Sebastian resumed the tour of his estate three and a half hours later, and Abena sheepishly avoided eye contact with the maid hovering outside the bedroom. They moved on to the living and dining areas, which, Abena was disappointed to see, were decorated in cream and beige colours with lots of dark varnished wood.
‘I think Dad would like to be a bit more adventurous with the decor, but Mum’s reined him in unfortunately. She read somewhere that simplicity is more tasteful.’ He gave Abena a look that suggested he thought his mother was a nightmare.
Abena was flabbergasted at just how many different places the Spectre family had in which to eat. They could lunch up on a high gallery that spanned the width of the splendid double-height library, looking over unread books covered in a thick layer of dust – ‘We aren’t what you’d call readers,’ Sebastian had grinned. They could dine at a round mahogany table in the middle of a circular space connected to the central, gleaming, restaurant-sized kitchen. They could breakfast outside on any of the ivy-canopied terraces. They could face south in summer or north if they fancied some shade. They could eat intimately à deux beside the temperature-controlled outside pool or they could dine in the main hall with two hundred guests.
Next stop was the wine cellar, followed by the home cinema, which could seat at least fifty. The house seemed designed for entertaining and Abena wondered idly what sort of films the Spectres liked to watch there. There were sixteen huge, theatrically decorated bedrooms, each with its own his-and-hers bathrooms. Sebastian showed her just three, beginning with the ‘Out of Africa’ bedroom, which came with a full-size genuine lion-skin rug, and a stuffed buffalo in the corner. In the ‘Renaissance’ room, two maids were arranging flowers and plumping pillows on a four-poster bed covered in gold-leaf and draped in damask silk canopies. Most indulgent of the lot was the master bedroom, which had its own chute leading directly to the Olympic-sized indoor pool two floors below; this enabled Sebastian’s father to simply slide from his bed straight down into the pool every morning, with no excuse for not doing his daily thirty power laps.
Just as Abena and Sebastian were about to take a stroll through the grounds, the front door slammed shut and Alex appeared in the hallway.
‘I thought we were alone tonight,’ Abena whispered.
‘I thought he’d be at his place in Chelsea this evening. But don’t worry, he’s usually got company so he’ll keep out of our way.’
As Sebastian said this, a woman appeared behind Alex and kissed his neck. She was not a natural beauty, Abena observed, but she knew how to buy it. Her hair was highlighted multiple shades of blonde, which lifted her complexion, and the height of her blow-dry formed a becoming frame for her face. Her simple, cleverly boned black dress gave the impression of a streamlined silhouette and her high heels added four elegant inches to her height. The dress was cut low at the front to show off the woman’s ample chest, but pearl earrings and minimal make-up lent a demure tone to what might otherwise have been a sluttish ensemble.
‘Is she the girlfriend?’
Sebastian laughed. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’
‘How’s it going, big man?’ He embraced his brother and the two banged each other on the back with gusto.
It emerged that Alex was putting Isobella up for the night as she’d missed her connection at the airport.
‘It’s awful. I just flew in from Zurich and was literally five minutes after closing time for my Miami flight. That’s all, but it was too late. So I had to call Alex, as we’re all the way over in the Cots-wolds. He was so sweet to come and get me,’ Isobella simpered. Abena tried hard to remember when she’d last seen someone in a cocktail dress and pearls on a flight and found no memories forthcoming.
‘How are you anyway, Sebastian? It’s been ages.’ Isobella bit her lip and smiled too intimately.
‘Very well Issy. Alex, you remember Abbi from France?’
‘Abbi, hi, how are you?’ Alex air-kissed her on both cheeks, showing no sign of recognition whatsoever.
‘Are you in town for a bit? Because Abbi’s friend … er … er … the blonde, do you remember?’
Alex looked blank.
‘Well, anyway, she’s invited us over to theirs … For dinner at some point.’ Sebastian looked meaningfully at his brother, his face impish.
‘Yes, I’m sticking around for June but I’ve quite a lot on. Why don’t you chaps arrange something and if I’m free then I’ll come along. He reached out and rested a hand on Isobella’s bottom. Come. I’ll show you to your room.’
