by Shari Low
It was only when she was back at the table that she noticed for the first time that all eyes were on a huge screen on the wall, watching a montage of clips of a man and a beautiful woman, waving at crowds. Of course! She’d read about this in Hello! magazine before she left, but hadn’t registered the date.
One of the royal princes, she couldn’t remember which one, was getting married this weekend.
‘Monsieur,’ she gestured to the friendly waiter. ‘Le…le… wedding?’ So much for her high school French.
He almost cheered his reply. ‘Oui! Oui! Aujourd’hui. Hier a été la cérémonie civile. Aujourd’hui, ils auront la cérémonie religieuse au palais.’
She got that. Yesterday was a civil ceremony and today was the religious ceremony at the palace. Mrs Catani, her ferocious French teacher, would be so proud.
The clips they were showing must be from yesterday’s wedding, and now they were waiting for the next service to start. Oh, the irony. She was in the Principality of Monaco on one of the most special days in its history, the momentous occasion of a royal wedding, and she was sitting there in pyjamas, auditioning to be the poster girl for divorce. Or spousal homicide.
She checked her phone. Ten messages. Fifteen voicemails. Bugger it, she didn’t care. She did however, notice the time. Ten o’clock. Two hours until Cameron said he’d meet her in the square. Going would be a bad idea. A really bad idea. Her life was a mess and meeting Cameron would only complicate it. He had no right to force her hand on this. She didn’t ask him to come bloody galloping all the way from Glasgow to meet her there. She didn’t need rescuing. This wasn’t a flipping fairy tale.
No, she wasn’t going. She would stay here until she’d calmed down and then go back aboard and request another room. Or stay with Max and Piers. Hell, she’d even stay with Mona if it meant she didn’t have to see Drew’s face again. Men were officially now a no-go area. All of them. She was done.
Three cups of coffee and a pain au chocolat later, she was still done.
She was.
Definitely.
And she was fed up of watching reruns of the same clips on that TV. The prince and new princess arriving for yesterday’s civil ceremony. The prince and princess waving to crowds. The prince and princess going walkabout. Crowds streaming in to a seated area in front of the palace. Royals arriving. Superstars walking up red carpets. Prince Edward was there. Where was Victoria Beckham? Surely she’d be going.
Whatever. If there was any justice, the princess would be in a back room right now and her best pals would be telling her that there was a good bloody chance that whatever promises the prince made would turn out to be a sham and she’d end up sitting in inappropriate clothes crying her heart out into a bloody pain au chocolat.
That was it. Enough. She was going back to the ship. No Cameron, no Drew, no…
She sat back down. Cameron. He was here. He’d find this so funny.
‘Monsieur, où est la square?’ she said, hoping that she got the words right. Not that she was going. No. It was just curiosity.
‘La Place du Casino?’
Cue blank look.
‘The casino square?’ he repeated in halting English.
‘Oui.’ It was the first thing that came to his mind, so surely that must be the place.
He picked up the map she’d left on her table and made a circle on it. Tess thanked him and paid the bill.
She wasn’t going. No way. Definitely not.
She checked the time again. Eleven forty. It was too late anyway. She’d never get there on time. Back to the ship. Turn right. Right! Turn right!
Before she could stop herself she had turned left and started running. Bugger, why weren’t there any taxis? They were all watching the royal bloody wedding. She clutched at the map and started running. She followed the Boulevard of Albert 1st until it merged into the Ave d’Ostende, then slipped over to her right and kept to the promenade. The Vistatoria was on her right now, the sun bouncing off its hull.
This place was like Disneyland but without the thousands of children. Every bush was perfectly manicured, every street spotless and every corner revealed another breathtaking building or view. Not that she had time to enjoy it, given that she was doing a Usain Bolt down the street. A sheen of sweat glistened on her face now, a perfect match for the attractiveness of her outfit. At every crossing, a galaxy of prestige cars went by: a red Lamborghini passed, a silver Bentley, a white Rolls Royce. She experienced a sudden pang of longing for her little yellow Ford Focus.
