by Joan Collins
Carlotta managed to escape to the top deck, where Henry and Blanche were deep in conversation with the Mayor, Sophie, and Frick and Adolpho.
‘Carlotta, darling, darling cara! Welcome to Saint-Tropez! I’m so thrilled to see you. You look gorgeous!’ shrieked Blanche, cranking herself up to give Carlotta an effusive hug, then pulling her down to sit between her and Sophie. ‘I haven’t seen you since the Grand Prix in Monaco last year. You were with your poor husband . . . I’m so sorry, darling.’ Blanche arranged her face in what she thought was a sincere expression of sympathy but which, thanks to multiple facelifts, just came off looking comical.
‘Thank you, Blanche,’ said Carlotta. ‘Yes, it was very sad.’
‘And so young! And so handsome!’ Blanche was in full flow now, which made Carlotta feel a little uncomfortable. She had had to play the grieving widow in Buenos Aires for four months and she had hoped that in new environs most people would grasp that the mourning period was over. Luckily Blanche skipped to another subject.
‘Oh, and remember that lunch we had the next day when we saw Prince Harry on the beach with his girlfriend? Poor guy, he was trying so hard not to be noticed, but we saw him, didn’t we, Carlotta?’ Carlotta nodded. She tolerated Blanche because she found the pushy socialite rather pitiable, and Carlotta tried never to be rude to anyone.
Blanche pulled Carlotta down beside her on to the banquette, but Sophie was not best pleased by Carlotta’s inclusion in the group. She liked Carlotta but never took kindly to younger, prettier women sitting next to her, and Carlotta’s exotic natural beauty and sweet nature seemed to be making her popular with the Saint-Tropez social set.
Suddenly Blanche’s dog, which was the size of a rat and having regurgitated the plastic fingernail, decided to pounce on one of Carlotta’s dangling emerald earrings. For a tiny pooch Pixie had simian strength, and Carlotta shook her head violently to try to dislodge the animal. But Pixie seemed determined to swallow her Harry Winston bauble. Carlotta tried pushing the dog away, but it hung on, tiny teeth attached to the emerald earring and growling as menacingly as a toy pooch could.
Blanche seemed unaware of what her pet was up to yet again as she continued to recount to a bored Sophie the saga of her recent breast reduction.
‘That Beverly Hills doctor is magic, just magic,’ she confided. ‘I was a 38DD and he cut everything out and made me a 34B – look!’ She proudly pulled down her loose chiffon top to reveal six-month-old breasts on a sixty-nine-year-old chest.
Frick and Adolpho, totally taken aback to see this elderly American flashing her fresh boobs, turned away, giggling uncontrollably. Carlotta looked as embarrassed as she was able with a snarling puppy attached to her ear.
Sophie, grinning devilishly, purred, ‘They’re lovely, darling, simply divine. Hollywood starlets would be jealous of those – er – breasts.’
‘Ya think?’ Blanche looked extremely pleased, then finally noticed Carlotta trying to wrestle her earring from Pixie’s fangs.
A young man, who had been leaning on the handrail watching the scene with amusement, came to Carlotta’s rescue. He gently removed the earring from the yapping dog’s mouth and returned it to Carlotta with an enigmatic smile. My God, but she is lovely, he thought. So much more refined and beautiful than the over-Botoxed and over-tanned females in this town.
Carlotta smiled shyly back at him. ‘Thank you so much. I’m not quite ready to be dog meat yet.’
He laughed and held out his hand. ‘Nick Stevens – and that dog has great taste in snacks.’
She laughed and shook his hand, ‘Carlotta Di Ponti. I’m glad to meet you.’
Nick Stevens was nothing like the blasé two-faced partygoers who would stab you in the back while saying, ‘Darling, you look amazing!’ Dressed in simple chinos and a plain white shirt, he was medium height with sandy-blond hair, cut unfashionably short. His deep tan was not the kind one gets from lounging on the beach or a yacht covered in suntan lotion. It was the dark almost chestnut brown acquired from being out in the open air with no beauty aids. The crinkles around his pale, almost translucent blue eyes attested to an outdoor life. His handshake was firm but not bone crushing, and he held it for a fraction longer than necessary, looking into Carlotta’s eyes.
