Chuck smiled.
‘One day you will find a guy who deserves you,’ he said kindly. ‘Not a dork like David who doesn’t appreciate what he’s got; a real man, a man who knows that Ruth Boden is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.’
His words were so soothing, so flattering. She wasn’t entirely sure they were right, but she’d take whatever reassurance she could get right now. She had never noticed what long lashes Chuck had. Dark and thick, like a girl’s. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she moved in and pressed her lips against his, tasting the wine on his mouth. Gently Chuck pushed her away.
‘God, I’m so sorry, Chuck,’ she said, her hand over her mouth. ‘See? I can’t even get that right.’
‘Ruth, you’re wonderful and beautiful and maybe if you hadn’t had two bottles of wine to drink, I’d be doing cartwheels that you tried to kiss me. But . . .’ He stood up and, taking her hands, pulled her to her feet. ‘. . . I think it’s time you went home to bed. Alone.’
He raised an arm and a taxi puttered to the kerb.
‘Here,’ he said, helping her inside and handing her the research file. ‘Take this, it’s sobering reading if nothing else.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ruth simply. ‘I don’t deserve a friend like you.’
‘Yes you do, Ruth Boden,’ smiled Chuck kindly. ‘And the sooner you realise it, the better.’
30
Loud knocking woke Sophie with a start. She had had a rather fitful sleep, laced with dreams about being chased by faceless monsters, and it took a moment to realise where she was. La Luna Motel was a two-star hotel on a back street in the Le Cannet district of Cannes. The Bristol it was not, looking more like the sort of establishment you could hire by the hour, sheets extra. But it was cheap, it was anonymous and most important, it’d had rooms available when Josh and Sophie had rolled in from their jaunt to the wine country at almost midnight.
Not that Sophie had really wanted the day to end. Despite the simmering danger of the past few days, she had enjoyed going out into the warm green vineyards, and despite their awkward shared history, she had liked Sandrine, with her quiet dignity and her undiminished love for Nick, although she knew that he was planning to leave her. Best of all, after the chateau they had stopped at a tiny bistro in Bois du Lac. At the mention of Sandrine’s name, they had been welcomed with open arms by the patron, a red-faced, jolly woman named Madame Babette, who had plucked the menus from their hands and insisted on bringing out ‘only the best’. As they sat on a terrace overlooking one of Sandrine’s vineyards, course after course was placed before them, each more delicious than the last: bean soup with fresh parmesan, pasta parcels of mushroom and shallots, giant shrimps; there was even a plate of Parma ham and some of the juiciest grapes Sophie had ever tasted. As they ate, Josh poured a wonderful local wine and told her stories about his adventures. Hiking in the Scottish Highlands, a tour to Brazil with an amateur football team, motorbiking from coast to coast in America. He had once even dated the actress and model Summer Sinclair. Sophie knew he was cleaning it up for her, presenting himself as a lovable rogue with an interesting past, but she didn’t mind that; she was in no particular hurry to have reality intrude on what had been a magical night.
Now she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered through the peephole in the door. Josh’s face bulged up at her, looking impatient.
‘Who did you think it was, princess? Prince Albert?’ he asked as she undid the safety chain and let him in. He looked around at the tiny single bed and the ‘en suite’, a cupboard-sized toilet-cum-shower with a tiny sink.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘I think you got the better deal. My room looks like a prison cell.’
Sophie thought back to when they had checked in, how the Chinese night porter with the missing front tooth had smiled when he had said they had ‘velly nice’ doubles. Light-headed from the wine and conversation, she had hesitated for a moment then asked for two singles, whilst giving Josh a sidelong glance almost willing him to object. But this morning, the haze of the wine faded, she was glad they had not put themselves in a compromising situation.
Josh pulled a passport out of his back pocket.
‘Look what arrived this morning.’
‘Yours?’ said Sophie, raising a brow. ‘Or another dodgy friend’s?’
