by Joan Collins
‘Oh, God – oh, my God, please go away!’ she screamed so loud that her breath blew out the candle. Now she was in total darkness.
But the darkness allowed her to see the tiny light of her mobile phone where she had left it on the bed. She remembered that the battery was low, but maybe there was enough juice to call someone – but who? The mobile face said three a.m. Who could she call? Who was on her speed-dial who could help? Maximus had gone to Paris for a few days and she hadn’t bothered to enter the numbers of most of the people she had met in the past few weeks . . . except for Nick’s. He’d been on a short assignment but he’d rung to tell her he’d be back some time that evening.
Nick, Nick, please be at home, she pleaded in a tsunami of terror as she fumbled in her unlock code, messing it up twice.
Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom so she rammed a heavy chair up under the moving door handle and twisted the key in the lock firmly. She heard an angry grunt on the other side of the door, then soft, maniacal laughter.
Desperately Carlotta dialled Nick’s number. The phone rang four times while she prayed that the key would hold, and if not that the chair would keep whoever was on the other side at bay. The voicemail connected with Nick’s pleasant, laid-back voice asking to leave a message.
‘Shit!’ she wailed, as the scraping at the door became more frantic. She hung up and redialled immediately. The phone rang once, twice . . .
‘H-hullo?’ Nick’s voice, thick with sleep, answered the phone.
‘Nick!’ she screamed, ‘help! Someone’s trying to break into my room – they’re in my house!’
A second went by before Nick registered what was going on, then he calmly commanded, ‘Put me on speakerphone and turn up the volume to full!’
She fumbled for the right button and immediately Nick’s firm but reassuring tones filled the room. ‘Whoever you are, I’ve called the police and they are on their way, so leave now.’
The door handle had stopped shaking, so had the key.
‘Can you hear me? Stop now and leave immediately.’ Nick’s voice was strong and assertive but his question was met by stony silence. Even the mistral had died down abruptly, and all Carlotta could hear was her own panicked breathing.
When the lights went on in her bedroom, Carlotta screamed.
‘Carlotta? Darling, what’s happened? Is someone still there?’ Nick’s urgent voice could be heard through the din.
‘Oh, God, Nick – there was a man outside – oh, God, I almost died of fright,’ she laughed and cried simultaneously in a hysterical fit. ‘He’s gone – the lights went out – it was so dark – the lights . . .’
‘Carlotta, Carlotta, are you okay?’ he insisted. ‘Are you sure he’s gone?’
Looking down on to her terrace and garden, Carlotta saw only waving palm trees and the swimming pool ablaze with light.
‘Y-yes, yes, Nick. I’m fine. Thank you. Oh, God, thank you,’ she sobbed.
The sound of police sirens racing up her driveway filled the night air, and shortly afterwards she heard the banging on the front door and the harsh voices of the police announcing their presence. She raced down the stairs to let them in.
They didn’t believe her. Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle asked her many questions, but they had found absolutely no evidence of an intruder. Even when Carlotta showed them the door, they found no sign of force nor the slightest trace of evidence that the lock had been picked. Gabrielle was extremely sympathetic to Carlotta’s story and wanted to believe her, but her father told her she was being foolish.
‘Imagination,’ he said curtly. ‘You know better than anyone what the mistral does to people’s minds – they get illusions, they see things, and they hear things.’
Gabrielle nodded, remembering the oft-told tale of the man who had killed his wife during a four-day mistral, but who had been let free because of what the judge called ‘mistral madness’.
‘This is what happened to the Contessa’s mind,’ he said. ‘A classic example of the mistral madness.’
Nick had raced over to comfort Carlotta and arrived as she finished her interrogation. He insisted on staying the night with her.
‘Don’t worry – I’ll sleep in the guest room next door,’ he said.
‘I-I would love you to sleep with me – I want to sleep with you, Nick, but I can’t right now – not yet – soon, I promise. I really like you so much but I just can’t – please understand, Nick, my love. Please, please, be patient with me.’