Sebastian picked up the internal phone in the hallway and dialled the kitchen.
‘I’ve a starving African in my arms and she’d like to be fed. Any news?’
Abena laughed. That must be Romilly, the newly acquired Michelin-starred chef he’d been telling her about.
Romilly had run a superb restaurant in a nearby country-house hotel for the past fifteen years but some months ago had begun fantasizing about letting his staff take the strain so that he could lead a quieter life away from the constant stream of demanding customers. Sebastian’s father, Simeon Spectre, had always been a fan of the restaurant, and when he offered Romilly the position of personal chef to the Spectre family, Romilly jumped at the chance. The arrangement was going swimmingly. Romilly and his wife had moved into a large, comfortable cottage on the estate, he was paid handsomely and given free run of the kitchen, and was able to take his time and experiment with exquisite and unusual dishes. It was a particular relief not to still be churning out his signature lobster mousse every day – he could produce a batch of mousseline de homard au champagne et caviar literally with his eyes closed.
As for the Spectres, they found that Romilly’s home-cooking surpassed even the gastronomic thrills of Chez Romilly and were constantly surprised with wonderful new dishes. A weekend at their country house had become the most sought-after invitation in the Home Counties.
****
Harry, the diminuitive owner of the novelty paper-clip company where Tara had just finished temping, reached for a bottle of fizz and climbed on to the booster seat behind the wheel of his Jag. He punched Tara’s Ladbroke Grove address into the satellite navigation system and set off.
When he arrived, he could see Tara through the window, glass of wine in one hand, black nail polish in the other, and one long, slender leg stretched out on the kitchen counter. He got a stiffy instantly.
‘Come in, it’s open,’ Tara called through the window. He found a place to park then let himself into her flat.
‘Harry, trust you to arrive on time! I haven’t done my toes yet,’ she frowned.
‘Let me,’ said Harry. ‘But make yourself comfortable first.’
Tara grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and led the way to the sitting room, followed by Harry, clutching the champagne and two flutes. She sat down on the sofa, removed her turban and shook out her hair. She looked mockingly at him.
‘So now what?’
He knelt at her feet and kissed them both. ‘Now it’s my turn to get on my hands and knees for you.’
Tara stared at the top of Harry’s bald head and loathed the sight of it. Then she gasped as he lifted her left foot and brought it to his lips. He let his tongue flicker out to gently probe the soft skin between her unpainted toes, before taking one fully into his mouth. He licked and sucked it with his eyes closed, as though his life depended on it. As though nothing known to man could taste better than that toe. Tara leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes too. She said nothing until all her toes were slippery and wet and she had finished climaxing. When she finally opened her eyes she looked down and saw that he had started to paint her toenails for her. He ran the small brush in careful, straight lines along every nail until each one was black and glossy. Tara rested her head against the back of the sofa and sighed. This would be the absolute last time.
Chapter 12
Natalya removed the small mirror from between her legs. Satisfied that her bikini line looked in perf
ect shape from every angle, she reached for her Crème de la Mer and rubbed the moisturizer all over her body. The extortionate price she had paid for it would yield good returns. Every man up until this point had felt like a warm-up, but this was no rehearsal. Claude was the main event and Natalya was not prepared to screw this one up. She unwrapped a parcel of newly purchased red underwear and stepped into it, relishing the luxurious feel of silk against her skin. It was a present from Gregory. It hadn’t been difficult to persuade him to buy it for her, for him. Only it wasn’t for him; it was for Claude. But Claude would not of course be allowed to enjoy it fully on this occasion. It was too soon. Perhaps he would glimpse just a hint of red bra as she let the straps of her dress fall down her shoulders on a balmy night. He might see a flash of scarlet silk knicker as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, causing her dress to slide up her thigh. He would have to work hard before he saw her in nothing but the silk underwear. He would have to earn it.
