The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘Yeah, that clip’s still on YouTube,’ said Peter.

  ‘But the super-rich oligarchs are the most ambitious lot in the world. They are obsessed with themselves and their contemporaries. They are rarely content with what they’ve got. Why do you think they have to change their wives so often and fuck hookers in between?’

  ‘I would if I could,’ grinned Peter, ‘Some of those Russian sluts are pretty damn juicy.’

  ‘And their yachts and cars and planes! They say that the smaller a rich man’s dick, the bigger the boat!’ laughed Charlie.

  ‘In that case my boat would be tiny!’ Peter grinned.

  ‘Bragger,’ winked Charlie.

  ‘But on the other hand, everyone is happy in Saint-Tropez, or they seem to be. The sun shines, shopkeepers take pride in their shiny shops, restaurateurs take pride in their restaurants and waiters enjoy being waiters. Maybe it’s just my opinion, but it’s a gilded, glorious life down there and I love it.’

  Charlie clicked the speed-dial on his iPhone again, but Spencer still didn’t answer. ‘He’s probably in the pool, toning his torso. Sometimes he does three hundred laps, he’s such a jock,’ he smiled fondly. ‘And you should see his muscles!’ The men laughed affably as the limo arrived at the venue in Cardiff.

  Charlie had great success at the charity lunch in which he raised nearly £100,000 for the children’s hospice Shooting Star Chase, and he was again inundated with gushing fans and friends. As soon as he got into the car to be driven to an evening event at another hotel in Birmingham, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Charlie raised even more money in Birmingham; in the car back to London, he realised his cell had run out of battery so he couldn’t call Spencer and, back at The Dorchester, he again realised it was too late to ring him. He went to bed, well satisfied with his day’s work.

  The harsh ringing of the hotel telephone awoke Charlie abruptly.

  ‘Charlie, I’m afraid I’ve got some news for you and it’s not good,’ said Peter. ‘I’m down in the lobby but I’m coming right up.’

  The pool man had discovered Spencer’s corpse in the morning. He was lying naked and splayed out beside the bed of roses Charlie had so carefully cultivated, which was situated next to a crumbling old stone wall, home to nests of wasps. His body was covered in wasp bites; many of them were still buzzing furiously around.

  Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle were quickly on the scene with the Saint-Tropez gendarmerie. As well as the wasps, there were many flies buzzing around the body. ‘He’s obviously been dead for at least twenty-four hours,’ said the Captain.

  ‘Somebody disturbed these wasps – look . . .’ said Gabrielle. ‘Someone poked this stick into the crevices and made the wasps really angry.’

  The body was taken to the morgue.

  ‘Regardez,’ said the pathologist, who had been examining Spencer’s body. ‘In his throat there is a dead wasp. It stung in his larynx, which caused it to swell up so he could no longer breathe.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Gabrielle. ‘Why on earth was he down there, poking a stick into the wasps’ nest? He knew they were dangerous.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said the pathologist, carefully removing the dead wasp from Spencer’s swollen throat, ‘but there is no question that this little insect is what killed him.’

  ‘But this is murder then, isn’t it?’ Gabrielle whispered to her father. ‘There’s no other way that this could have happened. Who would want to kill Spencer? Everyone liked him – and they love Charlie.’

  ‘Who would want to kill Mina? Who would want to cause such chaos on Litvak’s boat the night of his party? Who would pour hot wax on Lara Meyer’s . . .’ Captain Poulpe stumbled over the word.

  ‘Vagina?’ added Gabrielle helpfully.

  ‘Erm, yes, of course,’ replied Captain Poulpe, regarding his daughter with raised eyebrows. ‘Exactly what I was going to say.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Roberto LoBianco was holding court in the corner of the room during a small dinner party he was throwing to celebrate the summer season. Several of the most seriously rich Saint-Tropeziennes, plus Monty Goldman, Khris Kane and Nate Kowalski were glued to his every word as he expounded on his favourite subject: the decline of Saint-Tropez and the glory of his brand-new resort. ‘Saint-Sébastien is going to be the crème de la crème of glamour resorts. We’ve already built a small airport, for private use only, of course, because never the twain shall meet.’ He laughed and blew the smoke from his Havana into the warm night air. ‘But if you come commercial, you’ll go to Toulon Airport, and Saint-Sébastien will supply an Augusta Westland helicopter, the same type the president uses, to get you down there – it’ll take less than fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Will it be that exclusive?’ asked Monty.