Eventually, after storming up an incline that stretched her calves to breaking point, she was there. Fifteen minutes past twelve. Running to the middle of the road, she frantically looked around. The whole square was bedecked with white and red flags, flying from tall white poles, commemorating the day. The Hôtel de Paris was in front of her, the Casino de Monte Carlo to her left. Behind her a bloke in the flashiest car she’d ever seen was beeping his horn at her. She didn’t care. Not a jot.
Because Cameron wasn’t there.
Mona
‘Where have you been?’ Mona asked, as Piers wandered in at 10 a.m.
‘I stayed with Max last night. I’ll stay there tonight, too – just in case you want to invite the American over. It’s fine. Don’t mind me. And by the way, Eliza’s fine. I know you were probably up all night fretting.’
His calm joviality and sarcasm had the perverse effect of sending her temper soaring. Damn him. If these weren’t Jimmy Choo shoes one of them would be getting used as a missile.
‘I want to know who it is.’
‘Who what is?’
‘Who you want to be with. Since it clearly isn’t me, I want to know who it is. I think I have the right to know,’ she demanded.
Her words were bolshier than she was feeling inside.
‘Mona, you don’t have any rights to know anything about me anymore. But I’ve got nothing to hide, so I’ll tell you. Sarah.’
She wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said it was the waiter who served his steak to him in the restaurant the other night.
‘Sarah? Sarah Gold? Are you kidding me?’
He shook his head as he pulled a holdall up on to the table and started filling it with stuff from his drawer. ‘No.’
‘But you don’t even know her! You only met her this fucking week. You’ve lost your mind, Piers, you really have. There is no way on this earth that you are passing this up,’ she gestured to her body, ‘for that fat bint, Sarah Gold.’
He paused, a rolled-up pair of socks in hand, and stared at her. ‘You see, Mona, that just tells you why. Sarah would never say something like that. She has absolutely no idea of how bloody fabulous she is and that’s the sexiest thing.’
‘Aaargh,’ she thrust her hands over her ears like they were being burned. Sexy? Sarah Gold? He’d lost his mind.
‘And no, I haven’t known her long, but that doesn’t matter. I’m old enough and I’ve been around long enough to know exactly what I want in life, and I knew it that first day in Palma.’
‘Have you slept with her?’ The notion made her want to gag.
‘No.’
Mona snorted. The thought of being in love with someone without even having sex was ridiculous to her. What if they were incompatible? Let’s face it – Piers was a pretty highly sexed guy, whereas Sarah didn’t look like she’d had an orgasm since the eighties.
‘Mona, I’m not going to get into this with you. I’ve told Sarah how I feel, she was having none of it. She’s not interested. But that doesn’t change anything between you and me. So you go ahead and do whatever you want to do. Let’s try to keep it civil and we’ll let the lawyers sort it out when we get home. No hard feelings, eh?’
Oh, she had plenty of hard feelings. Plenty.
The wall phone rang and she snatched it from the cradle.
‘Mrs Gold, the car that you ordered is waiting at the dock for you.’
It was her last swansong. A day in Monte Carlo, shopp
ing with Piers’ credit card. She was determined to make it count. If she was going down in flames, she was going to go wearing Chanel, Yves St Laurent and Bulgari.
After picking up her favourite Chanel 2.55 bag, she clipped on large black pearl earrings and smoothed down her dress. It was vintage Balenciaga: a steel-coloured top with a Peter Pan collar and sleeves that finished at her elbows, with a row of tiny black buttons stretching from the neck down to the wide leather belt that pulled in her waist to impossibly small dimensions. The skirt was pencil tight to the knee, then flared into a fishtail at the back, stopping mid-calf. It was a statement piece – and the statement was, ‘I’m expensive, stunning, and in this dress I’m fucking untouchable.’
By some power of osmosis, she sucked the attitude from the dress and without even bothering to say goodbye, strutted past Piers, giving him a back view of a body he would never touch again. His loss.
