Sin Tropez (8 page)

‘Aaaargh!’ Tara screamed, hopping from foot to foot like a lunatic.

Abena shook her head with a knowing grin. ‘Alex is very you!’

Personally she’d been floored by Sebastian’s infuriating magnetism, but Tara had been eyeing Alex and was clearly smitten.

‘To be honest I wouldn’t say no to either of them. They are divine. Abbi, is it wrong to feel this way? Am I a completely shallow, heartless thing to be so looks obsessed?’

‘Of course not darling – what was it the Greeks said about beauty? About how it’s an earthly reminder of a higher, better realm and therefore an incredibly important and far
from shallow preoccupation? If Plato’s cool with it then so am I.’

‘I don’t think Plato was thinking about you and me in string bikinis on Nikki Beach.’

‘Honey, I’m throwing you a line – just take it.’

They made their way giddily back to Reza’s, trying to find a Greek philosopher who’d allow Tara a guilt-free bitch about her mother.

Sarah didn’t yet know it, but today was to be a special day. She had been working at the
Wimbledon Gazette
for just over three months. It was her first job since
graduating the previous summer, and although they were only paying expenses, she enjoyed it. For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed of being a journalist. Proper journalism. Perhaps
she’d be a foreign correspondent reporting from war-torn parts of the world. None of this ridiculous fashion writing or presenting reality TV series, which would just be depressing. At least
from a state of war things can only get better, but for the
Big Brother
wannabes of this world there is no hope. After leaving university Sarah had duly fired off a series of applications
for the graduate schemes at
The Times
,
FT
,
Independent
,
Guardian
,
Observer
and
Telegraph
. It seemed that almost every other graduate in the country who
could string a sentence together had had the same idea, and she had been devastated not to get an interview anywhere. Setting her sights lower, she’d then applied to small local papers and
had still struggled to get her application taken seriously. Eventually Pam from the
Wimbledon Gazette
, which was close to her home, had offered her a four-month work experience placement to
start early in February. She had thought hard over whether she could afford to accept an unpaid offer, but eventually decided that it was important for her to get a foot in the door. She would just
have to delay moving out of her parents’ house in leafy Wimbledon for a month or two.

It was now just a few weeks before her internship was supposed to come to an end and Sarah needed to start thinking of what she would go on to next. Pam had hinted that there might be a chance
for her to stay on longer, but it wasn’t clear whether that was a job offer or simply an extension of the internship. Still, there were only six people working on editorial for the
Gazette
and four of them were nearing retirement age so surely they must be looking for someone. Then perhaps she could apply for something more stretching in a year’s time.

She let herself into the small office and was surprised to find the usually subdued team chatting heatedly.

‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Anything exciting happening in the ghettos of Wimbledon?’

‘Well actually,’ replied Tom, struggling to pick up a stapler that had fallen off a pile of papers on Sarah’s desk, ‘we do have an interesting assignment for you.’
Tom, her youngest colleague at thirty-four, but with a chin for each year of his life, had been in love with Sarah since she’d first walked in, and she found his ardour very sweet. Not that
she’d ever fall for it, she was very happy in her relationship with Simon Tamarand, her childhood sweetheart.

‘As you might have heard,’ continued Tom, ‘Willy Eckhardt is moving to the UK from LA to make a fresh start, trying to resuscitate his pop career while setting up a series of
business ventures in the entertainment sector. Anyhow, the place he has chosen for his new home is none other than our very own Wimbledon.’

‘And,’ cut in Pam, ‘he’s agreed to give us his first interview this evening.’

‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘He’s notorious for not giving much away, but as you can turn men into babies with your smile we thought we’d give you the assignment!
We’ve booked the Wolseley for 9 p.m. this evening and you’re to meet him and his publicist, Gloria, there for supper.’