‘Do you want to help me stargaze?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Carlotta stood up, glad to get away from the mad dog and the hysterical Blanche, and followed Nick over to the handrail. ‘You don’t look like you really belong here,’ she said, then hastily added, ‘I mean, I’m sorry to sound rude.’
‘Not at all, Contessa.’ He smiled and she realised he knew who she was. ‘I don’t belong, you are right. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem to be like these people at all.’
‘Oh, I’m the new gal in town. Please, call me Carlotta.’
‘You’re a widow, are you not?’
She nodded. His questions should have put her on her guard, but Nick was not only good-looking in a non-threatening way, but also had a down-to-earth, relaxed attitude that she really liked.
‘Another drink?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ Carlotta smiled as he signalled to the waiter, then they leaned on the railing watching the stars and listening with amusement to the cacophony behind them.
Having heard the story about Blanche revealing her boobs, Fabrizio bounded up like a big puppy and plonked himself down next to Blanche and joked in his little-boy voice, which many women found adorable, ‘Can I have a look at your boobies too?’
He winked at Carlotta, who was at the handrail staring down at the dark, diamond-encrusted waves but had heard his remark. He had some nerve, that boy. Good-looking as he was, he never knew when to quit and his jokes weren’t funny.
But Blanche, delighted to have such a handsome audience, obligingly pulled down her top again for Fabrizio’s and everyone else’s delectation.
Pixie was feeling left out, and having been denied her emerald earring, decided to get some attention by taking a nip at Blanche’s left nipple.
Blanche’s screams were so loud that they echoed through the ancient back streets of the village and started all the dogs barking madly. Carlotta turned, startled, then rushed to comfort her. Fabrizio, ever the hero, tried to cover Blanche’s breasts with a cocktail napkin that was far too small for the job.
Lara heard Blanche’s manic cries as she minced up the steps in search of Fabrizio. Her white Lurex Hervé Léger was too short, too tight and too low-cut but, having heard how fabulous she looked from her ‘wrecking crew’, she oozed confidence. But when Lara saw Fabrizio, one hand on Blanche’s chest and looking at Carlotta with a buffoon-like smile, she went ballistic. ‘STRONZO BASTARDO!’ she screamed, yanking him away by the collar of his white Dolce shirt. ‘What are you doing with her?’
‘Nothing,’ he yelled, adjusting his shirt, uncomfortably aware that all the guests were watching with great amusement.
‘I’ll show you nothing,’ yelled Lara, slapping his face for the second time that night with a be-ringed hand.
Galvanised into action, Maximus rushed up the stairs and watched helplessly as Fabrizio attempted to defend himself from the onslaught of ten pointed acrylic nails.
François, the waiter from Sénéquier, in the process of serving Sophie a glass of wine, grinned. He liked nothing more than to see the so-called ‘beautiful people’ making fools of themselves and each other, and he thought Lara was a ‘Grade I’ bitch. Another incident had occurred with Lara just that morning. As François had manoeuvred around the overcrowded tables of Sénéquier Café and Bar, she had accused him of spilling water down her sun-ravaged décolletage. He’d attempted to deny it, but she had threatened to have him fired. To placate her he had signalled to another waiter to bring her another vodka.
‘On the house,’ he smiled. She was a nasty piece of work and he wasn’t about to let her get away with her endless bullying. Her time would come.
Lara was still hissing at Fabrizio, who lo
oked like a cowering dog. François felt a touch of pity for the poor gigolo. What a way to earn a living – banging raddled old bags, waiting for hand-outs and singing horribly.
François would never lower himself to that, even though rich women had propositioned him many a time. Yes, he was good-looking, but he had a lot better and bigger fish to fry right now, and he was getting quite a kick out of it, not to mention a ton of cash.
Suddenly the Captain appeared in the crowded main salon below the top deck. Clapping his hands he announced with all the gravitas of a lifetime of maritime experience, ‘Silencio. Ladies and gentlemen, please evacuate the boat immediately and in an orderly fashion. We have just been informed that there is a bomb on board.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘A bomb!’ Ignoring the Captain’s calm command to leave the boat quietly, and shrieking with fear instead, four hundred movers-and-shakers, socialites and members of the Eurotrash set began to shove each other out of the way in their frantic quest to escape being blown to smithereens.
