‘Tu aimes ça, ma petite chérie?’ Claude looked up from his BlackBerry, himself unaffected.
‘Mais oui. C’est magnifique!’
They landed at Claude’s sprawling white villa, which was classic and beautiful, but nothing Natalya hadn’t seen before. As if sensing she was unmoved by the size of his St Tropez headquarters, Claude guided her straight through to his garden at the back. Strangely, the door seemed to be unlocked.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Natalya. The garden appeared to go on forever and the view over the hills and valleys of southern France extended as far as the eye could see. The landscape looked as striking as it had done from the air.
‘This … is why I bought the place. For the view. And the security. I have the most secure home in France. Every inch of this place is under constant surveillance. There are no house keys, just retina-recognition technology. Nobody but me, my staff and the people I let in can enter.’
By late afternoon the crocodile-skin bag was unpacked and Natalya had time for a brief swim before starting to get ready for the party. She freshened up and changed into a black string bikini. She deliberated for a few minutes over whether or not to add heels, then decided that as Claude liked to call her his ‘sweet child’ he must prefer the young look. She kicked off the wedges and slinked barefoot through the villa and out to the pool area.
‘Wow!’ Claude rose from his deckchair and clasped her hands in his. Then, taking a step back, he looked her up and down. His rheumy eyes were filled with such devotion that Natalya feared he might fall, sobbing, at her feet.
Natalya winced imperceptibly at his Speedos. They were tight, red and far too small for him, and to her utter horror a thicket of long, wiry grey pubic hair curled from beneath them and stalked down the insides of his upper thighs. His belly paunched over the top of the elasticated waistband, making the Speedos seem even smaller. When he was clothed Natalya could concentrate on his face, which might once have been handsome, but in Speedos there was no escaping the truth. As her resolve wavered she closed her eyes and visualized the squat she’d grown up in. Then she opened her eyes and took in the vast swimming pool, shimmering in the afternoon sun, and the Ruinart champagne cooling in an engraved silver ice bucket beside it. She could learn to love him.
The first party guests were due to arrive at 9 p.m. Staff had spent the day preparing a feast of fresh seafood, gourmet salads and beluga caviar. Fifty-eight tables clad in brilliant white linen and set with gleaming silver were scattered around the pool. An immaculately turned-out string quartet were busy tuning their instruments, positioned beside the main entrance in readiness to greet the first guests. Upstairs, Natalya was watching from the window of her marble bathroom, which was almost as big as her entire flat in London. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach. Claude had invited tycoons, celebrated actors and actresses, European royalty, powerful politicians, and even one head of state, and although he maintained that this evening was in her honour, she knew from her research that he regularly entertained at his homes around the world.
Claude wanted Natalya in position early to welcome the very first arrivals at his side.
‘You are a princess.’ Claude’s voice was hoarse and his eyes misted over when she emerged, dressed in a floor-length emerald gown. Natalya was pleased she’d decided to shun her sexy mini-dress, and even more pleased to see that Claude, now in black tie and no longer sweating, looked a lot more presentable than he had earlier by the pool.
‘Come, I have something for you. Remember I told you on the phone that I have a gift for you. Well here it is.’
Natalya flushed. ‘You meant it! I thought you were teasing me. Thenk you.’
She unwrapped the small box Claude handed her. Inside was a pair of sparkling diamond-drop earrings. It was the single most exquisite gift she had ever been given. Short of words, she kissed Claude’s cheek as tears streamed silently down her own.
‘My pleasure. Oh it is my pleasure,’ Claude soothed. He hugged her tight to him and kissed her tears. He slid his hand up and down her exposed back and over her tight schoolboy’s bottom, where he let it rest. Then he took her face in his two hands and planted a cold, wet kiss squarely on her scarlet lips.
‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Ambassador De La Fontaine, welcome to my home. So good to see you both. Please meet Natalya Ozolin, perhaps you know of her from the fashionable pages of the papers?’
Claude thrust Natalya forward to be admired and then left her with the ambassador’s wife while he led the ambassador aside for a quiet word.
‘Yes, I have certainly seen your work before,’ said the ambassador’s polite wife.