‘Oh gosh!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘Well OK, yep, sure. Um. OK!’ This was very out of the blue. She hadn’t had any big pieces to do and suddenly they were giving her their
biggest star all to herself. Willy was huge! Sure, a couple of things he’d done were verging on naff – that
Willy Make it in Hollywood?
documentary was truly dreadful – but
in terms of exposure he was massive, everybody knew him. Good thing she hadn’t changed her mind and gone on that free holiday with Abena; this was an amazing opportunity. She glanced back at
the others, not quite believing it, and noticed that Tom was still gazing at her with a pained expression on his face. He reminded her of the rescued French Bulldog puppy she’d had when she
was younger, which had looked at her in that way whenever she wasn’t paying him any attention. Feeling sorry for him she asked Tom to accompany her to the theatre tomorrow as Si had to work
late.

Sarah had an understated beauty that crept up on you. She was not a bombshell in a flashy, look-at-me kind of way. Instead there was a quiet loveliness about her. Nothing in her appearance stood
out for its unusually gorgeous configuration, but every feature fitted in neatly with every other feature. Nothing was exaggerated and nothing was lacking. Sarah’s mouth was not full and
seductive, nor was it too thin. Her nose didn’t draw attention to itself, because it was not extraordinary in any way. Her eyes were mid-brown, neither large nor small. Her skin, smooth and
lightly tanned all year round, had no interesting quirks; no childlike freckles, no Cindy Crawford moles, just a clear complexion. And her thick hair was a natural dark brown and fell to her
shoulders in a simple, straight cut. She looked like a healthy young woman who one day would bear a brood of gorgeous wholesome kids with their own set of perfect features. She was friendly and
easygoing too, and almost every straight man fell for her in some way.

It was not that they merely
fancied
her. Women have never found it difficult to seduce men. What was exceptional about Sarah was that she made men want to marry her. They wanted not only
her body but also everything she stood for. She was beautiful but not threatening. Her face and body welcomed and reassured them – had a maternal quality that made them feel as though they
could bury their heads in her ample bosom and she would stroke away all the monsters. And yet she made men feel like men; she was so soft and womanly and kind to them that they wanted to be by her
side and protect her always. Where they could only admire or objectify or lust over other women, men
loved
Sarah.

And so it was with full confidence in her ability to charm any skeletons out of Willy’s closet that the
Wimbledon Gazette
dispatched her on this task. There was one minor problem.
Because the whole thing had been announced at such short notice, she only had until six o’clock to memorize everything there was to know about Willy Eckhardt. She had promised Si that
she’d have drinks with him at six-thirty and had no intention of cancelling. Since he’d started working at Atkins & Allison she barely saw him and they’d already had to miss
‘snuggle Sunday’ last weekend as he’d been paintballing at a team-bonding event.

****

Sarah arrived at the Wolseley at nine o’clock precisely, dressed as she had been all day in a colourful, floaty knee-length skirt, a cream polo neck and ballet pumps. She
was rarely late for anything and tonight was no exception.

‘Hunter … booked for three,’ murmured the elegant maître d’, checking his list of table bookings. ‘You’re the first to arrive Madam, shall I show you
to your table? Or there’s also a table up on the gallery which has just come free?’

‘Actually,’ replied Sarah, ‘I think I’ll have a drink at the bar while I wait for the others, if that’s OK?’ As the bar was situated at the front of the
sweeping central dining room, Sarah guessed she’d see Willy and his publicist as they arrived, and she hoped she’d blend in more in the crowded bar than if she waited alone at the
table, where someone might spot that she didn’t really belong in this sophisticated restaurant, that she was an impostor.

She ordered a small glass of house white, glad she’d stuck to water with Si. The clock above the bar showed that it was now five past nine. Sarah was grateful for more time to collect
herself and prepare her questions. By the time she finished her wine, though, it was nine-thirty and she began to feel nervous, then a bit annoyed. If she were famous, not that she particularly
wanted to be, she’d try even harder to be on time for everything, and to be lovely to everyone too, simply because it wasn’t what people expected. She got out her mobile; perhaps she
had missed a call from Willy’s publicist. Nope. She ordered another glass from the attentive barman.

‘Been stood up?’ he grinned.

‘I really, really,
really
hope not,’ Sarah responded.

‘Well he’d be an idiot to leave you in the lurch.’

‘Thanks.’ Sarah smiled shyly. Normally she was uninterested in appreciative comments from men but she was seriously nervous now and starting to regret not changing her outfit, so on
this occasion the compliment was welcome.

