Authors: Aita Ighodaro
And so it was that the two girls spent their first drunken evening together. As it progressed into the early hours of the morning, each recognized in the other a far more feisty and fun
proposition than the deputy prime minister, who was now dribbling in the corner of his chauffeur-driven limousine. It was unclear whose idea it had been to risk scuppering the poor man’s
chances of ever making it to the Top Job, but in the morning he was found by his concerned driver, slumped in the corner of the vehicle and dressed in nothing but his socks, with his navy tie tied
neatly around his cock. Neither girl was anywhere to be seen.
Three years later, Tara and Abena, now relocated to the bright lights of London and determined to make their mark on the city, were the best of friends and still as mischievous as ever.
****
Having accepted the invitation to the South of France, Abena and Tara were growing more and more excited about the impending excess that awaited them there. Finally, at the
start of the first May bank holiday, it was time to set off. Scrambling into the black chauffeur-driven Mercedes that Reza had sent to the apartment, Abena asked for her Nikki Beach CD to be pumped
up as they headed off to Farnborough, the private airport where Reza’s plane awaited them.
Pulling up at Farnborough, she tried not to gawp at the scene unfolding before them. Stepping out of an assortment of vehicles, each of which alone might have cost more than her rented
apartment, was an array of some of the most breathtaking beauties she had ever seen. She glanced at Tara, who was looking stonily ahead at the surreal sight. They had both been among the bigger
fish in the small ponds of school and even university, but this was a different league altogether. These girls were supermodel standard. Moreover, observed Abena, one or two of them actually
were
bona-fide supermodels. She watched a six-foot Slavic blonde she recognized from the pages of
Vogue
wait in a shimmering black Ferrari with alligator-skin seats until its driver
had raced around to her side and opened the door for her. Nervous excitement and exhilaration swelled in the pit of her stomach. She looked at Tara again, wanting her to share in her thrill but her
face was set in a rigid expression Abena knew all too well.
Nobody liked being outshone or made to feel insignificant, but Abena knew that unless she could shake Tara out of this mood, she’d be haughty, rude and unsociable to cover her insecurity.
Or worse, she’d make a beeline for the nearest narcotic and get absolutely off her head, leaving her vulnerable to the wolfish men who were surveying the women appreciatively.
These men were themselves outdone by some even more predatory females, who matched their looks fiercely, eating them greedily with hungry eyes framed by painstakingly threaded arched eyebrows,
some concealed under big dark glasses. Their figures were gym honed and Atkins dieted to an alien-like perfection. Clothes were smart-casual but perilously body conscious and very, very expensive.
Abena noticed lots of cashmere that didn’t really know what to do with itself. There was a sweater vying for attention but it couldn’t possibly be worn because, well, why cover up such
a generous bosom? So instead it was draped over a pair of lean shoulders clad in a skimpy, low-cut, crocheted white vest top. The cashmere sweater offender was a smiley brunette and was also in
tight white jeans, a Fendi belt and high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals. She was apparently called Tatiana and had a gorgeous face. Her eyes were wonderful and shockingly bright, and her blow-dry was so
voluminous that her hair was big and silky, almost reaching the small of her back. It was ever so seductive, the perfect
digestif
to wash down an immense visual feast.
‘She’s just got too much of everything hasn’t she?’ Abena quipped. ‘It’s like God got a bit sleepy creating her and forgot that he’d already done her
boobs and eyes and hair and ended up giving her a double portion of it all. Do you think the breasts are natural?’
Tara snorted. ‘She looks like she’s just stepped out of a budget issue of
Nuts
magazine. And tight white on tight white? That combination should be made illegal outside of
Essex. Sweater on shoulders? Should be banned full stop.’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen you pulling a white on white before – I certainly have, not to mention double denim, a sequin catsuit and loads of leopardskin.’
‘Yeah, but hon, when we do it, we do it with integrity, you know, fashion integrity … aware of the context and the surrounds in which we’re inflicting a certain look on the
world.’ Tara broke off with a grin when she realized how ridiculous she sounded. ‘But OK, OK, the girl she’s talking to, even
I
can’t deny that she is truly
breathtaking – but then you can tell she’s a complete bitch.’