  ‘Absolutely, old man – top of the line. No other resort will be able to touch it.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true.’ Khris Kane was ever cynical.

  ‘Yeah, it’s gonna be gigantic, but we need a few more investors. You all know that to get back millions you have to invest millions. Private resorts are the future, boys, you’d better believe it.’ The men all nodded. ‘Saint-Tropez is a dinosaur. Look at the dreck that shows up here in their crap buses and their motorbikes every day. They bring nothing to this place – nothing but trash.’

  Monty, who never pulled his punches, agreed angrily, ‘Yeah, and what about the fucking burglars? They come here every summer – I don’t know where the fuck from; Latvia, Romania, you name it. They’re all gypsies who don’t give a fuck, here for the loot. They shit in the doorways of my shops, sometimes, and they often sleep there too; they’re bloody vagrants, for Christ’s sake, and they doss down outside my shops and scare the customers away. They even robbed Lara Meyer. Frankly I’ll be glad to explore new venues – this place is old hat and getting tired.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s tough at the top,’ said Roberto dismissively. ‘We don’t get the bums on our island. What we do get, to quote you English – ’ he grinned at Nate and Khris, who kept the stony expressions of true gamblers on their faces – ‘is bums on seats in our casino.’ He grinned broadly, ‘Get it?’

  ‘Casino? Are you kidding? What about permits and gaming licences – all that stuff? We’ve been trying to get a casino in Saint-Tropez for decades without success!’ said Monty.

  ‘Listen, if they can gamble in Monte-Carlo, they can gamble on my island. I’ve been in the casino business for twenty-five years and, if it’s done properly, it’s a licence to print money.’

  ‘Just a casino? What about great restaurants, beaches, fabulous shopping – are you gonna have these?’ asked Monty.

  ‘You bet,’ said LoBianco. ‘Everything that Saint-Tropez has we will have – except more, better, more beautiful and trendier. I’ve already got interest from Gucci, Fendi and Prada.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true,’ said Khris Kane. ‘What about nightlife?’

  ‘Sure, we’ll have great nightlife, but the day life’s gonna be hot too.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true,’ echoed Monty.

  ‘It’s all good. It’s more than good, and it’s ready to roll. All I need now is you gentlemen to put up a little collateral. You put ten million euros each in my bank as seed money and Saint-Sébastien will be set to open by spring 2016. We’re selling the villas and apartments now. There’s huge interest, and there’s been even more since these horrific events,’ said LoBianco. ‘Mina Corbain’s death was the beginning of a terrible cycle. The bomb scare at the Litvak boat, and now the queer guy found with a wasp shoved down his throat – it’s given half the residents here the wind up.’

  The other men looked cynical, but LoBianco continued persuasively: ‘Some of them have been quietly putting their homes on the market and looking at our properties for the past month.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Monty. ‘But people love Saint-Tropez too much to leave.’

  ‘Gentlemen, this is an investmen
t opportunity that comes along once in a lifetime. Within five years I can guarantee you’ll get your money back. It can’t miss – a perfect place for perfect people; no tourists, no vagrants, no gypsies and no murderers – because that’s what’s freakin’ everyone out here.’

  ‘Well, sometimes you gotta let something die before you let something live,’ said Khris philosophically.

  ‘If we have to pay a few people off, we will,’ said LoBianco.

  ‘Like who?’ asked Monty.

  ‘Like the villagers that live there now. We’ve started construction already – we have three hotels almost finished and soon we can afford to buy off the fifty or so villagers who still are in their little hovels on what will be prime real-estate. Prime, gentlemen. Within a few years you’ll have doubled – no, tripled your investment. I’ll tell you one thing,’ LoBianco continued, ‘this spate of incidents has helped me no end! So many people are fed up with Saint-Tropez now and want to get out.

  ‘So, gentlemen, do you want to take a trip to Saint-Sébastien island with me?’

