want to look like a loser in front of Dan, so he’d better get himself a drink and pretend to enjoy it.

Three beers later, Simon was starting to feel less guilty. After all, Sarah had liked making love, most of the time. And since Sarah, he’d done it with tons of girls who’d clearly
wanted him. They had obviously enjoyed the sex immensely, so for these girls to be getting paid to turn him on was surely a bonus for them? Downing his fourth pint he nodded his head,
absentmindedly confirming his thoughts. Yes, a bonus! Only now did he in fact allow himself a closer look at the girls. The blonde up on stage didn’t really do it for him, she was too
skinny.

But, wow! That brunette in the corner was something else. Clad in only a skimpy gold thong and high heels, her breasts completely bare, she noticed him looking at her and smiled, setting her
tray of empty glasses down at the bar. Then she walked slowly over to him with long, deliberate strides. Simon was mesmerized by her dark hair tumbling down her back, her tiny waist and her
astonishing, surgically enhanced breasts, which jutted out invitingly as she bent over him. As she whispered in his ear, her left nipple was just inches from his now watering mouth.

‘My name’s Cathy, I give private dances.’

She reached for his palm and pulled him towards a booth in the corner of the dingy bar. He followed her unquestioningly.

He sat down and looked up at her, holding his breath. His cock had long ago sprung to attention. She moved rhythmically and sensually – dancing had never been a strong point of
Sarah’s. She turned round and slowly inched down her golden thong, bending forward so that her round bottom was close enough to his face that he could almost lick it. And then, so cruelly,
she shimmied back into her thong and announced she’d finished. Simon was so frustrated and turned on that he wanted to cry, or jump on her, but he could see a great big bouncer eyeing him
suspiciously, or was it pitifully? Pulling out a wad of £20 notes, everything he had in his pocket, he gave it to her. Her face lit up at such generosity.

Cathy thanked him and wiggled off, dropping a bit of paper in his lap as she left. ‘£300 for the night, meet me outside Café Boheme’, followed by her phone number.

Simon hurried out of the bar to Café Boheme. He saw her immediately and took her in his arms, kissing her before she had a chance to say anything. The only time he’d seen a
prostitute was watching
Pretty Woman
with Sarah, and he seemed to remember that they had some rule that they didn’t kiss clients. He’d been dying to kiss Cathy all evening.
Bundling her into a taxi he breathed his address to the driver, his fingers already inside Cathy’s thong. He wasn’t sure if she was just a good actress but she seemed to fancy him like
mad. He chose to believe it. After all, he had been by far the youngest guy in the bar and right now he had a body like Brad Pitt in
Fight Club
.

Simon soon got Cathy home and into his bed. The sex itself was frantic and short. No sooner had he withdrawn, spent, than he discarded his condom, paid her, and called a taxi. He just wanted her
out. After she left he jumped into the shower and let the water rush over him for a long time, until it began to run cold over his body. Climbing into bed he fell into a restless sleep.

Simon had hoped he’d feel better in the morning, but he didn’t. He’d never wanted Sarah’s comforting body so much, but even if he ever did find a way to make it up to her
for being so unreasonable the day they split up, she’d probably never forgive him for what he’d done last night. Oh gorgeous, loving Sarah. He wished he could turn back the clock.

****

While Sarah’s ex thought of her, she thought of Bertrand and Rory. That night on the boat now seemed an extraordinary dream. At the time she’d felt like a sexy,
liberated, selfish bitch of a woman. Until then, she’d had only one lover and had not known that she could love like that, without being in love.

From the moment she’d met Bertrand he’d established himself as her elder, her superior and her protector. He’d become her professional mentor, and if the lines between pedagogy
and passion had been temporarily blurred, all Sarah now wanted to do was restore the status quo and alleviate her guilt. She felt both ashamed at having drenched herself in the debauchery she and
Si had once so vehemently disapproved of – and guilty when her thoughts repeatedly flashed back to the delicious image of Rory’s tongue flicking her nipples. But mostly she just felt
intensely sad at not having Si in her life any more. He may have behaved like a jealous, narrow-minded prig towards the end, making her choose between her work commitments – so what if
‘work’ happened to involve a glamorous Christmas party in St Tropez – and him, but she still loved him. She made her way pensively to work.