‘Takes one to know one it seems.’ Abena tickled Tara’s bare underarm and was pleased to see her crack another smile then give a throaty laugh before scrabbling in her bag and
adding a shiny slick of lip gloss. Good. Tara was back in the game.
As Abena and Tara gossiped, Natalya made half-hearted small talk with Tatiana but she wasn’t really listening. She ran her eyes across the selection of men. Who would be her oligarch? Sure
as hell not the one in the pale blue silk shirt, currently undressing her with his eyes. Despite his mahogany tan – a useful factor in calculating a man’s net worth – he had only
undone two of the top buttons on his shirt, not the three that would indicate he was a true member of the exclusive club known as the super-rich, membership of which she’d long been angling
for. She checked his watch, which only confirmed her prior observation. His Patek was last year’s model. She’d wager he was worth something pretty pitiful, twenty mill, perhaps, on a
good day. In the current climate, Forbes would halve that. Not that he’d come anywhere near making their list. The next man’s customized new Rolex had the opposite problem – so
big and flash on his wrist, Natalya wondered how he could even fit his hand into his pocket to reach for his wallet. It was too … obvious; he was clearly trying too hard, a pretender. Even
Gregory could buy his overweight arse, so that ruled him out. She turned to the guy he was chatting to and perked up – a hundred mill at a guess and he’s just bought himself a new
watch, a new car and a new woman (the supermodel waiting by his black Ferrari had been dating an actor last month) so must have had a good year; his stock was on the up. Finally she spotted Reza.
Two billion and rising.
Unlike Heathrow, at Farnborough one only needed to arrive fifteen minutes before take-off, which cut short the girls’ sizing up of the men and each other. Before Abena and Tara had a
chance to panic, or change their minds altogether, they were swooped upon by a grinning Reza in his customary leisure ensemble of blue jeans, brown loafers, crocodile-skin belt, and tight white
shirt stretched over his hairless orangey-brown chest. He made a big show of kissing each one of them on both corners of the mouth, which, he seemed to feel, counted legitimately as part of the
cheek. Then, taking both girls’ hands in his, he lifted them high above his head so that their short summer dresses rose up dangerously, and proceeded to do a peculiar jig. Gyrating his
pelvis from side to side as his surprisingly pert bottom strained against the scant material of his jeans, he threw his triumphant face upward towards the heavens and roared ‘Where the fuck
is St Tropez? Come on baby – all aboard the jet.’
Seconds later Reza’s assistant, Henry, whom both girls had come to adore, shimmied over with his boyfriend, Anders, a young Dutch singer with a new rock-band. Abena ran to hug him as he
led them to the aircraft. The plane was streamlined and compact, in dark teal with a red-and-white stripe across its side. From the outside it was surprisingly understated and quite beautiful.
‘Not as flamboyant as you’d expect from the big man is it? But then my boss is shrewd enough not to let pleasure get in the way of business. He parties like there’s no tomorrow
but he also needs to be taken seriously when doing deals and if he happens to want investment from an abstaining tycoon whose wife wears a burqa, then it doesn’t look great to have a crystal
replica of a naked woman embellishing the wing of his PJ,’ explained Henry, ushering them in after Reza. Abena was surprised at how few seats there were, each surrounded by acres of
space.
‘Oh, so sad,’ whispered Tara, ‘there’ll be no room on the PJ for Ms Vogue and the rest of her posse.’ Henry, having followed her envious gaze towards the other
girls, confirmed that they’d be flying with Eric, the tall Swedish financier she’d glimpsed earlier. The two groups would reconvene once they reached France.
Just as she thought they were in the clear and that there were to be no models joining them, Tara saw with irritation that the very slender, young-looking blonde with choppy layers and an
angelic face was tottering towards the plane. Doubtless an evil old witch, she thought bitchily. ‘Here comes Slutlana,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Aah Natalya, how are you sweetheart, meet Abena and Tara,’ said Henry, introducing the girls to each other. Directed to a seat beside the newcomer, Abena was unsure which was
lovelier to look at: Natalya herself or the sleek, beige and dark brown interior of the plane. The leather upholstered chairs were vast and butter-soft and could be reclined right back to become a
bed. Each place was ready stocked with a selection of current newspapers and magazines, and there were bottles of Evian and tall crystal glasses by the arm rests. Reza hadn’t been able to
resist a little personalization here, so there was a gold company crest embedded in each glass. The uniformed captain introduced himself, pointing out the fully stocked mini-bar and the freshly
baked cakes, snacks and savoury treats ranging from cucumber sandwiches to sushi and caviar, which Reza always had specially sourced.