‘Thenk you. Claude has been greatly looking forward to welcoming you, and, er, your husband, to his home.’ Natalya attempted to make small talk and was relieved when Claude quickly returned and handed the woman back her husband in readiness to receive the next guest.
Natalya couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so important. Couple by couple the distinguished guests arrived and Claude introduced her to each one as ‘the accomplished Natalya, a top model and brilliant linguist’. She had not, by any means, reached the top of her profession as a model, neither did she consider herself a linguist. But she had been speaking broken French with Claude, a language she had picked up from spending time in Monaco and the South of France. She could converse in Italian because of ex-boyfriends who had not known English. She had taught herself German almost purely though Mozart’s opera’s. She had not found Russian difficult to learn, and her English, as well as her Latvian of course, was fluent. On reflection, maybe Claude was right about her linguistic ability. For the first time, Natalya felt special, more than just a hired body. By Claude’s side she was really someone.
An elegant couple in their late fifties wandered past, champagne glasses in hand, and she watched as the man, who had been carrying his wife’s silk shawl, now wrapped it around her thin shoulders as the night closed in and the sea air began to cool. Natalya was struck by the tenderness of the gesture. She continued watching as the woman looked up and smiled at her husband; a true, loving smile of thanks. Her eyes creased and twinkled, shining as brightly as the diamonds at her neck.
‘Oh, Madame Perren,’ the woman turned away from her husband to face Natalya, just as Claude appeared behind her, ‘what a breathtaking gown! You have wonderful style.’ She delighted in Natalya’s appearance with a motherly warmth. ‘We’re summering on the Italian Riviera this year – you and Claude must come and stay with us on the boat.’
‘We would love to, Your Grace,’ cut in Claude, pressing a proprietorial hand on Natalya’s shoulder and closing it in a vice-like grip.
****
Sarah took a deep breath and looked herself over in the mirror. For her first day at Willy Eckhardt Productions she had opted for a smart and conservative knee-length cream dress she’d bought specially from Zara and plain brown shoes with a small heel. She was a little worried about how the others in the office might receive her, knowing that Willy had offered her the job over dinner. She needed to look elegant and presentable, but not as though she’d flirted her way into the role. As she made her way to the tube station she tried to control her nerves by breathing deeply. It wouldn’t do to throw up on her first day at her new job.
And then there was Willy. What a joy it would be to work so closely with Willy. Even though she hadn’t spoken to him since their dinner at the Wolseley a month ago, she felt sure she was going to like being his assistant. She just hoped she could do a good job.
Sarah arrived at 10.25. She took a minute in the street to smooth down her dress and hair, then marched into the office and introduced herself to the receptionist.
‘Good morning. I’m Sarah Hunter, Willy Eckhardt’s new assistant.’
‘Oh, hi Sarah, nice to meet you. I’m Linda. If you’d like to take a seat I’ll buzz Gloria. She’ll be looking after you this morning until Willy gets in. He tends not to arrive till much later.’
‘OK, great.�
� Sarah sat and surveyed the reception area. The balance sheet of this production company must be very healthy indeed. The furniture was new and expensive. The offices themselves, in the heart of Mayfair, must surely be costing a bomb.
‘Lovely premises, aren’t they,’ she said to Linda. ‘How long have you been up and running? I understand this started up long before Willy himself arrived in the UK. It must be doing well already. I mean, wow!’
‘No, not long at all actually. The company was set up ten months ago, specifically to produce Britain’s Next Musical Megastar. Before that Willy was still tied up with all the songwriting stuff. Excuse me a moment— Goooood morning, Willy Eckhardt Productions, Linda speaking, how may I help?’
‘Ah hah. The talented Ms Hunter.’
Gloria’s voice thundered through the reception area, causing Sarah to jump from her seat, spilling the cup of coffee that Linda had handed her on arrival. Sarah groaned as she watched a dark mark form on her cream dress. What a way to start the day. Red-faced, she extended a hand to meet Gloria’s outstretched one. Just as she had on the phone, Gloria really did sound like a man – and indeed looked like one too. Gloria pressed her sturdy fingers around Sarah’s and shook her hand so vigorously that her entire body shuddered with each rise and fall of the arm.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Gloria boomed, moving her stocky hand to pat the wet patch at Sarah’s crotch. ‘It’ll dry in no time.’