‘Of course,’ Nick said soothingly.
Captain Poulpe, who had just been leaving discreetly, over-heard them and arched his eyebrows at Gabrielle as if to say: See? That is how to get a man. Gabrielle just raised her eyes to the heavens and stalked off.
The police left Carlotta and Nick together on the sofa. He is so comforting, so understanding, thought Carlotta as she nestled in his arms. Why couldn’t she sleep with him? Why couldn’t she allow him to make love to her? She wanted to, that much she knew, but every time they started to kiss and caress each other, something made her stop and she was unable to go through with it.
‘I’ll wait,’ he reassured her, kissing the top of her head. ‘I’m good at waiting. I’ve waited a long time to meet the love of my life, and you, my darling, are definitely worth waiting for.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The residents of Saint-Tropez couldn’t go outside their homes without some stringer from a tabloid newspaper asking questions about Mina Corbain’s death, the bomb hoax and Lara Meyer’s robbery. They were becoming unsettled and upset, and some residents started talking about selling up and moving to Mykonos or Ibiza. The weather had also been temperamental, with a series of mistral winds, which everyone hated.
Charlie Chalk disliked seeing his little slice of paradise overrun by the media types and curiosity seekers, eager for a quick sound bite or snap. Every time he ventured into the village, he found himself caught by some doltish journalist cross-questioning him.
‘As if I knew,’ he snapped.
Since there were no important parties for a few days, Charlie decided to take himself and Spencer off to London and accept several of the charitable engagements his agents were pressing him to do.
‘I’ll be glad to get away,’ he said to Spencer, pulling his battered Vuitton down from the attic. ‘It’ll be good for the two of us to have a few days in good old London. See some shows, catch up with a few mates.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I can come.’ Spencer was examining a tiny pimple on his chin with studied indifference.
‘Why ever not, sweetie? We always go everywhere together – unless you’re working. Have you got a job?’
‘Yeah, I’ve just heard Qantas have got me on stand-by for the Friday trip to Melbourne.’
‘But you can stand-by in London, can’t you?’
‘Not really. I’ll have to take the Nice flight to Paris then connect on from there. It’ll be tricky and I gotta be ready to go at short notice.’
It was a lie, of course. Spencer didn’t want to go to London. As fond as he was of Charlie (and fond was the operative word as love didn’t come into it), he had developed a tiny crush on the cute waiter at Sénéquier. Having visited there for coffee and aperitifs in the past couple of days, he was determined to work his magic on the young man.
There was nothing that turned Spencer on more than seducing a straight guy, and his ‘gaydar’ signalled to him that François Lardon was 100 per cent straight. Being blond, thirtyish and reasonably pretty, Spencer was still able to ‘pull’, and he took full advantage of every opportunity in his stopovers on the long-haul flights to Australia.
If big-hearted Charlie knew or even suspected, he didn’t let on. Spencer was his legal ‘wife’. They had performed a civil ceremony in England two years previously. He’d had to do it as Spencer, being Australian, was running out of excuses with the immigration department to stay not only in England but in France also.
‘Well, okay then, I’ll be bac
k at the end of the week. Don’t forget to get Henri to feed my roses and for God’s sake watch out for those bloody wasps! I got stung on the bum last week and it wasn’t funny.’
‘Don’t worry, darling, I know, I’ll be careful – I hate those little buggers.’
With ‘mwaw’ kisses and hugs, Charlie left for Nice Airport and Spencer breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Alone at last.’ He smiled at his reflection as he finally disposed of the annoying pimple.
‘Watch out, Monsieur Lardon, here I come.’
François was amused by Spencer’s somewhat amateur attempts to flirt with him. Having spent his formative years in some of the toughest streets in Marseille, he was wise to the tricks of the seducer and could see it coming a mile away. He saw Spencer arriving at the Sénéquier immediately. It was hard to miss the twenty-nine-year-old in a neon yellow windbreaker with a famous logo on the chest, tight white jeans, his blond hair tweaked into fashionable spikes.