‘Mine,’ he said crossly. ‘Christopher went to the boat and retrieved it. He sent it to a friend in Paris who couriered it here overnight.’
‘Was the boat safe?’
‘There was no one there. No blue tape, no police, no Russians.’
Sophie widened her eyes.
‘So we can go home!’
Josh frowned.
‘When we’ve come this far? Sophie, I think this wine scam is the thing that got Nick killed. But do you trust the police to pursue it? I don’t.’
She knew he was right.
‘So have you phoned that number Sandrine gave you?’ she asked officiously, perching on the bed. Josh shook his head, obviously disappointed.
‘Been trying since eight this morning, but for some reason it won’t connect. I keep getting that annoying French voice telling me the number is not recognised.’
‘Can I try?’
‘I don’t see why you’d have any more luck,’ he said, but he still handed her Sandrine’s note and his mobile phone.
Sophie carefully keyed in the number written on the paper, but Josh was right, it didn’t seem to be connecting. She looked down at the phone for a moment, thinking.
‘Do you think maybe Nick’s new girlfriend is having the same problems as us?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we’ve been assuming they’re chasing us for some information Nick gave me about this wine thing, right? If that’s true and Nick had multiple women on the go, then it follows that the bad guys will have been chasing them too. Maybe they found this mysterious “A” woman and burgled her flat too. If I was her, I would definitely have changed my number.’
Josh nodded.
‘That would explain why we can’t get through,’ he sighed. ‘We should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.’
He put the note back in his pocket.
‘Anyway, enough of that, Columbo,’ he said, ‘better make use of that shower, ’cos I’m taking you out.’
‘Where?’
He smiled mysteriously.
‘You’ll have to come with me to find out. It’s a surprise.’
Sophie raised her eyebrows sceptically.
‘Josh, the last two times you “surprised” me, we ended up breaking and entering and playing fisticuffs with Maurice the fence.’
A smile played at his lips.
‘You will like this. I promise.’
Sophie stood in the street, giggling nervously.
‘What is it, Josh? Tell me, please!’
‘Stop struggling, it’s a nice thing, remember?’
He was standing behind her, his hands over her eyes. Their taxi from the hotel had dropped them near the harbour, then Josh had led Sophie through the streets of Cannes, past the bustling Forville market and the majestic Carlton hotel with its steel-domed turrets, and finally up past the exclusive shops of Rue Mace. He’d stopped her at a corner, then covered her face and turned her around. Sophie was feeling the flutter of butterflies as if she was on a first date.
‘Et voilà!’ said Josh, dramatically pulling his hands away
For a moment, Sophie just blinked, not sure what she was looking at. She cast her gaze up and down the street which was filled with high-end fashion boutiques and expensive knickknack shops. Then she saw the name painted on the door right in front of them.
‘Cameron?’ she said, turning to look at him.
‘If we’re going out to a swanky party tonight, we’ve got to look the part,’ he grinned.
‘But this place costs a fortune!’
Sophie had read about Cameron in Vogue; he was one of the world’s most in-demand
hairdressers. His main salon was in Paris, with outposts in New York and Moscow – and now Cannes, apparently. She had seen the Cameron hair products for sale in Harvey Nichols – thirty pounds for a bottle of shampoo alone.
‘Listen, we are here to investigate Nick’s life, right?’ said Josh. ‘So we need to fit into his world; we can’t just turn up to that party in jeans and trainers.’
‘But how did you get an appointment?’
‘Ah, that’ll be my concierge friend at the Bristol. He knows one of the stylists at the Paris branch personally.’
Now it all made sense: that was why Josh had insisted they stay at a hotel with a world-class concierge. Even Josh’s charm wouldn’t have got them into Cameron; the salon was exclusive in the purest sense: unless you knew how to get inside, you were excluded.
‘Come on, princess, you shall go to the ball,’ said Josh, ringing the bell and waiting as a security guard opened the door. A security guard for a hairdresser’s? Maybe this was the Russian influence too.