She handed Sarah a print-out.
‘Here’s your itinerary for the next couple of days. Are you familiar with editing pictures? Good. I have a selection of photographs that will go out to the press but I need you to go though them all and make Willy’s teeth whiter in each one. Then there’s a phone conference with Simon Cowell you’ll need to arrange, which takes us to one o’clock, when you’ll have lunch with Willy.’
Sarah nodded eagerly.
‘Tomorrow you’ll go to Willy’s recording studio and meet with executives from his record label, and then you may be required at a dinner with Rupert Murdoch in the evening, to promote the show. Does that all sound fine to you?’
‘Oh goodness, it’s more than fine. It sounds amazing!’ Thinking back to her first days at the sleepy Wimbledon Gazette, she almost laughed out loud. She felt as though she’d been transported to a different universe.
‘I’m glad. It’s hard work too though. It might all sound fun and glamorous, but our job is to make sure that it stays that way for Willy. Just always remember that he is the performer, not you, and you’ll be fine. But you look as though you’ve a good sound head on those shoulders.’
Sarah was so filled with gratitude that she didn’t even mind Gloria’s manhandling. The statuesque publicist was now guiding her to an office, resting a hand on the small of her back to steer her through the door. She took in Gloria’s outfit. Slouchy trousers and a white shirt with a navy blue suit jacket. Her shoes were flat Italian loafers like the ones Sarah’s dad wore. She was robust but not fat and her hair was already a distinguished grey, which complemented her air of no-nonsense efficiency.
‘You’ll also need to get yourself a smart new wardrobe. We’ve a number of big events coming up, and Willy tends to attract a lot of press attention, so he likes his whole team to look sharp. I’ve booked a stylist for you this afternoon.’
Oh God, thought Sarah, envisioning a wardrobe of tight Jane Norman pencil skirts. But when she met up with Tulip at the MAC cosmetics counter in Selfridges, it was clear Willy’s stylist had other ideas.
‘Darling, hi, I’m Tulip,’ announced a striking, stick-thin fashionista with jet-black hair, alabaster skin, kohl-rimmed eyes and blood-red lips. She looked like Snow White on heroin. ‘OK, now, stay right there, no, no, no, noooo, don’t move, just let me look at you!’
Sarah stood awkwardly on the spot while Tulip looked her up and down.
‘Do I meet with your approval?’ she asked nervously.
‘Darling, you’re fabulous!’ exclaimed Tulip before signalling to a staff member for assistance.
‘Oh yes, hi, I’ll need some very heavy-duty contouring bronzer, I need to create cheekbones in a fat face—’
‘“Fat face!”’ Sarah spluttered.
‘Oh no, darling, you’re fabulous, don’t you know, people with round faces look so much younger – just age wonderfully.’ Turning back to the shop assistant, Tulip added dark eye make-up to the list. Worried that without make-up Willy’s colleagues wouldn’t take her seriously, Sarah made no objections.
With make-up sorted they headed to the women’s designer-wear floor and talked briefly about the ‘look’ Sarah was going for. She stuttered, not entirely sure herself, that she was after a few different looks.
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ drawled Tulip as Sarah steeled herself for humiliation. ‘I’m thinking a little bit edgy but still sophisticated and most of all capable, after all you are a secretary and you do have an office job to do.’
‘Well, I’m a personal assistant for now but I—’
‘Oh whatever, darling, the main thing is you’re fabulous! Now come and try this on for me sweetheart, it’s Westwood – simply di-vine.’
Sporting a pair of cut-off hot pants over lurex leggings, chunky high heels, a baggy gold top and a bowler hat – the sum total of which was £3500 – Sarah laughed at her reflection then stepped out of the changing room.
Tulip frowned. ‘OK, so at least now we know the edgy look doesn’t quite work for you darling – that’s absolutely fine. And we won’t do legs – legs don’t quite work for you either. Who was it who put larger girls on the catwalk last season? Was it Mark Fast? Let’s go for fitted longer dresses, let’s do cleavage; that works better on … on girls like you.’
