by Joan Collins
‘Never had a wife,’ he smiled. ‘Girlfriend, yes – college sweetheart. Talk about clichés. We were going to get married when I returned from Bosnia but it didn’t happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘She met another guy. Happens a million times,’ he grinned wryly. ‘I mean, we’d been together a long time and she got sick of waiting, I guess.’
‘And then?’
‘And then and then . . . Well, what do you think? I was still in my early twenties and the news services like my stuff so I decided to base myself in Europe as a freelance to cover all the crap that was happening at the beginning of the millennium. You know, the riots in France, the Kosovan crisis, the usual Middle East problems; I travelled a lot and yes, there were girls of course, women, but nothing serious. Not until I met you.’
‘But you hardly know me,’ she whispered.
‘Ah, but I do know you, Contessa Carlotta. I think I know you well, and one of these days I think I shall ask you to marry me.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The following day, Lara Meyer limped into a beauty salon on the Place des Lices for a facial and a full ‘Brazilian’ bikini wax. Lying on the bed, her face covered in a mask of thick clay and cucumber slices on her eyes, she heard the attendant Blandine, who did the waxing, enter the room.
‘Gently, Blandine, gently; you know I’m delicate down there,’ she said, opening her legs as the therapist pulled down the towel on her waist.
‘Oui,’ replied a deep voice, ‘I know.’
Lara screamed as a pan of boiling wax was poured on to her delicate female anatomy. Shrieking to raise the roof, she struggled to pull off her eye mask. There was no one in the cubicle. The staff came running, but no one recalled having seen any men other than those who worked there.
The police were called and some of them were unable to contain their amusement at what had happened to Lara, but there were simply no clues. Even the fingerprints on the waxing bowl only matched those of the female workers.
Unable to walk for several days, Lara suffered horribly. She lay in bed nursing a scalded vulva and a hurt ankle from the helicopter crash, spending her days watching DVDs of Desperate Housewives and drinking straight vodka until she fell into a stupor. She tried to make Fabrizio stay in to watch TV with her, but after some desultory attempts at cooking and tidying up, he became so restless that she dismissed him as totally useless and brought in a woman from the village to cook and be her slave.
After escaping from the third day of Lara’s cranky behaviour, Fabrizio and Maximus lunched at a quiet corner table at Club 55, still the most popular beach restaurant in Saint-Tropez.
‘It’s not working with her. She won’t set a date to get married any sooner. She even says she doesn’t want to now – in fact she says she hates me.’ Fabrizio was becoming seriously worried about his future.
‘She hates everyone, don’t worry.’ Maximus swallowed the last of his oysters and signalled to the waiter to refill his wine glass. ‘So would you if you had a wounded pussy,’ he grinned.
‘I’m going to be thirty in six months, I think I’m losing my hair, and I’m becoming sick and tired of her. Apart from everything else, she’s an absolute fucking bore.’
‘Well, maybe you’re a boring fuck,’ hooted Maximus as Fabrizio shot him a look.
‘That I’m not,’ huffed Fabrizio.
‘Too bad,’ Max continued. ‘That’s the deal, sport.’
‘I want to end this ridiculous relationship with Lara. I’ve decided that – whether you like it or not, Max – Carlotta’s the one for me. Every time I see her, I feel a connection,’ Fabrizio said firmly, eyeing up a smiling young beauty at the next table. He continued his sentence, albeit slightly more distracted. ‘Not only is she beautiful and nice, but she’s also goddamn rich.’
He smiled back at the young beauty. Well, maybe . . . why not? His afternoon was free and he’d been celibate now for four days – a record for him.
His eyes roamed around Club 55. It was packed with people, many of them celebrities who liked to pretend they were just plain folk, many of them rich not famous, yet too grand and sophisticated to acknowledge the sprinkling of actual celebrities in their midst. There was a snobbery about the higher-echelon millionaires and oligarchs. Most of them considered themselves far above mere movie stars, even though they covertly eyed them, whispering amongst themselves, ‘There’s Puff Daddy – that’s his yacht; it cost thirty million euros’, and, ‘Oh, look – it’s Simon Cowell and his girlfriend.’
