Sin Tropez (21 page)

‘Let me show you something.’ Reza took Tara’s hand and dragged her behind the bar. Pushing a barman out of the way he pressed a button under the counter and a small hole
appeared in the floor. ‘Come, I want to give you something very special, I can tell you like a bit of this.’

‘OK, just quickly,’ Tara faltered. She climbing down the rickety steps into the abyss, envisaging a whole cellar full of drugs. Reza followed her hastily before any of the guests
could notice. He pressed another button and the trapdoor closed above him. Dim lights flickered on, illuminating a small room lined with mirrors. A selection of handcuffs were chained to one wall,
with various oils and ointments lined up beneath them.

Tara let out a crazed scream, for once totally lost for words.

‘Aaaaah, you like a bit of role play, don’t you?’ Reza closed in on her. ‘Pretending to be scared like that; pretending this isn’t what you wanted from the very
first time you laid eyes on me.’

‘Let me out right now!’ Tara demanded.

‘You women are so cute when you pretend,’ Reza said.

Tara made a dash for the button Reza had pressed but found it needed a code to work. She heard Reza laughing softly and spun round to face him. He was already naked. She looked around
desperately for any kind of escape route but all she could see was Reza, reflected in every mirror from every angle. She screamed again.

Reza reached for an ominous-looking tube, squeezed its oily contents on to his left palm and rubbed his hands together. He held Tara’s eye throughout. Tara gagged.

‘How long have you been wanting me like this, baby?’ He bit his lip. Then he pushed her up against a mirror and squashed her face with his greasy hands. Tara bucked and struggled,
jerking her head violently from side to side. But Reza was too strong for her and covered her mouth with his.

‘Stop!’ Tara shrieked, in floods of tears.

Reza released her arms.‘But I thought this is what you wanted? You and Abena have been fighting over me from the start, both so jealous of all my girls—’

There was no time for a stunned Tara to reply because at that moment the trapdoor flew open and Sebastian Spectre landed at her feet, naked, bruised and horrendously drunk.

‘Darren!’ Reza shouted up to his minder as he scrambled into his trousers. ‘I told you to deal with him outdoors.’

Tara seized her chance. She scrambled up the steps and into the light. Never had the sight of two hundred plastered party-goers been more welcome.

‘At last!’ Natalya whooped with joy as she slid the key into the lock and stepped into Claude’s brand-new Mayfair house, an enormous, double-fronted mansion
on the same tree-lined street as Reza’s home. She had often lingered outside Reza’s house, on her way in to one of his parties, imagining what it would be like to own one of these
properties. Claude hadn’t allowed her to attend the St Tropez opening of Reza’s club, but she didn’t need Reza any more. She was already his equal.

After a carefully orchestrated display of enthusiasm for sourcing furniture and trawling interior-decorating websites, Natalya had been put in charge of getting the house ready while Claude
attended various meetings in Paris and Shanghai. She now had a fortnight to add the finishing touches. The prospect of two weeks alone in this palatial mansion was marvellous. But it did not feel
strange, or exciting. Rather, Natalya felt as though she had returned home after a long and uncomfortable journey. She sensed that this was where she belonged, that this was the life for which she
had been born but which, by some perverse joke, had been withheld from her until now.

Natalya had surprised herself – a rare occurrence – by finding that she really had enjoyed the decorating process. She surveyed the house and felt an unusual emotion swelling within
her. She was proud. This house was her first big project, and it mattered to her that Claude liked what she had done. She’d thought of everything, even having the driveway repaved to include
under-floor heating so that in winter any snow would melt, easing entrants’ passage – and particularly her own what with her collection of hazardously high heels.

The master bedroom was on the first floor but she took the lift up anyway, just because she could. The lift door opened straight on to the vast room and she threw herself on to the enormous
white bed. It was firm on her side and soft on Claude’s – she found soft beds intolerable after the wooden floorboards of her childhood. Stretching out her long legs and arms as far as
they could go, she laughed disbelievingly at how much space there was. She’d barely have to touch Claude.