Spencer took a table at the back of the café and surveyed the scene. The usual suspects were already at their kirs and their beers, preparing for another evening’s pleasures.
Sophie Silvestri, resplendent in the latest Oscar de la Renta cruise wear, sat straight-backed in the middle of the room, her flun-keys Frick and Adolpho either side of her. She glanced around the crowded café, as regal as a queen, graciously accepting the obsequious attentions of her two escorts and the occasional fawning fan.
All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity at the door. Cell phones were furtively raised to snap photos and waiters quickly moved tables aside so that Lara Meyer and Fabrizio Bricconni could be seated. Lara was on crutches with one arm heavily bandaged, while Fabrizio, apart from a few cuts and scratches, looked more or less as good as new.
François leapt to attention and went to arrange a cushion solicitously behind Lara’s chair. As usual she had no idea who he was.
‘My God, what happened?’ Spencer moved his chair closer to his friends.
‘You haven’t heard?’ Fabrizio signalled to François to bring cocktails. ‘We were in a terrible helicopter accident over the water.’
‘Stupid fucking pilot!’ Lara came out of her trance and lit a cigarette. ‘He couldn’t control the fucking machine, he let it plummet all over the place. We were terrified. What an idiot! We’re suing the heli-company.’ She blew smoke into Spencer’s face then posed for a couple of passing tourists.
‘Actually, it wasn’t the pilot’s fault,’ said Fabrizio sotto voce to Spencer, ‘but he handled the whole thing magnificently. I thought we were goners, but just as we almost hit the ocean, he managed to get control of the helicopter again and we made an emergency landing on the Carlton Beach at Cannes. You should have seen the sunbathers running like hell! It was pretty bumpy, I can tell you. That’s when boss lady got hurt.’ He gestured towards Lara, who was enjoying the attentions of her fans.
‘He must have been a superb pilot,’ gasped Spencer. ‘I wonder if he ever worked for Qantas – they’re the best, y’know.’
‘He told us he’d been watching Captain “Sully” Sullenberger land that jet in the Hudson a few years ago, and he was just taking a leaf from his book. Praying, thinking positive, all that stuff – he was terrific.’
Lara turned to sneer, then posed for another photo. ‘Amazing,’ said Spencer, ‘what a great escape! You’re lucky.’
Lara shot Spencer a withering glance as François placed her drink in front of her. It more than telegraphed, ‘Fuck off now, you’re boring me.’
Spencer took the hint and returned to his table as François placed his Martini in front of him. Spencer gave the boy a bold smile. He was so pretty, so very pretty. He looked like Alain Delon in his youth. ‘I’ve got some stuff for you again,’ he mouthed, pretending to fumble for his wallet.
François cocked an interested eyebrow but said nothing.
‘When do you get off?’ asked Spencer.
‘Ten o’clock,’ the waiter replied.
‘Right, shall we meet in the back of the fish market at ten fifteen – is that good for you?’
François nodded, aware that no one had noticed their exchange, and moved obsequiously to Madame Silvestri to refill her glass of champagne.
Spencer sat for a while admiring Sergei Litvak’s massive gin palace as it backed into its place in the port.
A dozen young sailors, in white T-shirts with HEDONIST stencilled on them and tiny white shorts accentuating their tanned limbs, eased the great ship into its home base, careful not to bump it into either of the massive vessels each side of it.
The sailors lowered the gangplank to the quay, then some even better-looking stewardesses started lighting candles and arranging flowers and drinks on the table on the port side. This was watched by dozens of gawping tourists standing on the quay and snapping wildly.
Suddenly several news crews appeared, calling out to the sailors to summon Mr Litvak to get a quote about Mina’s tragic death and the recent bomb scare on his boat. When Litvak finally appeared, barrel-chested and brown, silk shirt open to the waist and wearing short shorts, totally unsuitable for a man of his age and girth, Spencer decided to leave.
He strolled along the waterfront for a while, studying the menus posted outside the restaurants, then went into Chez Joseph for his last meal.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At approximately the same time as Spencer was dining at Chez Joseph, Carlotta and Nick were having their second dinner date.