Johnny Depp sat at a long table, with a group of American agents and producers. With his hat pulled low over his eyes, he seemed inconspicuous except to a stream of young children who lined up respectfully for ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’s’ autograph. Liam Neeson and his sister-in-law Joely Richardson were seated at a quiet table in the far corner next to the bar and, unmistakable in spite of dark shades and a battered baseball cap, Leonardo DiCaprio sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by acolytes and pretty girls, whom he entertained so well that raucous laughter shook their table. The young model Zarina and her girlfriend Sin were at the centre of a group of young and obviously wealthy young men and they were all screaming with laughter and taking countless selfies.
It was a hot day and Patrice, the owner, had switched on the ‘air conditioning’, which consisted of fine sprays of cool water emanating from small pipes attached to the wooden slats above.
Several white super-yachts were berthed at sea beyond the jetty, and small tenders zoomed back and forth across the waves to pick up passengers and bring them to the club. They picked their way through the oiled sunbathers lying supine on striped mattresses on the sand up to the packed beach bar.
Maximus glanced over to the bar, which was crowded with young men and girls, all wearing the most minimum of designer beach wear and bikinis, talking animatedly as they waited for their table. Max spotted a couple of his ‘stable’ and wondered why they were chatting up nubile young flesh, obviously without money, instead of older prey – divorcées and widows with wealth. There were plenty of those around. He frowned. He’d have to see about that. He’d obviously been concentrating too hard on the Fabrizio/Lara deal and on Contessa Carlotta too.
‘So, where is she?’ asked Fabrizio. ‘I’ve called her every day now for a week. The damn housekeeper blows me off. If I could have some time with Carlotta, I know I could make her fall for me – I just need time. You know I could.’
Max turned to study Fabrizio. ‘You know you’re looking a bit rough around the edges. You need more rest – stop screwing around. I think Carlotta is a lost cause for you, Fabrizio.’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I’m handsome, I’m funny, I’m great in the sack and I have a huge dick. Why can’t you talk her into at least seeing me?’
‘Fabrizio, you aren’t the only stud on the beach, nor the youngest,’ said Maximus.
‘Yeah, but I’m the best looking and the most amusing one.’
‘To tell the truth, you’re not any more – you’re fast approaching your sell-by date. You’ve got to close the deal with Lara,’ said Maximus. ‘I’ve told you a million times. Spend more time thinking how you are going to persuade her to marry you. Get the money, honey. She’s been divorced for ten years now, for God’s sake.’
‘She told me after that ridiculous accident in the salon she will only marry me if I agree to a pre-nup, which means if we split I get fuck-all. I’ve gotta get out of this deal, Max. Help me, please,’ pleaded Fabrizio.
Max chewed slowly on a carrot from the exquisite arrangement of fresh vegetables in the middle of the table.
‘The problem is, my boy, I promised Carlotta a romantic time in Saint-Tropez. I’m sorry to tell you this, and she told me in confidence, mind you, but she seems to have fallen for this American, this journalist, Nick something or other. Pah – a penniless writer.’
‘What?’ Fabrizio choked on his celery stick. ‘Fuck . . . Why the hell did you let her get away? I thought you wer
e in charge?’
‘I thought so too, but now I do not know where she is,’ said Max, truthfully. ‘All I know is that she told me she likes this guy very much and they’re going away for a weekend to get to know each other better.’
‘What the fuck? . . . Where? Where have they gone?’
‘If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t. Forget Carlotta – work on Lara. Hey, look, there’s Ivana Trump. I must go and say hello.’ Still chewing his carrot, he lumbered off to greet the vivacious socialite who was lunching with the newest mayoral candidate for London, the boyishly good-looking Ivan Massow.
Fabrizio sat fuming, wishing his life would turn into the fairy tale his wonderful mamma had always told him it would. But he wasn’t alone for long. Zarina and Sin, dressed in skimpy bikini tops and shorts that exposed most of the cheeks of their firm young bottoms, came bounding up, clutching each other’s hands and each holding a cigar in their free hand.
‘You look sad, Fab,’ Sin laughed at her unintentional rhyme. ‘Wanna come play with us?’ she asked.
