Sin Tropez

by Aita Ighodaro

  At the end of the day, a driver chauffeured the three models back to their respective homes in London. It was with heartache that Natalya parted from Irma and Anastasia. For two days they had shared in the same fantasy scenarios, and for those two days they’d believed in them. Now she was back in the real world. The girls swapped phone numbers and vowed to meet up for drinks, although each quietly suspected their drinks date would never materialize. It didn’t matter though. They had shared a wonderful experience, which Natalya could add to her portfolio of memories. She hoped that one day the joyful memories in her life would outnumber the sad ones.

  Bathos. That was the first word Natalya learnt in London just for herself. From the sublime to the ridiculous. The last two days had been sublime, but, as she opened the door to find Claude already home and fiddling with a new security gizmo in a pair of yellow silk pyjamas, she knew that the euphoria was to be short-lived.

  ‘Hello, my child. Take a seat.’ Claude didn’t crush her against his bulk and smother her with kisses as usual.

  ‘Hello, bébé, welcome home. I was just going to the bathroom.’

  ‘No. Sit down first.’

  Natalya perched wearily on the edge of a chair.

  ‘You wait, Natalya,’ Claude ordered, snatching up his ringing phone and speaking, eerily quietly, into it.

  ‘I own that entire region, and I don’t like selling it now at a third of the price I paid only two years ago. But understand this. I can bring down governments just by uttering a sentence.’

  He snapped the phone shut and turned to Natalya. ‘I see you have been out and about. You have a lot of fun without me, ah?’

  He couldn’t still be upset about that night with Tara? She rose from the chair and leaned in to kiss him, if only to shut him up.

  ‘No, baby. Not now.’ Claude grabbed the hand she had stretched out to embrace him with and held it with such force that she thought he might cut off the blood supply to her fingers.

  ‘How do you explain this, baby?’ From his breast pocket he pulled out a magazine cutting. It showed Natalya and Sebastian Spectre deep in conversation at the Tringate Charity Fundraiser. The picture had been cut out meticulously with a pair of scissors into a perfect rectangle.

  ‘You … you told me to go as your representative.’ She struggled to get the words out.

  ‘But I asked you to bring security to watch you. Did you do it? No. And I did not ask you to go half naked.’ He let the picture flutter to the floor.

  ‘You will stay in this house for a week.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I said, you are not allowed to leave this place for a week. It is your punishment. Do not disobey me again.’ He roared the last sentence so loudly that a cluster of staff gathered at the door to see what the commotion was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Natalya breathed.

  He turned and left the room without a backward glance.

  ‘Claude, I’m so sorry,’ Natalya wailed after him.

  Natalya waited on the magnificent bed for an hour, but still he did not come. She was wearing the girlie pink panties Claude liked her in. She had to make it up to him. She just had to. How could she ruin everything at this stage, when she was in the home stretch? If she could make amends then she was still in with a chance of marrying the man. Yes, she was making modelling money now but that was negligible beside Claude’s mountain-moving fortune.

  Finally she heard the beep of the lift, signifying its arrival on the first floor, followed by heavy, lethargic steps coming towards the bedroom. Her throat was dry and her head throbbed with anxiety. Claude stood for a moment in the arched doorway.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Claude. I should not hef gone against your wishes. I will never do so again.’

  Claude entered the room and sat heavily on the bed. Then he gathered Natalya in his arms and squeezed her body tightly. He closed his eyes and lowered his face to her neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent, his nostrils flaring as he did so. Then he kissed her neck and her cheek, her eyes and her nose and her mouth, all the while murmuring ‘My dear, dear Natalya’, over and over again. ‘You are so dear to me. I am only making you do this so that you will understand what you have done.’

  Natalya cried tears of relief. He loved her so. That’s why he was possessive and controlling; because he loved her to the point of barbarity. And his work was so stressful – particularly now when he had just lost a chunk of money. Wasn’t that what he’d said? But he’d make it all back on the Argentine deal. Claude was a genius and his talent was finance. All geniuses are crazy – capricious, fanatical – abnormal by their very definition.

