Sin Tropez (6 page)

Abena and Tara were the first of the girls to arrive, both clad in figure-hugging mini-dresses. Abena shimmered in a navy-blue skin-tight Roberto Cavalli number embellished with sequins that
came right up to the neck at the front but was cut almost indecently low at the back to reveal an expanse of toned flesh. She had teamed this with a pair of flat gold gladiator sandals – the
dress was foxy enough without heels, and besides, there were so many amazingly tall model types around that she figured she was better off going for the enchantingly petite and feminine effect,
which made even the weediest of men feel as big and strong as Spartacus when she coquettishly looked up at them from under her curly dark lashes. Tara, however, had pulled out all the stops, and in
five-inch heels was over six feet tall. She had opted for a black vintage Alaia bandeau dress. It needed no embellishment; she would let her whippet-like figure speak for itself. The men, with the
exception of Reza, had arrived earlier, and now shot eager looks at the assembling delights. As Natalya and three tall Eastern European blondes strode across the room towards their table, all legs
and big hair, Piers smirked. They had the attention of every single table in the restaurant and that was just as he liked it.

Pair by pair, women kept arriving to join the group. Striking women vastly outnumbered the men, who promptly set about making energetic displays of largesse, waving vigorously for rare bottles
of champagne and enquiring after their favourite brands of cigar for after dinner. A place at the head of the table was reserved for Reza, but everybody else just pulled up a chair wherever there
was a space. Piers grinned at Eric, a fellow financier, and winked in the direction of Tatiana, whose huge breasts threatened to tumble right out of her flimsy silk vest and knock over her Bellini
each time she shook her long tresses from one shoulder to the other.

‘So, I, er, think I made a mistake asking my latest “project” to come join us out in France tomorrow. There’s already more than I can handle on this side of the
Channel,’ Piers told Eric, looking pointedly at Tatiana’s chest as she ran her fingers slowly up and down her glass and pretended not to listen. ‘Perhaps I can tell her I got
called to a meeting and send her to Harvey Nicks with my credit card instead,’ he mused. ‘I haven’t had time to look for another wife but I’ve always got a
“project” on. As long as you keep them in holidays and watches and set them up with a nice convertible then they’re happy.’

‘Holy cow! Can
I
be a project?’ cut in Tara, looking pained. Piers and Eric appeared momentarily surprised and then as Tara’s face creased with laughter they joined her,
guffawing a touch too loudly. Some of the other girls shot her irritated looks, annoyed that she’d managed to infiltrate the boys’ talk and was threatening to rise above arm-candy
status.

Natalya peered down from the other end of the table, where she sat in a strategically selected black silk dress that quietly skimmed her subtle curves. She’d been purposefully ignoring the
men around her as this was always the most effective way of gaining attention from those not used to being disregarded. She stared enviously at Tara. All those flippant comments. Everything in her
simple life could be neatly summed up, dealt with in a throwaway remark or a privileged laugh.

Finally Reza appeared, flanked by the two young Italians, Ciara and Francesca. Ciara, in a one-shouldered burgundy cocktail dress with her dark hair piled up high on her head and shimmering
diamond drop earrings, looked like a sweet child who had raided her sexy elder sister’s wardrobe. She took a seat squeezed in beside Reza and, pulling out a compact and lipstick, repainted
her pouty mouth a brighter shade of red.

‘Do my thighs look a little chunky in this dress?’ Abena whispered to Tara, starting to regret having worn flats.

‘No, no, you look great,’ replied Tara without looking. Walking into the restaurant was a man in his late twenties or early thirties with swept-back ash-blond hair, finely chiselled
cheekbones and a long Roman nose not dissimilar to her own. He was dressed in a pink shirt tucked into low-slung, pale blue jeans, with a chunky Rolex hanging loosely around his wrist.

As if reading Tara’s mind, Henry winked and purred like a cat.

‘Who is he meeting? Oh please God, don’t let him have a girlfriend,’ she muttered.