Glancing at her watch, Natalya saw that she had an hour and a half to go before her car was due. Just the right amount of time to finish making herself up. Her crocodile-skin weekend bag was ready and waiting in the hallway. She had planned its contents meticulously and packed it days in advance. She entered the bathroom and washed off her face mask.
An hour and a half later she was ready to go. In a form-fitting blue dress and towering heels, her face largely hidden behind oversized black sunglasses, she cut a striking figure. Her hair had been cut short into a peroxide-blonde elfin crop for a test shoot she’d been booked for. It was the first time she had done anything so drastic with her hair, but Mario was a top photographer, and even though test shots were unpaid, a shot by Mario in one’s book was highly sought after, and she was pleased with the result. Every girl was doing the LA-style long honey hair thing these days, and to look like every girl was the last thing Natalya wanted. The car arrived on time and the driver leapt out of his seat to carry her bag and hold open the door.
‘Heathrow inn’it?’ he enquired, his eyes glued to her image in the rear-view mirror.’
‘Yes. Terminal One please.’
‘Okey dokey. Where you going to then, my love? Is it work or play? You look like you’re famous or somefink.’
Natalya did not wish to make conversation with the driver.
‘France.’
In full view of the man, who was still mesmerized by her reflection, she reached into her handbag, switched on her iPod and put her earphones in place. It didn’t work.
‘What you up to in France then? There’s a lot a people heading up that way this time a year. I took Madonna up to Heathrow once. She were going a St Tropez wiv that ex-hubby a hers.’
Natalya gazed silently out of the window, trying to keep her mind off the horrifying letter she’d received. She realized with annoyance that the driver was still talking, telling more anecdotes about celebrities, most of whom had pots of money and no talent. They didn’t know what hard work was. She despised them, and right now she was ill inclined towards this tedious man too.
Eventually she snatched out a headphone and snapped ‘What?’
‘Oh sorry, you was listening to yer music was ya? I was just sayin’ that it’s a real honour ta get ta drive lovely ladies such as yourself around. Hope ya don’t mind me sayin’ so. You’re a right cracker you are.’
Natalya’s eyes rolled behind her shades; someone change the record please!
Aloud she said, ‘Thenk you. I will sleep now until we reach Heathrow.’
Natalya’s flight was delayed by half an hour, so she whiled away the time in the business-class lounge, mildly annoyed that the airline only offered first class for long-haul flights. Forgoing the free food on display, she helped herself to some Perrier and flicked through a copy of Vogue. She usually found business and first class fertile hunting grounds, but this time she was uninterested in collecting business cards.
Once, she’d spent the night with a businessman she met on a flight out to Milan. They’d had a champagne-fuelled night of passion in a Milanese hotel. The next morning she’d woken up, flushed and happy at the thought she might be in love for the very first time, to find an empty space beside her in bed where his body should have been. She’d called him in a panic, only to be met by a foreign ring tone. Finally he answered, ‘Baby, I’m in Mexico.’
The jerk had pronounced it Me-hi-co and there was no hint of regret or embarrassment in his tone. She had hung up the phone and been about to cry, tears of frustration more than sadness, when she’d glanced at the table by the bed and spotted an envelope with her name written on it. In the envelope was a wad of cash. She never saw the man again, but she had herself a great few days in Milan, and returned home with a suitcase full of gorgeous clothes. Every cloud has a silver lining.
This time, though, nothing would distract her from Claude. Natalya boarded the aircraft without removing her dark glasses and found her seat near the front of the plane. She dozed lightly until the food and drinks trolley arrived, at which point she declined the food and requested a glass of champagne instead. She asked the stewardess if she could borrow a pen, but before she could fetch one a previously unnoticed gentleman three rows back thrust his Mont Blanc in Natalya’s direction. Thanking him, Natalya ripped out a couple of pages from her notebook and started a letter to her mother. It had been so long since she had written regularly in Latvian that she preferred to write in English. Her brothers, who had become proficient in English at school, could translate for their mother.