‘I’m a size ten to twelve thanks, I don’t have to buy two seats on a plane just yet!’ Sarah spluttered.
‘Oh no darling you’re wonderful, gorgeous, of course you are – you have a fabulous hourglass figure and lovely natural tan. Let’s make the most of that!’
Sarah was tentative at first. Used to buying clothes on the high street, and relying on ethnic trinkets found on her travels to lend outfits originality, she didn’t know where to start when faced with several floors of different designers, about whom she knew nothing other than that their prices were stratospheric.
She picked out a white-and-blue Moschino knee-length dress that looked exactly like one she’d bought a couple of years ago at Gap for £30. This one was £700 so she tried it on just to prove a point. As soon as the zip was up, though, Sarah had to admit defeat. The dress worked like a corset, streamlining her entire silhouette and emphasizing her firm waist, which appeared smaller than it actually was. When she added a push-up bra, her breasts seemed triple their usual size. She stood on tiptoes to imagine herself in high heels. The dress fell marginally below the knee and was just the right side of slutty. Tulip suggested she get it in black too because it was such a versatile colour.
‘Excuse me, excuse me, can somebody help me?’ Tulip shrieked across the shop floor, gesticulating wildly so that everybody turned to stare.
‘Can you help me? I need this in black too but they’ve run out of the really large sizes. Can anyone do something or will I have to order it in especially? My client’s a bigger girl.’
There was a flurry of activity on the shop floor and to Sarah’s relief, just as Tulip was about to make an announcement over the tannoy, a young shop assistant triumphantly located a size twelve.
Tulip and Sarah added stretch jeans, some spiky, dominatrix-style heels, and silk shirts in every colour of the rainbow to their collection of eight dresses. They decided to forgo jewellery as they didn’t have a big enough budget for that and Tulip declared that if it wasn’t diamonds then it wasn’t worth wearing. Besides, the clothes were so striking and colourful that it would look less garish to keep accessories minimal.
‘You mustn’t look like you’ve tried too hard,’ shuddered Tulip. Sarah found this hilarious coming from a woman sporting a
denim playsuit and heels, a jet-black pudding-bowl haircut, scarlet lips and a tattoo on her left arm that read ‘Mama didn’t love me’.
‘Right, come on darling, let’s pay up now and go sort your hair out and get you some beauty treatments.’
The shop assistant didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘That’ll be £11,130 please.’ Sarah gripped the counter to steady herself as Tulip handed over Willy’s company credit card.
Despite wanting to murder Tulip, Sarah returned home with a spring in her step. A new haircut framed her face and swung elegantly around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure whether it was simply because she was looking out for it, but she sensed she was turning more heads than usual on the tube. She could hardly wait to show Si her new look.
Chapter 13
‘Hi Elton, this is my girlfriend Abbi.’
Sebastian shouted above the noise as the paparazzi clicked away in the background. Sir Elton and Abena kissed hello before he moved on to greet the Beckhams, in town for a few days. A photographer moved in to collect Abena’s details.
‘Hi, what’s your name please?’
And then to Sebastian, ‘Sebastian Spectre, this way please.’
Sebastian ignored him.
‘It’s Abena Ankrah, should I spell that for you?’
‘Ooh yes please! I’ll need help with that one!’ the photographer replied.
‘Let me write it for you. Who are you with?’
‘Hello! magazine.’
Delighted, Abena made a mental note to pick up a copy next week. It would be wonderful to have a record of her and Sebastian dressed up together without having to ask him for a photograph and risk looking over-keen. On the other hand, hadn’t Sebastian just referred to her as his girlfriend? It struck Abena as much too soon, especially given his playboy reputation, but she was elated nonetheless. She was determined to forget past broken-hearts and not be too guarded with him. She would do everything to make this work. Right now they were at Elton John’s White Tie and Tiara Ball and she hadn’t had such a fun evening out since she and Tara had gone wild in St Tropez. Waitresses were circulating with trays of champagne, weaving through the six hundred guests milling around on the perfectly manicured lush green lawns.
Sin Tropez Page 13