‘Sure, sit down, girls, let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, this’ll do,’ Zarina said as she poured some of the rosé wine into the glass Max had left, took a swig and passed it to Sin. ‘We like a loving cup,’ she grinned. ‘Wanna hang out with us at our pad . . . Fab? We’re all by ourselves this afternoon.’
They all laughed at the rhyme now, as they stroked each other’s shoulders then started on Fabrizio.
‘Hey, that’s an offer that’s hard to refuse, ladies!’ Fabrizio checked the neighbouring tables to see if any of Lara’s intimate friends were lunching, but all he could see was Roberto LoBianco hosting a table of rich Russian oligarchs with their overly tall and overly dressed hookers, none of whom Fabrizio recognised.
Roberto looked over at Fabrizio, happily sandwiched between the two gorgeous girls, and gave him the thumbs-up and a wink, which made Fabrizio nervous. LoBianco had a big mouth and could easily spill the beans to Lara or to any of the other Saint-Tropez gossipmongers.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Fabrizio.
‘No problem, we can’t wait.’ Sin handed her cigar to Fabrizio, ‘Wanna drag?’
‘No way,’ he said, ushering them to the main entrance. Lara would have a fit if he came home stinking of cigars. She was always suspicious of everything he did and questioned him exhaustively about his day; even though he was an expert in the art of deception, cigar breath was impossible to conceal.
As they reached the entrance to Club 55 and waited for Chris the valet to bring Fabrizio’s car round, an open-top red Tesla zoomed to a halt in front of them and Jonathan Meyer got out, adjusting his black toupee. He nodded approvingly when he saw Fabrizio between the two youngest, prettiest and craziest girls in Saint-Tropez.
‘Good lunch, old sport?’ he grinned, then waited for a very elegant Vanessa to emerge.
‘Hello, Fabrizio,’ she said, smiling coolly. ‘How are you?’ Fabrizio always loved a cut-glass English accent, and Vanessa not only had that in spades but she was a totally classy piece of work. ‘A lady broad,’ he had confided to Maximus some time ago. ‘I would fuck her in a second!’
‘You’d better lay off her,’ commanded Maximus. ‘Don’t even think about it. Jonathan Meyer is a very powerful and extremely jealous man. No one fucks with him in business and certainly no one would ever dare to fuck his wife, especially no one who is already fucking his ex-wife!’
‘The grapevine says she fools around when he’s away,’ Fabrizio retorted.
‘Maybe . . . maybe with a married movie star who would be utterly discreet, but Fabrizio, my dear deluded boy, she would never fool around with you – she’s not an idiot.’
As Vanessa passed Fabrizio, leaving a delicious scent in her wake, she gave him a sidelong glance, which he interpreted as interest.
But right now it looked as if he had two insatiable teenagers to satisfy, and he spent the rest of the afternoon in their hotel room doing just that.
Fabrizio had led a charmed life until ten years ago. The only child of a well-off bourgeois Roman family, his childhood had been idyllic. Spoiled rotten by a doting Italian mamma, he had been popular and adored by girls and women. Men were jealous of his looks and charm, but that didn’t bother young Fabrizio. His father indulged him and allowed him to become the handsome playboy his hard-working father had always secretly wished he could be.
Fabrizio cut a sexual swathe through the young girls and women of the Trastevere suburb of Rome, most of whom fell for the dark-haired, handsome boy. Then, when he was eighteen, one of his casual lovers became pregnant. Papa Marcello forked out enough to keep her and the baby quiet, until a year later another teenager also fell into the same trap. Marcello reluctantly coughed up again, but this time he gave his nineteen-year-old son a warning. ‘Don’t get any more girls knocked up, son, because next time I won’t bail you out.’
But sadly there was no time for that. Within the space of a year, Fabrizio’s adored mother and then his father both developed cancer. By the time they died, within months of each other, the medical bills and death duties finished off what was left of the Bricconni family’s money. Young Fabrizio was on his own – twenty years old, penniless and with two illegitimate infants and two teenage baby-mammas to support. That’s when he met Maximus, and his fortunes started to reverse.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Charlie and Spencer usually spoke to each other by phone at least once or twice a day, but when Charlie arrived in London on a sunny afternoon, he was immediately bombarded with phone calls from friends all wanting a piece of him. Charlie loved the fact that he was so popular with everyone, fans and friends alike, and he spread himself thinly.