  ‘Promise you will never disobey me again?’

  ‘I promise.’

  And you will give up this … modelling?’

  ‘I promise. Anything.’

  They fell into horizontal positions on the bed, still entwined, and lay like that until Claude dozed off. At which point Natalya opened her eyes, removed his shoes and tucked him into bed before sliding herself back into his arms and falling into a troubled slumber.

  ****

  Down the road, Reza had just returned from a rare walk around the block. Shunning all of his cars, he had taken advantage of the crisp winter air to get some exercise and clear his head so that he could rethink some trading strategies. He decided to pick up a copy of the FT en route and have a read of his interview. On his way out of the late-night newsagent he passed a dirty-looking man selling The Big Issue and stopped to buy a copy. He tossed the man a £50 note.

  ‘Keep the change,’ he said.

  ‘God bless you, sir. You’re a good man.’ The homeless vendor’s mouth hung open as he watched Reza retreat into the distance.

  ****

  ‘My name is Philip Avery Hampton and I’m here on a dual diagnosis: post-traumatic stress and severe depression. While here, I’ve learnt that depression is not something I’m naturally prone to, rather it’s a direct result of a childhood trauma. I am anti-drugs of any kind, so, rather than treat my condition with prescription drugs, I’ve decided to try counselling for the first time in my life. I’ve been at Appletons for eight weeks now and am really starting to feel the beneficial effects of therapy.’ He paused, waiting for the supportive clapping to die down.

  ‘I’ve never been under any doubt that the death of my Greek mother when I was five has had a profound impact on the way I feel, even to this day, and that it has exacerbated the melancholy side to my character. I’ve never needed a therapist to tell me that. But what I did need, I suppose, was someone to talk about it with.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, Philip,’ the therapist soothed. ‘We can all learn from each other through shared experiences, stories and recovery, that is the key purpose of group therapy. Tara, do you feel ready to share something of yourself with us today? We would love to draw you closer and strengthen you as your presence strengthens us.’

  ‘I feel stronger already,’ Tara replied, looking at Philip rather than the therapist. ‘Philip’s story has touched me, he drew me out of myself.’

  ‘Great.’ The therapist looked pleasantly surprised. ‘Philip, would you like to tell us more? Or is anybody else inspired to share something of themselves with the group?’ She looked at the other four patients who were still digesting Philip’s history and shook their heads.

  ‘If … if it helps Tara, then I’d like to say more.’ Philip stood again, flushing.

  ‘I was brought up in London, Oxfordshire and Athens by my English father, who remarried a remarkable English woman shortly after my mother’s death. She looked after me. She brought me up as her own. She loves me as her own. She went on to have three more children with my father. They have … the same ruddy complexion and fly-away auburn hair as both my father and stepmother.’ He smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Do you feel … different, Philip?’ probed the therapist.

  Philip considered the question for a long time. ‘I feel very different. Not the sam
e as those in my family, and not the same as those around me.’

  Nobody spoke.

  ‘Oh boohoo, get out the violins,’ Philip laughed. ‘I feel very silly now.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Philip. Your story is special to us.’ The therapist’s eyes kept flitting from his to Tara’s.

  ‘My father is often described as righteous and kind.’ Philip pushed a wayward strand of long hair out of his face and looked through the window at the rolling green hills. ‘He set an example to me of what a real man should be. He respects the past but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s ensured that my family’s farmland remains productive even today and he’s bred world-class race horses. He has grown our family businesses to even greater heights and written five volumes of bestselling memoirs at the same time. He’s a … a doer, not a talker. Our family is pretty well known, I guess you could say that. Well, not me, as I’m not into all that’ – he looked bashful – ‘but you’ll often see my half-siblings photographed in a variety of weird and wonderful outfits as they flit from launch party to society ball to fancy-dress gathering.’ He half laughed, half winced.