All eyes were on her when she arrived at Willy Eckhardt Productions that morning. Linda, the receptionist, tittered as she walked through the foyer. Gloria barely looked up at her when Sarah
passed her desk, just turned a deep shade of red as she nodded hello before turning sharply away to gather her papers. Finally arriving at her own desk, Sarah saw with surprise that Willy was
waiting beside it, looking unusually serious. She felt faint.

Willy must have somehow found out. What a humiliating way to lose one’s job. And if she got the sack, how on earth was she going to pay her rent? She forced a smile.

‘Morning, Willy, you’re in bright and early today!’

‘Do you have a minute, Sarah? I ’d like to discuss something with you, if you’ll pop into my office.’

‘Sure. Sounds ominous.’ She giggled, frantically.

‘I think you can handle it,’ was his reply. Not bothering to remove her coat or set her bag down at her desk, Sarah followed her boss to his office. Her notice period was supposed to
be three months, but if she were sacked for ‘misconduct’, where would that leave her legally? Was it really misconduct? Oh goodness, of course it’s misconduct; but professional
misconduct? She was still weighing up the implications when she was jolted out of her reverie by Willy’s outstretched hand.

‘Congratulations!’ he beamed.

Baffled, she smiled, unaware that she’d done anything worthy of commendation – rather the opposite she thought. It seemed like from the moment she’d bought her first designer
dresses with Tulip she had kick-started an escalating chain of seedy and exhilarating events.

Willy continued, ‘Since bringing you on board, my life has been a whole lot easier.’

Sarah thought how she loved his upbeat twang and jaunty enthusiasm. ‘Gosh. Thank you!’

‘No. Thank
you.
You’ve been super efficient, super hardworking and have happily worked overtime without a single grumble – always a smile on your face. Come on, say it
with me …’

‘Great minds smile alike!’ chorused the two of them. Both grinning inanely.

‘And people have absolutely
raved
about you. My clients love you, as do the press. Here – take a look at this.’ He reached for a press cutting lying on his desk and read
it aloud: ‘Of course none of this would have been possible if it weren’t for Sarah Hunter’s hard work and dedication to this charitable cause. Sarah, stunning executive assistant
to American actor-turned-music-mogul Willy Eckhardt, has worked tirelessly to ensure that victims of such tragic disasters have access to the financial and social support they need in the aftermath
…’

Sarah blushed and lowered her eyes.

‘Sarah, what you’ve done is you’ve allowed me to pretty much ignore the day-to-day running of the production company so that I can concentrate on my other businesses and my own
music. These other enterprises are now all at a stage where I can take them to the next level. Yes!’ He clapped his hands together and pointed at Sarah. ‘And to do this I’m going
to need to devote even more of my energy and resources to them.’

Sarah still didn’t quite see what Willy was getting at.

‘So, what I’m saying, Sarah, is that I ’d like to formally offer you a promotion to the position of Global Head of Communications for Willy Eckhardt Productions.’

Sarah paused to take in the news before audibly exhaling and resuming normal breathing patterns – she had held her breath for the entirety of Willy’s declaration.

‘Phew. I … I don’t know what to say, I … I’m flattered, and, heavens, I’d love to accept, but won’t Gloria feel that I’m stepping on her
toes?’

‘It was Gloria who put you forward for the job.’

‘Oh wonderful!’

‘And so I ’d like to offer you a salary of £65,000 per annum, with a raise after six months, subject to appraisal. You’ll also be getting your own personal assistant, and
I’ll sadly need to find a new assistant for myself. I think, actually, that overseeing the sourcing of the new staff will be your last project in your current role. The promotion will come
into effect as soon as I’ve confirmed who’ll replace me as MD of Willy Eckhardt Productions.’