She skipped over to her crocodile-skin weekend bag – her other bags had been unpacked by the staff but she had left specific instructions that this one should not be touched – and
pulled out an old wooden jewellery box. It was carved with her name and the word ‘Mıˉlestıˉba’, which meant ‘Love’ in Latvian. She pulled out the pieces
that Gregory had bought her with his wife’s money over the years. A beautiful watch inlaid with rubies, two small pairs of diamond studs and a pearl necklace. She fingered them carefully and
added them to the exquisite jewels that Claude had given her. Gregory might expect her to have nothing when she’s old and ugly, but Natalya had the beginnings of a very healthy pension plan
in the form of all these jewels. She doubted she’d need to use it, not if she got married. But she had learnt the hard way that one must always be prepared for when life deals you a bad hand.
When that happens, you either resort to Plan B, or you don’t survive.

****

‘Papa, I honestly don’t know how it’s happened again in such a short space of time. These big banks are supposed to be really secure. Perhaps it’s
internet hackers? I
have
started online banking now. Maybe that’s put me at risk.’

‘Online banking is no less secure than other forms. I thought you said they’d frozen your account. Look, I’ll transfer some money but you’ll need to return it as soon as
you’ve sorted this thing out. Shall I speak to the bank this time?’ Hugo Bridges grumbled down the phone to his daughter.

‘Oh no, no. No need for you to speak to them. I … I just spoke to the bank and they assured me that an investigation is under way, and that they’ll refund the money as soon as
they know what’s happened.’

‘Right. How much did you say you’ll need?’

‘Oh, a grand should see me through.’

‘I can send you £500 max, Tara. You’ll have to get a proper job. And do you have any plans to return home at any point? We haven’t seen you at Willowborough for a few
Sundays and your mother is worried about you. Are you eating properly?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ll be down soon, I’ve just, well I told you, I had to go to that thing last Sunday and I … I’ll come over next weekend. So when do you
think I’ll have the money?’

‘I’ll get it to your account by tomorrow.’

‘Oh thank you, Papa, that’s perfect. Well, I’ll see you at the weekend. Do take care and love to Tina.’

‘Goodbye Tara.’

Tara put down the receiver and rang her dealer. The money would be with him tomorrow.

The next morning Tara woke up late, and decided not to go into work that day. Dark circles had formed under her eyes recently, even when she didn’t feel tired. She lay
there unable to get back to sleep, not helped by the noise coming from Abena’s bedroom. Abena had taken a week off work as Sebastian had promised to take her away to make up for embarrassing
her at Reza’s club, where he’d managed to get beaten up by Reza’s minder and nearly tossed overboard. As far as Tara was aware, Sebastian hadn’t kept to his word. Instead of
whisking Abena away somewhere and leaving Tara in peace, the couple hadn’t left Abena’s bedroom in days.

Three hours later, Tara still hadn’t got up. She knew she had to eat something and start the day but she felt so lethargic. Spotting a wrap of cocaine down the side of her bed, where
she’d hidden it away from Abena’s prying eyes, she reached for it and snorted a little. Just a treat. A special breakfast so that she could face the dismal day. Before long the entire
wrap was empty.

At 8 p.m. Tara heard Abena knock on her door and buried her head under the pillow. She wasn’t in the mood for gossip now.

‘Hey,’ Abena said and sat down on Tara’s bed without waiting to be called in. ‘You OK? Sebastian and I are going out for dinner soon. You’ve been in your room all
day.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just had some stuff to do in here. You know, sorting out my CV. I might apply for that fashion PR thing I was telling you about.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ Abena said, a touch too brightly. ‘Really awesome. You should definitely do that, temping is so unreliable and I really need that money you owe me. I
can’t pay your rent next month.’

‘Sure, whatever, but let’s not talk about money now, it’s … I’ll sort you out, don’t worry.’

‘Yeah, no, whenever, I was just reminding you that’s all. Have you eaten? There’s pasta in the kitchen if you like.’

Tara got out of bed and made for the door. ‘Thanks, I’ll have some now. Have a romantic dinner.’

‘Um, aren’t you going to get dressed first?’ asked a horrified Abena. Tara was wearing only a pair of low-waisted white knickers. ‘I’d appreciate it if you
didn’t wander around naked while Sebastian’s here.’

Tara shrugged and reached for a short, sheer kaftan lying on the floor. Abena gritted her teeth but said nothing.

‘Hey Tara, how’s it going?’ Sebastian materialized in the doorway.

‘Very well indeed, thank you, sweetheart,’ Tara replied, wiping a smudge of Abena’s dark brown foundation off his nose.