They had spoken several times while he’d been away, and of course he had come to her rescue the night she’d heard the intruder. She was more than interested in him, but when she mentioned to Maximus Gobbi that she was having dinner with Nick Stevens, he went berserk.
‘Why you want to go out with that penniless boy?’ he spat.
‘He’s not a boy. He’s thirty-eight.’
‘Okay, okay, but when I give my masked ball next week I have someone wonderful for you to meet. A prince – very rich—’
‘You know that I don’t care about rich,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m rich enough.’
‘My dear, as Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, so rightly said, “You can never be too rich or too thin”.’
‘Oh, what nonsense! I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Carlotta hung up, slightly annoyed with Maximus. He had promised her a wonderful romantic summer in Saint-Tropez, and now that she was finally becoming involved with somebody, he seemed to be trying to prevent it happening. Never mind. She was thirty years old; she would do what she wanted.
Nick took her to Nioulargo, which couldn’t have been more romantic. Perched on the sands on one of the most secluded beaches of Pampelonne, it was surrounded by trailing vines and waving palm trees. The heavy scent of jasmine, which climbed the outside walls, hung in the air. Candles dimly lit the interior, the music was soft and mellow, and the other diners were mostly French as tourists weren’t encouraged.
They dined on delicious food, and made inroads into two bottles of the excellent rosé wine, a specialty of Provence.
It was a mild, moonlit night and after dinner they took a walk along the shoreline. The sand was warm beneath their bare feet and a faint breeze ruffled Carlotta’s black curls.
They didn’t speak much. Nick took her hand tentatively, which felt small and soft in his. He loved the feeling of it. After a while they sat on the sand, the water lapping at their feet.
When Nick took Carlotta’s pashmina, laid it on the sand, then tenderly lowered her on to it, she did not protest, and when he kissed her so gently her heart pounded, she felt an emotion she had not experienced in a very long time. As his kisses became more ardent she wanted to succumb.
‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, what a cliché that is!’ All the feelings she had stored up inside her went flooding through her whole body.
Nick smiled. ‘I think you have had a hard life, Carlotta.’
‘How do you know?’ She wanted to break the spell he was creating with hi
s embrace, but at the same time she didn’t want his kisses to stop. His lips were warm and soft, so unlike Nicanor’s, who was the first and last man who had ever kissed her.
‘What do you know of my life?’ she whispered.
‘I know you were married very young and had a little girl quite quickly. I know your husband was . . .’ Nick paused, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
‘Go on, say it . . . He was a devil,’ said Carlotta bitterly.
‘I didn’t think I should say, but there were rumours . . .’
Carlotta sat up, feeling the bitterness engulf her that she had tried so hard to suppress.
‘Sometimes the nightmares frighten me. That’s why I woke up that night. Nicanor hurt me, you know. He . . . he . . . hurt me so much that I can’t have any more children.’ She stopped, feeling she had said too much. Her cheeks were flushed and she felt giddy.
Nick stroked her cheek, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You already have a child. I believe kids aren’t so important if two people love each other.’
‘That’s what I’ve always wanted, Nick – to love and to be in love and to have someone love me. Is that naïve?’
‘No, it’s what everyone wants deep down, if they’d only admit it.’
‘And you? What about you, Nick? You’re thirty-eight, so you must have a history – wives, girlfriends, children . . .’
‘Oh, I do,’ he grinned boyishly, which made him look younger. ‘There have been a few relationships. No kids, though. As you know, I’m a journalist . . . I went to Bosnia to cover stories for my newspaper.’
‘Your newspaper? You owned it?’
‘No, of course not. It was only a local paper in Ohio, but they were hot to get all the news live – I was young and ambitious so I went to Bosnia. I saw some sights there, my God . . .’ His eyes became cloudy. ‘You’d never believe some of the things those bastards did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Carlotta stroked his forehead. ‘You never wanted a wife? Just girlfriends?’