  Roberto LoBianco had invited just a few select guests for a trip to Saint-Sébastien. They set off on a vintage Riva from Le Lavandou, a charming village twenty kilometres from Saint-Tropez.

  ‘We could have left from Saint-Tropez port,’ Roberto announced as the horizon melted into the background. ‘But I wanted you guys to see how easy it is to get to the island from Toulon Airport.’

  They nodded in agreement. It was a perfect June morning. The sky was the pure azure that gave the Côte d’Azur its name, and the irritating mistral had calmed the sea down so the boat glided on it as if it was glass. Roberto had chosen his guests carefully. They were people whom he thought were becoming bored of Saint-Tropez or, in the case of the lovely Contessa Di Ponti and Henry and Blanche Phillips, would be open to the suggestion of buying a home. The speedboat was one of the largest of its kind. It sat twenty people easily, and it sped over the crystal water without causing the passengers any irritable bounces.

  The wind whipped Carlotta’s hair into tight curls as she lay back and allowed the sun to warm her. This was the life. How different from the stifling years she had spent in San Miguel. She could live here happily with the sun, the sea and the relaxing and calming atmosphere. Why not? There were good schools close by and Flora would thrive here. If only she had someone to share her life. She had loved getting to know Nick, but a client had suddenly called him away on assignment to cover an ISIS crisis in Iraq. They had tried to keep in touch by cell phone, but it was extremely difficult, so the odd email had to suffice. Although Carlotta didn’t want to admit it, she was a little lonely and she missed Nick. In fact, she thought she might be falling in love with him.

  As if reading her thoughts, Fabrizio, who had accepted Roberto’s invitation on Lara’s behalf and then conveniently omitted to relay it to her, came to sit next to Carlotta. He had decided to play it much cooler with her, having realised what an ass he had made of himself at the disastrous party on the boat. Lara was safely tucked away at home, a bottle of vodka next to a large bottle of painkillers and several DVDs of Sex and the City waiting to be viewed. But, knowing Lara as he did, Fabrizio was secure in the knowledge that the vodka and pills would keep her in a drugged deep slumber for the rest of the afternoon.

  Roberto had informed the group that there would be no cellphone reception or internet access on this trip. ‘But it’s only temporary, guys,’ he announced. ‘My technicians are working on getting everything sorted out, so by the time Saint-Sébastien is ready to roll, everything that the modern world can provide will be at your disposal.’

  Harry Silver, Khris Kane, Monty Goldman and Nate Kowalski were all sitting together in the prow of the speeding boat. All mega-rich and long part of this ‘masters of the universe’ boys’ club, they were eager to see if this project had the possibility of yielding them even more mega-bucks.

  ‘Those guys have more money and property and toys than they could ever use in a million years, but they still need more, more and more,’ Fabrizio grinned at Carlotta.

  ‘Oh, I know the type,’ Carlotta replied. ‘Buenos Aires was full of them. I wonder why they’re so driven to make more?’

  Fabrizio wanted to say, ‘It’s because they have small dicks,’ but decided raunchy dialogue was off the menu with this lady. She definitely had class. My God, she was such a catch! Very rich, extremely beautiful, quite young and absolutely sweet and adorable, with no side to her – how different was Carlotta from Lara and the coterie of rich bitches she surrounded herself with in New York?

  ‘I think the super-rich need to set themselves totally apart from the rest of the human race,’ said Fabrizio, remembering what Lara had told him about Jonathan. ‘They live on planet “opulence”. It’s all they really care about. They only need to impress the tiny group of people that inhabit the same planet as them by achieving even more enormous wealth and making it grow each year. They only compare themselves to other mega-rich; no one else exists on that world.’

  ‘What about their families – their wives and children?’ asked Carlotta, who thought she knew the answer to that. Wives and children were definitely secondary in the lives of wealthy men.

  ‘They must be of the best quality, just like their yachts or mansions or artwork. Why do you think they trade in their wives every ten years or so?’

  Carlotta shuddered, remembering the times that Nicanor had screamed at her, ‘You’re old and ugly – I’m sick to death of you – get out of my sight!’ Well, death had claimed him just in time. She wondered how many more years he would have stayed with her. If it wasn’t for their beautiful daughter Flora, she was sure he would have ended their marriage years before and seen to it that she had no money either.