The chauffeur was waiting for her at the car, wearing a beautifully cut black suit and Versace shades. They knew how to do it in style here. Inside, he checked her out in his rear-view mirror as he introduced himself as Pascal and then, in perfect English, asked her where she wanted to go. ‘La Place Du Casino,’ she replied in a flawless French accent. It was the hub of the best shops in the principality… and the most expensive.
The traffic was heavy as he cut up off the Avenue d’Ostende, on to the Avenue Princesse Alice, then turned right on to the Avenue des Beaux-Arts. Just as they came to a standstill behind a silver Bugatti Veyron, her mobile rang. The office. Guy.
She thought about ignoring it, but what was the point? She was going to have to face it and she might as well get it over with now and then block out the pain with some serious retail therapy.
‘Hi,’ she answered, trying not to sound like she was on the journalistic equivalent of death row.
‘Mona, I’m sorry about this but the News has been on the phone again. They’re not running the story this week because the lawyers haven’t got everything signed off, but they’re definitely leading with it next week.’
She didn’t know if that was good news or bad. There was something to be said for it happening while she was out of the country. Maybe she just wouldn’t go back. She could stay here until the money ran out and then get a job in Bulgari. At least her surroundings would be perfect.
‘Right. Thanks for letting me know, Guy.’
‘Are you going to defend it? We can’t get it pulled, but we can run a counter story. Threaten to sue? Go the injunction route.’
She sighed wearily. She’d thought of all that, but really, what was the point? Hadn’t all those super-injunction scandals featuring everyone from football players, to actors, to bank chiefs already proved that all that happens is the lawyers get very rich and the story eventually runs anyway?
Adrian was lying. She’d never used sex to blackmail him or harass him in anyway. But that wasn’t the point. The story made her look pathetic – a woman approaching forty screwing a twenty-three-year-old in her lunch hour. The jokes would run forever.
‘No, Guy, I don’t want to add any more fuel to this. Leave it. Publish and be damned. I’ll tell Drew tomorrow. I’m not going to say anything to him on his birthday.’
‘Whatever you think. I’m sorry, Mona, I did what I could.’
She hung up, fairly sure that he hadn’t done a damn thing. Guy and at least a couple of dozen other aging hacks would love every minute of this. Mona didn’t ever cry. Not ever. But suddenly, she could feel tears popping inside her lids, to accompany the excruciating twisting sensation in her stomach. Her life was over. When this ran, she would be left with nothing – and the first things to disappear would be her dignity and power.
One bold tear sprang free and ran down her right cheek. A pair of Tom Ford sunglasses were hastily put on to cover up her pain.
At that moment they came to a halt outside the Cartier store that sat on the corner beside the Hôtel de Paris. It was one of her favourite shops and the perfect place to start. A trinket from here and then she’d stroll the fifty yards or so along to Chanel. She had a few more days of being Mona Gold, the revered fashionista, and she might as well make the most of it. If this was death row, then she was about to have her last supper.
‘Mrs Gold, can I ask where you are planning to visit?’
‘I’ll start in Cartier, Pascal.’
His gaze went immediately to the shop, then back to her. ‘But Mrs Gold, I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because today is a public holiday. We have Royal wedding, Mrs Gold. The whole country is watching.’
Behind her Tom Fords, Mona closed her eyes and murmured an expletive under her breath. Death row sucked. This just could not get any worse. There was only one thing she could do.
‘Drop me here, Pascal. I’ll be in the bar of the Hôtel de Paris. And if you want to join me, that’s absolutely fine by me.’
20.
What Happens In Monte Carlo…
Tess
He wasn’t here. She’d missed him. Or maybe he hadn’t come at all. Tess slumped down onto the edge of a huge plant pot next to the steps of the casino, fully expecting one of the nice security men in very smart hats to tell her to move. It didn’t matter. Cameron wasn’t here. Perhaps he’d realized how stupid the whole thing was and changed his mind. Or maybe it was a joke. Well, the joke was on her because he wasn’t…
‘Are you wearing your pyjamas?’