Glancing at the entrance for the umpteenth time she was relieved to see Willy bounce into the restaurant, unaccompanied, and approach the maître d’, cracking jokes and doing comedy
impressions with everyone from the doorman to a departing diner on the way. He was casually dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. At once her nerves disappeared and she jumped off
her stool to greet him.

‘Mr Eckhardt,’ she breezed, ‘I’m Sarah Hunter from the
Wimbledon Gazette
. Lovely to meet you. Welcome to London.’

‘Nice to see you, to see you …’ He made a rolling gesture with his hands and then pointed at Sarah with a dazzling, toothy grin, as though he was waiting for her to finish his
sentence.

‘Er … nice?’ Sarah faltered, astonished he was up on nineties British television.

‘You got it,’ he cried in a broad American accent, pumping her small hand with his strong, neatly manicured one. ‘So sorry to be late. And I’m afraid Gloria fell ill and
is unable to be here.’

‘Oh that’s quite alright, I’ve been having a drink at the bar, I haven’t waited long. Very sorry to hear about Gloria though, I hope she feels better soon. Now tell me,
would you like to sit up on the gallery, or by the window?’

‘Wherever’s fine. I’m easy. Just put me where ya want me.’

Sarah was surprised at how open and friendly Willy was. She’d been expecting diva-like behaviour but he was charm personified. Physically, he was shorter than she’d imagined, but
other than that he looked exactly as he did in photos. At forty, with sandy hair, even features and a slim, athletic build she supposed he was suavely handsome, but she’d been with Si for so
long that she no longer looked at men in that way.

They both ordered quail eggs to start and these arrived quickly.

‘Say, are you French?’ Willy asked the waiter. ‘You are? Oh la la! Fabulous place.’ He put up a hand to high-five the bemused French man and Sarah was impressed to see
Willy being chatty and interesting with the waiter. She mustn’t be so prejudiced, she chastised herself; not all famous people are monsters.

‘So, tell me about student life here. The lady at the
Gazette
told me you went to Oxford. Is it all homo-erotic high jinx, plummy accents and posh tomfoolery like in
Brideshead
?’ Willy gave a hearty chuckle.

She laughed. ‘Well, if that’s what you go in for, Willy, I think we’ve got the beginnings of a very juicy interview already. This is far easier than I expected … But,
actually, no, you can involve yourself in whatever scene takes your fancy. I got really into student journalism. Have you been to Oxford?’

‘No, not yet,’ replied Willy. ‘I gotta. I’ve barely even had the chance to explore the sights of London – visited tons of times but all I ever get to see are the
insides of airport lounges, offices and restaurants! It’s a real shame, there’s such a wealth of culture here.’

‘Oh yes there is; in Oxford you must have a wander through the colleges and go punting along the Cherwell. It’s ravishing in spring, particularly with a group of friends or a partner
…’ she trailed off, blushing.

Willy nodded vigorously. ‘My wife and kids would just adore that.’

He looked thrilled, so Sarah started to list all the things she thought he might like about the city. ‘Christ Church is marvellously old and beautiful and of course
Harry Potter
was
filmed there, so your boys might like that,’ she began.

It seemed like only a minute had passed since they’d sat down to dinner but already they were almost through their mains: sea bass for Willy and scallops with risotto nero for Sarah. Willy
reached for the aged Gavi di Gavi, but it was already empty.

‘Ooops, looks like we need another.’

‘Whoops,’ Sarah giggled. ‘I thought LA people didn’t drink anyway.’

‘Actually I’m not a heavy drinker, but, hey, when in Rome! Anyway I’m not exactly an LA person.’

‘Hey!’, she laughed, remembering why she was there, ‘you’ve managed to evade interrogation thus far, but we’re here to talk about you! Come on – so what
really made you give up singing so suddenly? It looked as though you were on a winning streak.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Willy replied, ‘I am happy to tell you anything you wanna know, but first, why don’t we pay up in this posh joint and go get some dessert, or
“pudding” as you guys would say, at a great place I know a block from here?’

‘Sure.’ Sarah signalled for the bill, curious to see what sort of place he would take her to.