‘I’ll see you back at the hotel,’ said Josh as he announced Sophie to the receptionist.
‘You can’t leave me,’ Sophie hissed, glancing around.
‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed. ‘It’s all paid for.’
Sophie wanted to grab his arm, but a flamboyant stylist with an octopus tattoo peeping out from his skimpy vest appeared and led her to her chair. He introduced himself as George and flipped his hands through her hair, announcing in creaky English that he must lift the colour.
In the end, Sophie thoroughly enjoyed herself. In fact, she couldn’t remember when she’d had more fun. George was camp as Christmas and hilariously indiscreet, telling scandalous stories about his wealthy clients and their husbands, men he swore were queuing round the block to get into his pants. She was brought cute little baby cappuccinos, a bowl of fruit salad and a pile of edgy magazines to flick through while the colourist got to work. She even had a visit from a manicurist, who transformed her chipped fingernails and gave her a soft hand massage. When her hair was finally washed and set, George spun her chair around so she could see the transformation.
‘You like?’
She gasped. It was like magic: buttery blonde highlights had been woven through a darker honey base; she looked sunkissed and radiant, her hair falling in elegant waves.
‘Is that really me?’ she whispered.
‘Non,’ said George. ‘It is the new you. And about time too, no?’
Josh’s key wasn’t behind the desk when Sophie got back to the hotel, and the gap-toothed Chinese man seemed pleased to confirm ‘man no here’, making her good mood instantly disappear. These last two days – the meeting with Sandrine, her afternoon of pampering – it had been all too easy for Sophie to fool herself that she was on a slightly offbeat minibreak. But always at the back of her mind was that nagging unease that she was in danger. She had no idea how the police investigation into Nick’s death was going, and while she was desperate to call her mother for an update, the last time she had done that they had almost been snatched at Nice station. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but Sophie didn’t want to take the risk. No, the visit to Cameron’s salon had been a much-needed distraction, but it had only been that: a distraction from the chaos which she neither understood, nor had any idea when – or if – it would end.
By the time she let herself into her room, Sophie was anxious and agitated again.
‘Josh?’ she called nervously, but it was empty. It was then that she noticed the two large cardboard bags sitting on the bed.
There was a note pinned to one: ‘Been shopping, had to guess size. Hope it’s okay, call for you at six, J.’
Sophie reached inside and pulled out a tissue-paper parcel. She unwrapped it carefully and gasped as layers of ivory fabric slid out. She held it up: it was a floor-length gown with a deep-scooped neck, made from beautiful silk crêpe trimmed with seed pearls. It was exquisite.
‘Where on earth did he get this?’ she whispered to herself. She picked up the bag to read the address and as she did, she noticed there was something written on the back of Josh’s note. ‘Oh, and try not to pull the tags off, because it has to go back tomorrow. Sorry.’
She laughed out loud. Typical, she thought. But still, it was a nice gesture. Josh McCormack could do lovely things when he tried. She looked in the other bag: a long white cashmere wrap and a pair of five-inch heels, which would cripple her but look fantastic.
Sophie laughed to herself as she ran a shower, filling the room up with steam. She was just wrapping her hair in a towel – she didn’t want it to get wet after George’s loving attention – when she noticed that Josh had also left a small bag of toiletries on the sink. His choice was tasteful and accurate. Almond Provençal soap, razors, avocado body cream, some clear lip gloss and peach-coloured blush. As she stepped into the shower – mercifully hot – and began soaping herself, she was struck by how intimate it felt using the products he had bought for her. Perhaps they were a reflection of how he might like her to smell and feel, and she was surprised at how much that thought excited her.
It took her no time to dress. The gown slithered over her curves, a perfect fit. Either Josh was psychic or he had been paying close attention to her body – she didn’t know which thought unsettled her the most. The cut was very low around her breasts, but she was tanned and toned enough to carry it off. Her hair fell soft and loose on to her shoulders.
Josh stopped and looked at her as he entered the room.