Henry and Blanche were first down the narrow stairs, Pixie perched terrified on her mistress’s shoulder, her shrill barking adding to the cacophony. Behind them lumbered Maximus, sweating and cursing profusely. Suddenly he missed his footing on the slippery steps and, with a bellow of alarm, fell forwards, his huge body propelled on to Blanche’s wizened frame. With a squeal she jumped out of his way but dropped Pixie. The puppy fell to the ground, and then Maximus’s massive bulk landed on Pixie with a sickening crunch.
‘Oh, my God! My dawg!’ screamed Blanche, frantically scooping up the tiny mutt’s remains. ‘My baby – my Pixie poo.’ Black tears ran down her rouged cheeks as Maximus struggled up on his feet to face her barrage of fury. ‘You killed Pixie, you murderer, you . . . FAT . . . murderer. You killed my darling little doggie.’ She held the puppy’s body closer, sobbing into its squashed and bloodied fur.
‘Madame, I am so sorry, I did not see your dog. I mean it is so tiny . . . and in the rush . . . I apologise, madame, but, but . . . she had a painless death. So sorry.’
‘She was the most precious thing in my life. You’re a monster,’ Blanche sobbed. ‘I demand an arrest now. Monsieur Le Mayor – listen, listen to me, please . . .’
She grabbed the Mayor’s sleeve as he awkwardly clambered down the steps, but as he was only concerned with getting off the ship himself, he brushed her arm off and jumped on to the steps down to the quay to join the gawking throng.
‘Madame, I will buy you another dog,’ Maximus blustered as the stewards started herding everyone – including Blanche and the dead dog – off the vessel. ‘A proper dog, one that is fully grown.’
‘How dare you! Pixie was fully grown; she had the finest pedigree; she was special. She was my baby . . .’ Weeping piteously, Blanche staggered on to the wharf, where she collapsed into her husband’s arms.
Camera phones started clicking all over the quay as everyone rushed from the local cafés to capture the scene.
Lara stomped down on to the quay and started rummaging through the basket of shoes.
‘My shoes? Where are my Louboutins?’ she yelled to one of the sailors, who ignored her. ‘Where’re my jewelled sandals? They were brand new from Neiman’s,’ she demanded of Maximus, who sat hunched over on a concrete slab, wheezing horribly. ‘And where’s Fabrizio?’
Maximus’s asthma was playing up so badly he could only point weakly back up at the boat, then had a coughing fit.
‘He’s still with her?’ Lara’s collagen-ed lips drew back into a snarl. ‘How could you let this happen, you idiot?’
Maximus, unable to speak, shook his head and wheezed some more.
Suddenly there was another loud proclamation from the Captain. ‘Man overboard. Attenzione everyone. Attenzione! Two men overboard! No – no, there’s a woman! Oh, mio Dio! Woman overboard too.’
When the frenzied, terrified throng started to abandon ship, Carlotta, who was still chatting to Nick, pressed herself against the ship’s railing to avoid being crushed by the crowd rushing to safety. Fabrizio, still hot for her in spite of Lara’s jealousy, had manoeuvred himself nearer to tell her a few more bad jokes. Before he had the chance to even start, all hell broke loose.
The handrail, which had recently undergone inept repair work, collapsed, and Carlotta and the two men had tumbled head over heels into the poisonous, polluted waters of the Saint-Tropez port. This part of the Mediterranean, so close to the giant yachts, was extremely dirty, as the crews of the floating gin palaces thought nothing of disposing of their detritus into the sea. Carlotta tried to swim to the quay but her mouth was full of the foul filth in the water and she was almost choking on it.
Nick put his arms out to Carlotta to help her, and managed to pull her to the edge of the slipway. Dripping and filthy, they were manhandled out unceremoniously on to the jetty. Carlotta, Nick and Fabrizio were covered in muck and slime as they lay panting on the concrete dock. Somebody passed around bottles of water and Carlotta gratefully rinsed out her mouth.
Nick gave the impression of latent strength as he helped Carlotta to sit. His sinewy muscles supported her and she leaned against his chest gratefully. A feeling of safety enveloped her. In spite of the shock of falling and the maelstrom around her, Nick Stevens felt good, solid and safe.
‘I guess they scrimped on repairs,’ he grinned. ‘But hey, it could have been worse. We could’ve drowned in that crap.’