He sauntered through the restaurant and joined a dark-haired friend already seated with his back to the group. Abena had been studying him earlier, surprised that he was so casually dressed in
shorts and a beat-up white T-shirt at this exclusive restaurant. He was enjoying a glass of chilled Sancerre, completely at ease waiting on his own, apparently oblivious to the female waitresses,
each desperate to serve him. He rose to greet the blond newcomer and Abena found herself longing for him to turn round so that she could see the face above such promisingly broad shoulders. They
were both tall and even from the back had that lazy air of youths who are used to easily having whatever they desire. Now they were laughing loudly over something, still standing. Over his shoulder
the blond caught sight of the raucous corner table and ran his eyes briefly along it. He said something to his friend, who turned to glance briefly at their table and, noticing the girls
scrutinizing them with such intensity, directed a curious gaze at Abena. Jolted, she dropped her eyes hastily and studied her menu upside down. ‘I’m sure I know them from
somewhere,’ she said.

As the bottles of vintage Bollinger gradually emptied and the night set in, the drunken group, buoyed up by the attention they’d been commanding, moved on to dance off their excited energy
at Les Caves du Roy, the chicest and most exclusive nightclub in St Tropez. Reza, who was well known there, led the group past the queue of impossibly pretty young women and pushed his way to the
entrance, stopping only to let Cameron Diaz enter before him. Once their table in the raised VIP area had been loaded with Grey Goose vodka and magnums of Cristal, Henry handed out glasses with a
theatrical flourish. A few extra glasses of champagne were awarded to the hopeful hangers-on who were circling their prey like killer-heeled vultures. Swept away by the charged atmosphere, Tara and
Abena started to dance on their seats, swaying crazily as they tried to emulate the sexy continental girls gyrating to the loud, catchy beats. ‘Ooooooh Yeeeeaaahhh!’ boomed the DJ with
a phoney American accent. ‘Welcome to Seeeaaaaiiint TRO PAY!’

Natalya stared at Tara and Abena, laughing and fooling around as they danced. The duo had amassed a fan club of men who were cheering them on from the floor below. Suddenly a gorgeous young
Frenchman broke out from the crowd, vaulted over their table and landed behind them on the railing that separated the VIP area from the rest of the club. He hung upside down, swaying precariously
in time to the music, trying to impress Abena. They seemed so happy and carefree. Natalya wondered what it would be like to have a close girlfriend with whom she could gossip about boys and go
shopping. She felt pressure, constantly. Pressure to look after her mother and siblings. To secure a future for herself and to make sure she would never again know the kind of hardship she’d
endured in Riga. Friendship was for other people. All the while a bright smile never left her face and her hips continued to wind in time with the music. She fixed her blue eyes on Reza and moved
her body more slowly and sensually than before. Reza held her gaze, transfixed.

From her elevated position, Tara could see across the entire dance floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed a pale, skinny man with peroxide blond hair flailing his arms and legs into a
cluster of sycophantic clubbers. Surely that wasn’t Dan Donahue of The Doctor, the hottest rock band of the moment and set to headline this year’s Glastonbury festival? St Tropez
didn’t seem like his sort of place. Tara could imagine him holed up in some grungy New York studio getting high on heroin with his supermodel girlfriend, but not here, bopping with the
trillionaires. But, if her eyes were not deceiving her, the supermodel girlfriend was nowhere to be seen. That was definitely Dan Donahue, and what’s more he was giving her the eye. Snaring a
rock-star boyfriend was something Tara was not about to miss out on. She would just pop to the bathroom to perk herself up a little. And then he would be hers.

As she squeezed past Reza to head towards the bathroom, he grabbed her arm and shouted that he was going to move the party to his yacht in the next half hour or so. ‘Sure’, said
Tara; all she could think of was the task at hand. Finally a cubicle in the female toilets came free and Tara pulled out a small ball of cling film filled with some of the cocaine that darling
Henry had organized for her. Cutting up two fat lines with her credit card, and then adding another smaller one as an afterthought, she rolled up a fifty-euro note and snorted all three.
That’s better, she thought, as she grabbed her clutch bag and set it down in front of the mirror outside. She looked at herself critically. Her heart seemed to jump in her chest with every
beat. Yes, she was stunning, she concluded. She was thin, well bred and well educated – she’d never felt more confident. She took out her concealer and dabbed some under her nostrils
where they had gone red and tingly. Then she added a thick ring of kohl around each eye and shook her head violently to mess up her hair, scrunching it with her fingers. Now she looked like a young
and gorgeous Courtney Love.