He was here.
She threw her head up and there he was, standing right in front of her, clutching two huge ice creams. ‘I didn’t think you were coming, so I went over there to get a cone and then I was just about to pay for it when I saw you. Thought you might want one too. It’s chocolate chip. No donuts. What a pish place, eh?’
Tess had no idea whether she was laughing or crying, but there were tears and then his arms were around her and suddenly everything felt so, so much better. Even if she did drop her chocolate-chip ice-cream.
He held on to her tightly, burying his face in her hair, yet she still heard him whisper, ‘I’m so glad you came. I so wanted you to be here.’
Pulling back, she realized that this was no place to say the things that needed to be said.
‘Come on, let’s go find somewhere to sit,’ she told him, taking his hand and leading the way up to the Allée des Boulingrins, the beautiful garden area that swept up the hill in front of them. They found seats on the steps beside the fountain and for a moment they were both too stunned to speak. Come on, this is Cameron. It shouldn’t feel weird.
‘I don’t know whether to hug you or… Oh, wow, this is so surreal. Those notes! Cameron, the notes – what the hell were you thinking?’ she asked, her words hard, but her tone gentle.
‘I just wanted to get you here. It worked, didn’t it?’ He grinned that incorrigible grin that won her over every time. This felt like it should be a movie moment, the big romantic ending that saw the heroine get swept off her feet by a man in a navy uniform or unfeasibly tight leather trousers.
‘Cameron, this is crazy.’
‘No, you wearing pyjamas is crazy. Is this a style trend that I missed?’
It was impossible not to laugh. ‘It’s a long story. Major drama with Drew this morning and I left before I could get dressed.’
Cameron’s expression immediately flipped to the dark side. ‘And how is Drew? Still going for an award for shite husbandry?’
‘Cameron…’ There was no mistaking the warning in her voice, but just as she said it her bottom lip wavered. Why was she defending him? Hadn’t he stamped all over her loyalty this morning? ‘He told his first wife that he should never have left her and that he only married me because I reminded him of her.’
The tears sprang right back up again and this time there was no stopping them.
‘I mean, how could he do that? Was it all just a lie? Was I always just a poor replacement for Sarah?’
Cameron shook his head and tenderly
pushed her hair back off her face. ‘God, no! Tess, you could never be a poor replacement for anyone. Drew’s an idiot. He always has been.’
Ignoring the intrigued stares of several other tourists who were milling around, she rubbed tears off her cheeks with the palm of her hand. She felt sorry for the German couple in front of her who would get home, look at their holiday snaps and realize that their most romantic photograph had a woman in the background wearing overly casual clothes and sporting a bright red blotchy face.
‘Tess, forget him. Come back with me tonight. We’ll go to Nice, fly home, you can stay at mine until… um, well, forever.’
It was a great idea. Walk away. Don’t look back. Move along. Nothing to see here.
Right now her admittedly cracked heart was overflowing with love for the man in front of her. She adored him. Absolutely adored him. Couldn’t ever imagine life without him.
But…
‘Cameron, I can’t. I wish I could and then it would be this great big happy ending…’
‘It could be,’ he insisted.
‘It couldn’t, Cameron,’ she said softly. ‘Drew married me wishing that I was someone else and look where that got us. I could never do that to you. I love you so much – you’re the best friend I could ever have – but it wouldn’t be fair to tell you that we could make it as a couple because I don’t think we could. I need you in my life, Cameron. Every day if possible. But I’m not in love with you and I’m so sorry – I really wish I was.’ Gallons of tears accompanied the last crack as her heart broke in two.
It was so brutal, so harrowing to say these things to him, but it would be even more cruel to pretend that she felt something that she didn’t.
His head went down and a few long, tense moments passed before he reacted. He lifted his eyes to meet hers and gave her the saddest smile.