The paparazzi were having a field day, feverishly jumping up and down and pushing people out of the way to get the best shots of everyone shivering on the quay.
‘They look like drowned rats!’ crowed Pete the Brit-pap, ‘This summer is a real money-maker!’
‘The tabloids and the celeb mags are going to eat these up!’ gloated Jean-Pierre, the French paparazzo. ‘You know how the public loves seeing celebrities looking terrible.’
‘This is the sorriest-looking bunch I’ve ever seen,’ said Pete, in his element, stoked by the prospect of dollar signs dancing before his eyes.
Jonathan Meyer’s white suit was covered in red wine spilled on him by his wife Vanessa. As they struggled down the boat’s steep step, her dress rose above her thighs; in an attempt to pull it down, she put her hand on her husband’s head to steady herself and dislodged his toupee, which slid over one eye. With his black eyes and moustache, he looked like a passable imitation of Hitler. Some of the onlookers, noting the resemblance, excitedly snapped pictures on their phones.
Blanche was ‘papped’ weeping, clutching a small dead dog to her half-naked breasts. The videos went viral the following day.
Sophie Silvestri, who hated the paparazzi, was photographed adjusting her blonde bouffant wig while being comforted by the Mayor who, having always fancied her, was feeling rather excited.
Lying flat out on the concrete quay and choking on slime, was Fabrizio Bricconni. A barefoot Lara Meyer, bloodshot eyes burning with rage, was standing over him and she had resumed her verbal flagellation as he coughed and spluttered.
‘That’s a great shot!’ panted Pete, hot-footing it over to them.
Ignoring the assembled snappers, barely managing to contain her fury, she screamed abuse at him as flashbulbs exploded in front of them like 4 July fireworks. Suddenly, when the realisation of what was happening hit Lara, she hissed through gritted teeth, ‘Come, Fabrizio, let us go home. I’m gonna take care of you, darling,’ as she grabbed him by the collar of his sodden silk shirt.
Fabrizio, shivering with cold, felt his knees turn to jelly. God knows what was in store for him now. Lara’s ominous ‘I’m gonna take care of you, darling’ could mean anything. He would never put it past her to threaten suicide, then cut up his suits and throw them out of the window. Whatever it was, he knew tonight he was in for a bumpy ride, yet again.
‘What you do with that woman?’ she hissed, pointing to Carlotta.
‘I wasn’t with her. I wasn’t doing anything. She was talking to that guy next to her.’ He stumbled to h
is feet, glancing over to where Nick was helping Carlotta to sit up.
‘We’ll talk about it later, caro. Come, let’s go.’ The furious socialite attempted to throw a rictus grin towards the panting paparazzi as she hustled her lover away by the neck of his ripped shirt.
‘This is just like what she did to her husband when he was banging that teenager,’ said Pete the Brit-pap to Jean-Pierre.
‘Lara Meyer’s a goldmine when she’s pissed off,’ grinned Jean-Pierre. ‘These photos are gonna make us a mint!’
Gabrielle and her father took notes while they and a dozen local gendarmes attempted to interview everyone who was on the boat, who in turn were attempting to escape both the amateur and professional paparazzi.
The Bomb Squad, in full body armour, arrived by speedboat from Saint Maxime. They cautiously searched every inch of the vessel, but after several hours the Captain of the squad informed Captain Poulpe: ‘It must have been a false alarm or a hoax. There is no trace of bombs or explosives of any kind. We do, however, have this note that was delivered to Captain Boursin. It came with a bouquet of red and white carnations.’
He handed it to Captain Poulpe, who shared it with his daughter. Simply printed in childish handwriting it said, ‘There is a bomb on this boat and unless everyone leaves by midnight the vessel will explode.’
‘Death,’ Gabrielle whispered. ‘Red and white flowers mean death, Papa.’
Amazingly, not one of the thirty staff and fifteen crew members had any recollection of the bouquet being delivered to the Captain, who admitted that he had only noticed them an hour earlier in his wheelhouse when he had first read the attached note.
‘I wonder if whoever played this sick trick could be the same person who killed Mina?’ said Captain Poulpe. ‘But was it a sort of warning or a practical joke in very bad taste? I think, Gabrielle, we have not heard the last of this individual.’