‘Wow,’ he said finally.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she said.
That’s an understatement, she smiled to herself, unable to take her eyes off him. She knew from the Chariot party that Josh looked good in a suit, but tonight he looked like a matinee idol: clean-shaven, square-jawed, gorgeous.
‘So tell me, how did you manage this?’ she asked, feeling flustered. ‘I can’t imagine the boutiques on the Croisette lend thousand-euro gowns every day of the week.’
‘Well, we’re only technically borrowing it.’
‘Technically? Josh, you didn’t steal it, did you?’
Josh looked hurt.
‘You underestimate me,’ he said, smiling. ‘Look, I chatted up some bird with a Ferrari on the Croisette. Got her to drop me off at the boutique. I went in, bought the dress. You can wear it tonight and we’ll take it back tomorrow.’
She tried not to think about him chatting up a wealthy bimbo.
‘They’re going to know it’s been worn.’
‘As long as you don’t spill claret down it they won’t. I’m just going to take it back to the boutique’s manager and tell her you – or rather the girl in the Ferrari – dumped me. She isn’t going to quibble with Rudolfo.’
‘Rudolfo?’
Josh put on a hammy Russian accent.
‘I am Rudolfo, son of the oligarch Alexander who has one of the big, big yachts in the harbour,’ he laughed.
‘You didn’t,’ Sophie giggled.
‘I did.’
‘You are terrible.’
‘And you are beautiful,’ said Josh simply.
Blushing, she pulled the pashmina around her shoulders.
‘By the way, the scarf doesn’t have to be returned. Or the shoes – they’re for you.’
‘I can pay you back when we get back to London,’ she said quickly. ‘For the haircut, the shoes . . .’
He shook his head.
‘I said they’re for you.’
She stepped across and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said, watching him looking uncharacteristically off guard.
She caught a glimpse of them in the mirror behind the door, and even she had to admit what a great-looking couple they made. Their eyes met in the reflection and she looked away.
‘I think we should go,’ she said quickly.
‘There’s no rush,’ said Josh, glancing at his watch.
‘There is, Josh,’ she said. ‘I just want to get this
over with. If Nick was supposed to be meeting this A at the party tonight, I just want to find her and then leave.’
She noted his momentary disappointment. Had he been thinking of tonight as a real date?
‘Don’t pin too much on tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t know if we’re going to find any answers. We don’t know if this woman will even be there . . .’
‘You’re right, we don’t know anything,’ said Sophie, surprised at her own passion. ‘But I want to find out. I want to get to this party and start putting the pieces together, because I want my life back, Josh. I just want to go home.’
31
The somewhat ordinary address on the invitation – 134 Rue de Rivoli – hadn’t prepared Sophie for what she saw as the taxi drove through the iron gates.
‘Bloody hell,’ she gasped, looking towards the end of the palm-tree-lined drive where the Villa Polieux stood like a glorious neoclassical full stop. ‘It’s like something out of Tender is the Night.’
‘I think that was set at the Hotel du Cap down the road,’ smiled Josh. ‘But you’re right. It’s pretty incredible.’
Painted a shimmering white, with wings either side of the main house, the villa had pale grey shutters at every window and was surrounded by sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed flower beds.
‘Who owns a place like this?’
‘It belongs to the Polieux family; it’s their summer retreat,’ said Josh. ‘They’re one of the oldest and most prestigious wine merchants in France, and I’m not talking about selling a few bottles of plonk to rich Russians here. I mean these guys are into wholesale distribution, wine bottling and retail; they’ve got a grape merchant division as well as owning some of the top estates in Bordeaux. If you drink a bottle of wine in France, there’s a decent chance the Polieuxs have had something to do with it.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ said Sophie, giving Josh a sidelong glance.
‘You have a suspicious nature, Sophie Ellis,’ said Josh. ‘I haven’t been sunbathing while you were getting your hair done. It pays to know where you’re going and who you’re likely to bump into.’
Perfect Strangers Page 26
