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.
Chapter 4
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.’
‘Mmmn, he couldn’t take his hands off you in the club,’ agreed Abena through a mouthful of pain au chocolat.
‘Well anyway, I brought him along to the boat and well, you know, we kind of got carried away and ended up shagging. But, literally, as soon as it was over, and I mean, like, the second it was over, he said he had to leave and just walked out. And to add insult to injury, he didn’t even remember my name! God I hate him!’ Tara put her sunglasses back on so that Abena wouldn’t see that she was crying.
‘Ouch. Well, he might still call you
today, he’s probably just being rock and roll – how long is he in town for?’
‘He didn’t bother to get my number,’ Tara sniffed, ‘and he flies back to New York this afternoon.’ She was careful to avoid any mention of cocaine, as she knew that Abena, who’d had what she thought was a mini heart attack the last time she’d done it, was now set against her taking the drug.
‘Well why don’t we get dressed up a bit and head down to Nikki Beach. I met a bunch of really sweet guys last night who are going down today and we can join them. It’ll be good for you to take your mind off Dan.’ And then, when Tara still wouldn’t budge, ‘If he’s off today he’s bound to go for a last round of partying at the beach before he leaves.’
‘Alright, alright, let’s go to Nikki Beach then,’ conceded Tara, getting up and sliding into the pool for a few laps to work off her misery, then emerging twenty minutes later slightly cheered.
The girls took their time over the ritual of dressing for the beach, luxuriating in the fresh sea air and bright sunlight shining directly through the patio doors and into the villa.
‘Oh fuck, what are you wearing, hon?’ Abena asked, popping her head into Tara’s room. This is more stressful than I imagined it’d be. It’s been far too long since I’ve had everything on show like this.’
‘Dunno, thought I might get into the swing of things and go for my cut-out one-piece, but I don’t want to mess up my tan …’ Tara replied. She had perked up considerably and was now dancing naked to dodgy music from a local radio station that she’d turned up as high as it could go.
‘How about you? Surely you remember the advice we were given by the paragon of elegance and good taste that is Natalya?’ Tara raised an arched eyebrow mockingly.
Abena thought back to what Natalya had said the night before about the importance of dressing for the beach and chuckled. As mercenary as Natalya had been, she’d kind of had a point when she’d claimed that ‘it’s at private beach clubs and pools that serious decisions are made’. By the bright light of day at Club 55, she had explained, the owners of the largest yachts can be seen descending on to the shore for lunch, giving anyone looking to sell – shares, businesses, homes, even their body and soul – access to dozens of potential business partners and clients. Across the champagne-saturated pool at Nikki Beach, a girl can be seen in all her glory as her bikini-clad body teeters on the brink of deep water, never quite entering. ‘Anybody who has seen or been seen by day,’ Natalya had said, ‘will make an appearance at Les Caves or VIP by night, and at these clubs, on dance floors and at tables, the seduction takes place.’
Abena laughed at the memory. ‘Natalya’s cynicism is terrifying, but somehow I like her. She’s amusing and very, very intriguing. I kind of feel sorry for her sometimes.’
‘Intriguing? Or downright shady? She makes me uneasy.’
In the end, the girls both settled coincidentally on animal-print bikinis. Black-and-white zebra print for Tara. She wasn’t yet tanned enough to wear the plain white one that made her feel like Ursula Andress emerging from the sea. Abena wore a leopard-print string bikini, an ostentatious choice considering she felt self-conscious next to skinny Tara. No matter how many times she told herself that Tara had the body of a peculiarly tall, prepubescent little girl whereas she had a trim, athletic, young woman’s body, she always ended up feeling that her muscular thighs were too chunky. They threw on floaty chiffon mini-dresses in pastel colours and stepped into flat bejewelled sandals. The bikini-and-high-heels look was for the likes of Natalya.
Next came full faces of make-up, expertly applied to give the impression of flawless and bare summer skin. Hair slicked into chic top-knots and big sunglasses completed the seasoned jet-setter look. Abena picked up her phone to text the boys she’d met last night. Just ask for my table at the entrance came the immediate reply. God, these guys are all so arrogant! she thought. They expect everyone to simply know who they are. Struggling to focus through her hangover, she texted back: My mother told me never to meet boys whose sirname I don’t know.
Beep beep and in came the smug reply: And my mother told me never to associate with girls who can’t spell “surname”. Banio.
Embarrassed, Abena was tempted to reply that seeing as neither of their mothers were likely to approve, they should just call it quits now. Instead she gritted her teeth and typed in a smiley face, followed by: Ha, ha – you got me! Great, see you in a few minutes.
When Abena picked up a book to bring along, Tara stared at it and guffawed loudly. ‘Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina! It’s a great book, hon, but I somehow don’t see you getting round to reading that this morning.’