Tara had been staring surreptitiously at Natalya, who was, in turn, staring out of the window looking bored. ‘Abbi,’ she whispered, ‘look at her neck.’
‘Oh my God!’ Abena gasped. A patch of skin on the side of Natalya’s neck that should have been covered by her hair was exposed with the twist of her head to reveal an angry red
welt.
A few more people filed into the aircraft and eventually the last arrival was seated. The male passengers were mostly either employed by Reza or were potential business clients. As well as Henry
and Anders there was a silver-haired Englishman called Piers and Reza’s two right-hand men, Darren and Fadi. Burly Darren was his minder and Fadi was the money man, which meant that he
literally followed Reza around with a fortified briefcase filled with the £50 notes that Reza needed to pay for things on a day-to-day basis. The female passengers were all attractive.
Besides Tara, Abena and Natalya there were two Italian girls who appeared to be about seventeen and barely spoke English, and two older, ultra-groomed brunettes in daringly, if not commendably,
skimpy outfits who looked with disapproval at the ‘mere children’ around them.
‘Mutton-dressed-as lamb alert,’ Tara whispered. ‘Next thing you know my mother will be out here.’
Abena digested the first woman’s look: a small Prada bra top with high-waisted short-shorts – ropey enough on the anorexic-looking teenagers who exhibited it on the runway, let alone
unleashed here. The second woman was also falling out of one of those looks that should never, ever be allowed to leave the catwalk. ‘Hmmn, certainly a clever time-saving trick – put
your beachwear on
before
you reach your holiday destination. I’m quite tickled by it,’ she murmured.
Reza looked over the inhabitants of his shiny teal toy as a king might survey his kingdom. He thought of his childhood, of growing up with his Syrian father and Belgian mother, living first in
Syria and then in different Middle Eastern countries, so that he and his brother were constantly being dragged around and pulled out of new schools. Somehow his brother had always managed to
adjust. He’d done well and been happy everywhere, while he, Reza, had been the misfit. But that was then. He leaned back, letting his lips curl into an awful smile. If the kids who’d
picked on him at school could only see him now. But then, they could, couldn’t they, he smirked, glancing at his picture in the business pages of
The Times
.
Reza recalled the strange dream he’d had the previous night, still mildly aroused by it. He’d dreamt he lived in a mythical land where he had the gift of unlimited ejaculations. But
as he came, all his produce morphed into a torrent of £50 notes so profuse that he filled entire seas with money. And then the girls appeared like mermaids, bikini-clad and swimming around in
the notes in ecstasy. Mmmn, marvellous young girls. There was Lilith, who he’d asked out as a spotty adolescent and who’d laughed cruelly in his face. Well she wasn’t laughing
here. Then Farah appeared. She’d agreed to one date with him because his mother had paid her – and then nipped to the loo during lunch and never returned. All the young beauties
he’d ever wanted, who he still seethed at now for spurning him, were present, thrashing around in his seas of passion. They chased after the notes and whenever they got hold of one were
amazed to find that it was no longer Her Majesty the Queen’s face emblazoned upon it, but Reza’s own, complete with dazzling tan and glinting white teeth.
Now, as his plane roared down the runway and sailed into the sky, a frisson of excitement rippled through the cabin. Reza reached into the mini-bar by his seat and pulled out a bottle of
champagne. ‘Dooooooooom,’ he chanted at Fadi, Henry and Darren, who immediately sang back in unison ‘Pé, Pé, Pérignooooooon.’ Then he shook the bottle
hard, popped the cork and unleashed his fizz all over the shrieking passengers, spraying them and the immaculate interior.
‘Open up, Ciara,’ he ordered, leaning forward to pour the champagne directly into the pretty teenager’s ready and willing mouth as she thrust out her chest and threw her head
back, damp hair falling wantonly everywhere.
Henry opened another bottle and poured Reza a glass before helping him off with his loafers.