‘Come on, Sebastian, let’s go.’ Abena rose and stalked out. She didn’t like the way he looked at Tara – and why couldn’t she put some clothes on for
God’s sake?

Abena had just sat down with a cup of coffee and
The Sunday Times
‘Style’ magazine when her phone rang. Irrationally cross, she glanced at the screen and saw
that the number was withheld. Probably a salesperson.

‘Hello?’ she snapped.

‘Hello, is that Abena?’ a deep American-accented voice enquired.

‘Er, yes, speaking.’ Abena racked her brains to try and identify the voice. Perhaps it was a potential employer. She detested her job and had been casting around for escape routes.
But on a Sunday?

‘It’s Carey Wallace, we met three or four months ago in St Tropez, at Larry’s party. Remember me?’

‘Oh, Carey, hi, how are you? Amazing to hear from you – of course I remember you, the super-duper producer!’

Carey laughed. ‘You’re too kind.’

‘So where are you – which country are you calling from?’

‘I’m … in London!’

‘Yippee! Me too! What are your plans? How long are you sticking around for? We should catch up.’

‘Well, that’s exactly why I’m calling. If you’re free tonight then you should come join me and a couple friends for dinner.’

‘That sounds great. Where are we going?’

‘How about Roka? On Charlotte Street. Do you like Asian food?’

‘Mmmn, sushi is my favourite.’

‘Good. Then we’re off to a fabulous start. Come to the Charlotte Street Hotel at eight and we’ll stroll down together.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

Abena lay back and grinned. She couldn’t wait to see Carey again – their evening in St Tropez had been the most fun night of all. She wondered whether Benedict would be there too
– he’d been so sweet to her at the ball, despite Sebastian’s appalling behaviour.

Abena spent most of the afternoon planning her outfit and daydreaming about the future. She mustn’t jump the gun, but if this guy was interested in her then it could lead to anything. She
imagined herself starring in Carey’s next blockbuster, a gun-toting and leather-clad hottie with Will Smith as her on-screen lover. She’d never been under any illusions about the acting
world – she’d seen too many girls stump up colossal sums for good drama schools only to end up waitressing while waiting for the breakthrough part in an unglamorous East End production.
The odds were unfavourable, the output simply not worth the effort. Besides, she was far more interested in the writing and producing side of things; that was more her style, more intellectually
and creatively challenging. But hey, if Carey wanted to catapult her right to the top after a few suppers then who was she to say no?

By 8 p.m. Abena was dressed and ready in a ruched white jersey dress, over which she’d thrown on a lightweight mac with a massively oversized collar, inspired by ‘Style’
magazine’s ‘More is More’ fashion spread. Despite her traffic-stopping outfit, every taxi she waved at sailed past. She became hot with frustration and anxiety. She hated to be
late, yet she always was. Finally, at around a quarter past eight an empty black cab pulled up.

‘Charlotte Street please.’ She climbed in and, turning on the light inside, reapplied her powder and studied her make-up in her compact.

‘You look great,’ chuckled the taxi driver, appraising her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Sorry, terribly vain of me. When I took my driving test my instructor told me I was the first person he’d ever failed not for
neglecting
the mirrors, but for looking at them
far too much,’ Abena joked.

She arrived at the Charlotte Street Hotel bar half an hour late and spotted Carey immediately. Nervous that someone like him would be unused to being kept waiting, she called his name.
‘Carey?’

He turned round and her anxiety evaporated. Carey had a broad grin on his face. ‘Hi Abena.’ He bent down and she went to kiss his cheek but he enveloped her in an enormous bear
hug.

‘I hate being late, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

‘Uh-huh, when I said 8 p.m. I didn’t mean African 8 – I’ve lived in Ghana for a while and know that over there 8 means anything from 9 p.m. to 8 a.m. the next day.’
He was milking his advantage but Abena didn’t mind.

‘Ha ha! What were you doing in Ghana – filming
Red
?’

‘Indeed. So what have you been doing since France?’

‘Well, in between trying to escape the wrath of my boss, who blames me for everything from the messiness of the stationery cupboard to the global recession, I’ve been having rather a
fun time. I was back in St Tropez just a few weeks ago – I’m not surprised so many films have been shot there, it really is a bizarre place.’