‘Yep, sod that,’ laughed Abena and grabbed a copy of Vogue instead. She was here to party; Tolstoy could wait till the plane.
When the girls arrived at Nikki Beach and were pointed in Stefano’s direction, even consummate partier Tara paused to take in the scene. The place was not so much a beach as a large pool with a busy bar area painted brilliant white and surrounded by white sun loungers and beds. It was 2 p.m. and a DJ was already spinning dancey house music. The boys were lying on the loungers, drinking champagne. There were four of them although Abena only recognized Stefano Banio and somebody she vaguely remembered being introduced as Pietro, who’d been wearing his shades even inside the nightclub. None of the boys was especially handsome, yet there was something impressive and attractive about each one of them. Perhaps it was simply that they were a great deal younger than the majority of men the girls had met so far. Tara thought it was also their collective air of confidence. They had a uniform look, which oozed luxury, from the cut of their slim-fitting tailored shirts and colourful shorts to the self-assured way they were sprawled on their sun loungers. Even their floppy dark hair was silkier and shinier than any of her girlfriends’ back in London. Their eyes and teeth shone with vitality and their deep tans and Mediterranean features hinted at lives as fast and flamboyant as Ferraris.
The boys rose and introduced themselves as Stefano, Alessandro, Gennaro and Pietro. They fussed over the girls, making sure that they were comfortable and had drinks, and commenting on how fantastic they looked. Tara in particular appreciated the boys’ attentiveness in the light of Dan’s humiliating treatment of her the night before. They were all from Rome but were studying for post-graduate degrees in London and spoke eloquently in English. They tended to spend every other summer weekend in St Tropez as some of their families had villas there.
A shower of cascading Dom Pérignon suddenly interrupted the group. This was accompanied by a squeal from a skinny blonde who had been the intended target of an orgy of champagne spraying taking place beside them. Looking again, Stefano let out a horrified groan. ‘Oh no, Paris Hilton is here!’
By early evening, Nikki Beach was full of gorgeous people dancing under the romantic dusk sky. With its gleaming white decor, the place looked like a fashion shoot. Most people had been drinking since lunchtime and whatever problems anybody might have had were forgotten for the evening. Poseurs relaxed and insecurities melted away alongside sobriety. The atmosphere was delicious. Tara had been lifted up on to Alessandro’s strong shoulders and was dancing in her bikini, all thoughts of Dan Donahue forgotten. Stefano made a similar grab for Abena but she squirmed away from him with an impish grin, dodging his attempts to throw her into the pool.
‘What does everyone feel like doing for food?’ called out Pietro from where he lay languidly on a sun lounger, one hand behind his head and the other idly massaging his chest. He had not once removed his dark glasses and Abena wouldn’t have been surprised if he wore them to bed. Unbeknown to him, the girls had renamed him ‘the Celebrity’, which was causing them endless giggles.
‘We should probably get going actually. We need to go back to our villa and change for dinner with the guys who invited us out here,’ replied Abena. ‘It’d be much more fun to go for dinner with you guys though …’
‘Well why don’t we?’ cut in Tara. ‘It’s not like Reza w
ill miss us. He probably won’t be able to see past Tatiana’s humongous boobs to notice that’s there’s nobody on the other side.’
‘I just think it’s too rude, hon,’ Abena laughed. ‘After all, it’s because of Reza that we’re here in the first place.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Tara jumped off Alessandro’s shoulders, with his help, and Abena found herself wondering, as she often did, at her friend’s willowy elegance.
They made plans for the boys to come and party on Reza’s boat later, and were just about to put on their dresses and leave when Stefano waved over some friends who looked familiar.
Immediately, Tara added some lip gloss and did her best to seem uninterested. Strolling towards the group were the two incredible-looking guys they’d spotted last night at dinner. They were brothers. Stefano introduced the blond as Alex and his darker-haired sibling as Sebastian. Abena glanced at Tara, who got it immediately. They were the very same Alexander and Sebastian Spectre they’d read about on the flight over. No wonder they’d looked so familiar yesterday. Up close, the image of the two brothers standing side by side was so powerful that for a few beats neither Abena nor Tara could speak. With his bright green eyes and smooth skin, Alex, the older brother, had a soft, refined elegance that stopped just short of effeminacy. Sebastian, who seemed younger, had a harder handsomeness. His eyes were greeny-brown and his face was tanned and chiselled, with not an ounce of fat masking the striking structure of his high cheekbones; designer stubble framed his wide, sulky mouth and his coolly dishevelled brown hair was just the right side of long.
If the brothers recognized anybody from last night they didn’t betray it.
‘Hi,’ Alex said to Tara, fixing her with a lingering stare.
She managed to extend her hand. ‘I’m Tara,’ she attempted, but it came out as a high-pitched squeak. Whipping out her mobile, she shot off as if to make a call, but really to stop herself from staring or gibbering inanely.
Sin Tropez Page 5