Striding into the middle of the dance floor, Tara pressed herself up against Dan, grinding in time to the music. He grabbed her hair with both hands and licked the side of her face as she lifted
a willowy leg and coiled it around his thigh. ‘Come on the boat’, she shouted, struggling to make herself heard above the music. She grabbed his hand and pulled him on to the dimly lit
street and through the central square towards the port, where Reza had already gathered a group. The pair kissed furiously all the way to the boat, then staggered up the gangplank, their passion
only momentarily interrupted by one of the crew instructing them to remove their shoes so as not to ruin the pristine white interior. Tara was oblivious to everyone and everything as she pushed Dan
into the first available cabin and locked the door. By the sultry light of the cabin he looked even paler than before, white, with burning black eyes like something out of
Twilight
. God he
was sexy. So … dangerous-looking.

Dan threw her backwards on to the bed and leaned back against the wall, watching, leering. She reached into her bag and got out the rest of the cocaine. Not bothering to cut it this time, she
put a little on her forefinger and sniffed it. She held some out for Dan to do the same. He grinned at her, baring his yellow teeth for the first time that evening, and greedily snorted the drug.
Then in one quick movement he pulled off her skimpy dress and frantically undid his flies.

Tara was not wearing a bra; her pert, childlike breasts required no additional support. In their urgency to make it they didn’t even think about foreplay. Pulling aside her lacy knickers,
Dan rammed his cock inside her and thrust away for what seemed like ages. In awe of his rock-star status and desperate to impress, she found she was unable to relax and enjoy herself, and barely
even noticed that he in turn was unable to climax, having probably taken too much coke that evening. Eventually, exhausted, the two lay sprawled on the bed in silence. Tara’s mind was racing,
imagining her future as a rocker’s girlfriend. A hit song dedicated to her perhaps. Matching tattoos. A crazy life on the road in LA and a star on Hollywood Boulevard … Or maybe a
shotgun wedding, her own rock-chick clothing range, and an entire issue of
W
magazine dedicated to Dan Donahue’s English fashionista wife …

A loud hammering on the door interrupted her fantasizing.

‘Hey, what’s going on? I need to get to my cabin!’

Tara and Dan sat up, startled, as they heard a female voice calling from behind the door. Scrambling into her dress, Tara smoothed down her hair and emerged with Dan. She wasn’t
embarrassed, she was invincible now, she was with Dan Donahue.

Outside, the party was in full swing. ‘Baby, let me get you a drink,’ she cooed, turning to Dan.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, checking the time on his phone. He kissed Tara’s forehead and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Listen Lara, I’ve gotta go.
You’re sweet.’ And turning on his heel, he hurried down the gangplank and ran down the road back towards Les Caves.

Tara woke up shortly before midday the following morning. Remembering the mortifying details of the night before, she promptly buried her head back under the soft white covers
and tried to erase him from her mind. Finding she couldn’t go back to sleep, she put on a bikini, a kaftan, a wide-brimmed sunhat and a giant pair of fuck-off shades and made her way through
the villa to the breakfast table on the patio, which overlooked the Jacuzzi and enormous infinity pool. One of the housekeepers had laid out a feast of warm croissants and pastries, coffee,
tropical fruit, yogurt and freshly squeezed fruit smoothies. She poured herself a cup of black coffee and nibbled half-heartedly on some fruit salad. All ten places had been set, which was
customary throughout the summer in case Reza sent any of his ‘projects’ over to the villa on a whim. ‘Sooo … Tell all!’ boomed Abena, skipping happily outside to bask
in the strong sun. Tara winced. For someone so small her friend’s voice was pretty deep and powerful.

‘Baby, it’s far too early to be in such high spirits.’ Abena joined her pal at the table and plonked two pains au chocolat on her plate. The diet can start tomorrow, she
thought to herself, a thought that occurred every single day.

‘I can’t believe you pulled Dan Donahue, what happened? Are you seeing him tonight? I looked for you everywhere at Les Caves and on the boat but I couldn’t find you. Come on,
cough up you little minx!’

‘Aaargh, Abbi, it was soo WRONG!’ Tara groaned, removing her shades to reveal swollen, bloodshot eyes. ‘I really thought he was into me. He kept saying I was stunning and sexy
and whatnot, and that he wanted to take me to his gigs back at home, and that he’d been staring at me dancing for ages before we spoke.’