  Something clicked in Tara’s brain: the Avery Hamptons. She remembered an article she’d read about them somewhere. It had been very rude about Philip – clearly he hadn’t cooperated with the piece, probably finding the publication too silly for words. In fact, yes, it had reported that Philip had once said the party scene was ‘as empty as the cupboards of my fashionably emaciated half-sister’s kitchen.’ It was due to his low profile, then, that Tara hadn’t recognized him. She’d actually met his ‘fashionably emaciated half-sister’ on quite a few occasions.

  Chapter 26

  The view across the Swiss slopes from the height of the ski lift was breathtaking. Abena was only a beginner but she hadn’t thought twice before agreeing to join Bertrand, a seasoned skier, off piste. It was the only way to ensure none of her family would spot her.

  This tranquil twenty minutes in the chairlift, enjoying the sunshine as they inched towards the mountain top, was the first time the illicit duo had managed to engineer some time together.

  ‘Where’s your wife?’ Abena asked.

  ‘Told her I’m here with clients. She’s on St Barts with the kids.’

  ‘Oh God, I keep forgetting about your kids,’ Abena groaned.

  ‘Sweetie, do just that, forget about them – they’re my problem. Now, do you think anyone’s ever had sex on a chairlift?’

  ‘Hmmn … well, what with four layers of clothing to get through, libido-zapping thermal underwear, fibreglass feet and being suspended a gazillion metres above ground level, I would think you’d need some serious skill. It would be quite a lovely way to die though.’

  Bertrand threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nearly knocking off her sleek Chanel goggles – pinched from Tara’s wardrobe before she left. Abena may not have been skiing before, but she’d begged, borrowed or stolen all the gear and had perfected her ski-chic look long before she learnt to walk in the clunky ski boots. Repositioning her eyewear and smoothing down her fitted black ski suit, she leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and breathed in the lush air.

  ‘I love it here. I’m absolutely dreading going back home,’ she said. And then, ‘B, when you first saw me, did you think I was just a vacuous, mercenary cow?’

  ‘Oh, darling, we’ve been through this. Are you still talking about this Benedict fellow? I told you, first impressions are often completely deceiving and we’re all mistakenly taken in by them. After all, everyone always thinks I’m a perfectly nice, uptight, well-behaved, old-fashioned English gentleman.’

  ‘True.’ Abena grinned. ‘When really you’re a devilishly handsome, international man of mystery.’

  ‘Quite.’ Bertrand smirked.

  They removed their protective helmets to kiss. It was an awesome sensation at such a high altitude and Abena felt giddy. Then Bertrand pushed the bar up on the ski lift, grabbed her arm and pulled her whooping and shouting through the trees.

  As Abena finally slid to a controlled stop at the bottom of the mountain she caught sight of her mother in the jam-packed restaurant nearby, balancing a giant serving of raclette on a paper plate as she tried to wade through the crowd in her unwieldy ski boots. She was clad in the highest-spec ski-wear despite having stayed well away from the slopes all day. Abena stifled a giggle. Her mother was the real reason the family rarely went skiing. She had a weakness for hearty West African specialities, especially pounded yam, and goat meat pepper soup, and over the years her waist had, slowly but undeniably, spread. Eventually the day came when she realized that if she tried to balance her entire bulk on two thin strips of fibreglass and then propel herself down a crowded mountain, there was little chance of her arriving at the bottom in one piece without having crushed a small child along the way.

  Bertrand slid to a halt beside Abena and spotted her mother easily.

  ‘Abena! Fancy seeing you here,’ he grinned.

  ‘Piss off, Bertrand,’ she muttered in a panic. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting at your chalet!’ But Bertrand was in a playful mood and wouldn’t let up.