He revelled even more in the attention he had received the night he arrived at a chic dinner party in Eaton Square given for him by the notorious Dowager Mariella von Hapsburg. Charlie loved a title and there were many British aristocrats at the soirée in Mariella’s elegant drawing room; there was even a rumour that Prince Charles’s wife Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall – a good friend of Mariella’s – might pop by for a drink after dinner.
Charlie regaled everyone with hot gossip from Saint-Tropez, and attempted to give them the inside track on Mina Corbain’s death, which was rumoured to be murder, and the bomb threat on board Sergei Litvak’s yacht. He really knew little more than anyone else did, but he was a great wit and embellished his anecdotes beautifully.
After having imbibed more than his share of fine wine, Charlie toddled off back to The Dorchester, his preferred home from home. With the time change in France he realised that it was probably too late to call Spencer and, forgetting to set an alarm, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Charlie was awakened by the concierge telling him the chauffeur was waiting to take him to Cardiff, where he was due to host a charity lunch. In the car he tried ringing Spencer but there was no answer. ‘Probably at the gym,’ he told his agent Peter, who was sitting beside him.
‘There are so many golden opportunities for work here, Charlie,’ Peter said persuasively. ‘They love you here in the UK, we can get you a series – why don’t you move back?’
‘Why? Because I have a beautiful villa and my gorgeous roses. I have my darling wife Spencer. I live a glorious, fulfilled life in Saint-Tropez. I’m sixty years old and reasonably rich, so why do I want to schlep back here to this pocket of misery that used to be called Great Britain?’ He looked out of the window at the grey winding motorway, slick with rain, and the bleak, monotonous houses that lined the route. Shabbily dressed, forlorn-looking people shuffled along the streets. ‘They all look suicidal,’ Charlie observed. ‘I don’t see one happy face. In Saint-Tropez everyone is happy.’ Or pretends to be, he thought.
‘That’s what happens to happiness if you live in today’s UK.’ Peter sounded mournful. ‘Even if you make a decent living, you’re taxed to death. And most of it goes to the layabouts and the immigrants.’
‘That’s why I’
ll never leave the south of France. This isn’t the country I was brought up in; I could never live in this place again,’ Charlie observed sadly.
‘You had fun last night, didn’t you?’ asked Peter.
‘Well, of course, darling, I was with the rich. The rich are different from everyone else, particularly in England. They live an insulated life of wealth and entitlement, even if they don’t have a title.’
‘But in Saint-Tropez – aren’t the rich different from the hoi polloi?’ asked Peter.
‘You have no idea how different this group of nouveau riche is. They have brought their boats and their egos to Saint-Tropez; they live in a parallel universe from the rest of the world. They are obsessed with money and it doesn’t matter how much they have, they always want more.’
‘Sounds like your average theatrical agent,’ laughed Peter.
‘Oh, no, darling, to the super-rich, money is God; they worship it and they worship those who possess it. Their lives are a ridiculous competition with their peers – who made the most money last year, and we are not talking millions here, we’re talking billions.’
‘Yeah, I read the Sunday Times Rich List; they can make fortunes in a year.’
‘And lose them,’ said Charlie. ‘And none of them are really happy unless they’re making a deal that trumps their competitor.’
‘Sounds just like Hollywood,’ smiled Peter.
‘Yes, and they just love to be on the Rich List, even though they pretend they don’t. They must always save face in front of their competitors who are also their best friends, although they love to see them fail.’
‘Yes, that’s really like Hollywood – those actors and actresses who are nominated for Oscars and have to pretend they don’t care if they’ve lost. You can see the envy and hatred underneath their make-up.’
‘My God, I’ll never forget the look on Burt Reynolds’s face when he lost fifteen years ago to Robin Williams,’ laughed Charlie. ‘I thought he was going to kill someone!’