Darling Mother,
How are you? How are the boys? Did Bendiks like the books I sent him? What about Juris? How did his exam go, my little dumpling? I miss you all terribly but things are going great here and I’ll hopefully be able to come and see you soon. I’m actually on my way to France now – I’ve landed a fantastic assignment there. I’m modelling for a wedding dress designer in St Tropez. I’ve heard it’s supposed to be beautiful there. I came across this picture of me taken backstage at a show and thought you might like it.
Do let me know if there is anything you need me to send you urgently.
All my love,
Natalya
She ripped out the photograph of herself from the Vogue that she’d sneaked out of the business-class lounge. The photo had been taken during graduate fashion week. Not as prestigious as the main shows, and the graduates didn’t have much of a budget to pay models with, but they were the stars of the future and she’d been pleased to be snapped there. She slipped the photograph and the letter into an envelope and put it in her bag to post from France. Then she handed the pen back to its owner.
Claude was waiting to greet her in person when she arrived in Nice. Natalya had expected he would send a car, which would have enabled her to touch up her make-up before seeing him. So she wasn’t in the slightest bit cheered to spot him sweating in the arrivals lounge, clutching a huge bouquet of orchids.
Natalya’s irritation appeared to go undetected by Claude as he gathered her up in his arms and lifted her into the air.
‘Mmmn …’ He sniffed her hair, her neck, for what seemed like ages. All the while his eyes were closed and he murmured again and again, ‘My sweet child … my darling heart.’
Natalya was repulsed by this grievous invasion of her personal space. The deviation from her plan had unsettled her and she was incensed. She took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten in Latvian, something that her mother had taught her to do whenever she felt fear or anger.
Regaining both her composure and control of the situation, she took a step back and said, ‘Monsieur Perren. I was not sure you would recognize me with my hair like this. Do you like it?’
‘I know your face very well. I have seen you hundreds of times. I looked at all of your pictures on the web. Even when dreaming, I see your face.’
Natalya giggled, looked down at the floor then back up at him in what she hoped was a shy glance. As she did so she noticed a thickset man in a smart suit standing a couple of metres behi
nd and slightly to the left of Claude.
‘Do you go everywhere with protection?’ she asked, as Claude reached down to carry her case, declining the bodyguard’s offer of help.
‘Outside the confines of my own property, then, yes. Everywhere.’
The silent bodyguard led the way to the helicopter waiting to fly them to St Tropez. A peculiar little man with a long, pointed beard and a shock of haphazard curls was waiting with a briefcase beside the aircraft.
‘My doctor; he flies with me everywhere,’ said Claude, ignoring him. ‘So, now, I hope you won’t mind, but I have taken the liberty of organizing a party for this evening, to welcome you to my home.’
‘But that is so sweet!’ Natalya gasped. ‘I am overjoyed.’ And she was. A ‘party’ meant crowd, and a crowd would take the pressure off her interaction with Claude. If she could, she would avoid being alone with him in a romantic setting for a while. Only then could she prolong the courtship and retain the power.
‘Good. It will be dinner and dancing at my place. I hope you have something spectacular to wear? Or you would like us to go and buy something now?’
‘No, no, absolutely not. I think I can put a little something together. I don’t want you to buy me a thing; you have treated me far too much already.’
In the past, Natalya would never have turned down the offer of a shopping trip, but this time she figured she would forgo a dress right away, in favour of a diamond ring on her wedding finger in the future.
Natalya racked her brains for something to talk about with Claude during the twenty-minute chopper flight and, failing dismally, decided to stay quiet and demure unless he initiated a conversation. He didn’t. But he smiled at her and told her, in French, to relax and enjoy the views. Compared to Reza’s private jet the aircraft was small, but it did have vast floor-to-ceiling windows that offered far-reaching views from every angle. She felt dangerously close to the elements. It was as though their helicopter was a delicate bubble in this great expanse of blue sky, soaring above a mythical forest of green. Natalya wondered at the bounty of the trees and the endless azure ocean and felt a twinge of sadness, seeing such beauty spread out beneath them. Why did humans always have to spoil the fairy tale?
Sin Tropez Page 12