  While Fabrizio waxed lyrical, she observed him from behind her shades. He certainly was magnetically good-looking, tanned and toned – she could see that now he had taken off his shirt. He had a well-defined six-pack . . . it was almost an eight-pack, in fact. How many hours did it take at the gym to get abs like that? Maybe she had misjudged him by thinking he was just a cheap parvenu.

  ‘Look at that.’ Fabrizio was pointing at a humongous ocean liner a few hundred feet away. ‘That’s the sort of thing these guys like.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Carlotta. ‘I’ve never seen such a huge boat!’

  ‘He’ll tell you,’ Fabrizio gestured towards Roberto, who was extolling the virtues of the monster ship.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, behold the eighth wonder of the world. That, my friends, is a floating country, for those of you who don’t want to live the great life I’m about to show you in Saint-Sébastien. It’s called The Planet, and it’s not only the biggest cruise liner in the world, it’s also apartment living at its most glamorous and secluded.’

  ‘Jesus,’ gasped Monty, ‘people live on that thing?’

  ‘They do indeed – very few people. The owners thought they would be fighting them off to buy apartments, but sadly,’ he laughed, ‘very few takers. Nobody wants to live on a floating mega-hotel that is as long as the Shard and broader than the wingspan of a 747. It cost £800,000,000 to build, and at 225,000 tons, is 40 per cent bigger than any other vessel that’s ever docked in France. It holds 550,000 passengers and 2,400 in crew. Problem is, only about a hundred people took up this golden chance, so the old girl cruises around the Med and the Aegean like the “Ship of Fools” in The Dead Zone!’ He chuckled at his wit and his competitors’ misery.

  ‘It looks like a floating shopping mall,’ said Nate, examining it through binoculars.

  ‘Yeah, but how much time can you spend shopping?’ laughed Henry Phillips.

  ‘Ask your wife,’ quipped Khris Kane, getting an ice-cold stare from Blanche in return. ‘Anyway, you couldn’t get me on it, let alone buy an apartment there.’

  ‘Me neither,’ chimed Harry Silver.

  ‘So they do have some taste,’ Fabrizio whispered conspiratorially to Carlotta, who smiled back.

&
nbsp; The supermodel Zarina and her pop-star girlfriend Sin were cuddled up together, eyeing up Fabrizio and giggling, making it difficult for him to keep his focus on Carlotta. Carlotta noticed Sin’s pink-lacquered toenails, encrusted with sparkling gemstones.

  ‘They’re Swarovski crystals,’ Sin explained, noticing her gaze.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘Yeah, I get them done in this place in the port.’

  ‘Give me the name of the salon – I may try it,’ said Carlotta.

  As they passed the seven-storeyed high-rise abomination of a ship, Zarina and Sin, bored of talking to Carlotta, let out appreciative ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

  ‘I want to see it, Uncle Monty,’ whined Zarina. ‘Let’s go visit!’

  ‘No, kids, sorry – only a couple of minutes before we arrive at the most beautiful island in the world,’ Roberto said proudly as they zoomed past the floating monstrosity. ‘And there she is, boys and girls – Saint-Sébastien in all her glory!’

  Meanwhile, Maximus sat fuming at the elegant Tahiti Beach restaurant, talking on the phone to Fabrizio. He hadn’t been invited on Roberto’s trip to Saint-Sébastien and he was beside himself to discover that Fabrizio was on the outing.

  ‘Bastardo,’ he hissed.

  ‘Can’t talk – I’m on a launch. Se ya later, Maxie – Ciao!’ said Fabrizio breezily, then hung up.

  ‘Stronzo – stupid asshole. He’s made a major mistake leaving Lara at home,’ he fumed to himself and took a gulp of his piña colada. Lying back on the comfy orange cushion of the beach lounger, he reviewed his strategy.

  What to do about Fabrizio? He was becoming too big for his Gucci loafers. Didn’t he realise how imperative it was for him to get Lara to commit? Maximus lifted his binoculars to study the horizon. The huge cruise ship The Planet was slowly chugging in towards Saint-Tropez, getting as close as it could.

  ‘An abomination,’ he muttered, and then commanded to a passing waiter, ‘Another piña colada!’