  ‘Oh there you are, Abena, I was worried about you,’ called her mother, stepping gingerly out of the restaurant and clutching at her husband as she tried not to slip. ‘You’ve found a friend?’ She looked suspiciously at Bertrand.

  ‘Erm, Bertrand works with Sarah Hunter. We just ran into each other actually.’

  ‘Well, come and have a drink with us, Bertrand.’ Abena’s father had been feeling outnumbered and was pleased to have some male company. Abena swallowed, eyes wide with fear. They moved on towards the bar and ordered a round of Glühwein.

  ‘Do you have any children, Bertrand?’ asked Abena’s mother when they’d run out of conversation about how good the snow was.

  ‘Yes, two girls.’

  ‘How lovely, how old are they, do you have a photo?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Yes I do. But I’m not sure it’s, er, appropriate.’ He saw Abena’s parents exchange a concerned look and realized he sounded like someone barred from public playgrounds.

  ‘No, of course I’ll show you if you’d like to see. They’re five and seven.’ He just had time to flash up two adorable kids on the screen of his phone when it began to ring. ‘In fact that’s probably them now.’

  He put the phone to his ear, ‘Hi poppet, can I call you back later? Oh does she? OK, put her on quickly.’

  Abena could just make out a child singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ at the top of her shrill voice. She felt sick and ran to the washroom as fast as her cumbersome boots would let her. She would end this affair as soon as she got back to England.

  On her return to the bar, Bertrand offered to get the bill before leaving, but was refused. He shook Abena’s father’s hand, kissed her mother on both cheeks, and then turned to Abena herself.

  ‘Wonderful to bump into you. I do hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  With that he was on his way.

  ‘Well, he seemed perfectly nice,’ Abena’s mother announced. ‘A little uptight maybe, but a true old-fashioned English gentleman.’

  That evening after dinner, Abena met up with Bertrand at his chalet. An unconventional combination of pinewood and thatch on the outside, with gadgetry and glass inside, it was like stepping from a charmingly traditional Swiss cottage into a cosmopolitan Berlin penthouse. A real log fire blazed and enchanting arias filled the room, thanks to a discreetly placed Bang & Olufsen speaker system.

  Abena and Bertrand lay facing each other on a fluffy rug by the fire. This time there were no layers of clothing to separate them. He traced the outline of her lips with his finger and then ran the finger down the side of her body, bringing his hand to rest on her bottom. Abena stared at him, taking in his physique, neither soft and flabby nor hard and firm. The way he looked at her was a more powerful aphrodisiac than any vibrant youth’s muscled stomach. She really felt truly, exquisitely
beautiful and desired.

  After some time had elapsed, Bertrand rolled Abena over to take in her back view. God she was marvellous. And she made him feel so very youthful. In fact, with such a pert young bottom in his hands, he could be back at Eton.

  Chapter 27

  Tara snorted as yet another therapist explained the benefits of his particular session.

  ‘As you know,’ Dr Jacowski began, ‘immersion in art encourages the true expression of our inner fears and hopes. I believe that even through the medium of A3 paper and felt-tip pen, each of my patients can come to know themselves and each other.’

  Tara tried to catch Philip’s eye so they could laugh together at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. After weeks of waiting they had finally been assigned as therapy partners for this session. But he was leaning forward in his chair, earnestly looking up at Dr Jacowski, so she decided to try and give the process a chance. She thought fondly of Abena; if she’d been here the two of them would be on the floor weeping with laughter by now. She couldn’t help but yawn out loud. She hadn’t slept soundly for three weeks and was suffering from chronic fatigue.

  ‘Tired?’ Philip asked, as soon as the therapist left the room in search of crayons. ‘It must be tough coming off coke so suddenly like that. How are your withdrawal symptoms?’

  Tara was touched by his sympathetic tone and considered milking her condition a little in the hope of maybe getting a hug, but there was something about the way his gaze penetrated her that made her unable to be anything but straight with him.