by Joan Collins
The waiter acknowledged Max’s demand with a smile, causing Max to take off his shades to examine the boy more closely. He looked familiar. In fact, he was familiar.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ replied François amiably. ‘I’m usually at the Sénéquier but one of the boys is sick so Madame Felix asked me to help out.’ He grinned, showing a fine set of what were obviously his own teeth, and Max inspected him with an expert eye.
‘You get around, then?’ Max asked him.
‘You bet,’ he smiled. ‘Gotta make a buck while the season is jumping. It’s a long cold winter, you know.’
As he took Max’s empty glass, the older man scrutinised the slim, lithe body beneath the uniform white shorts and T-shirt. The waiter had a profusion of tight black curls and a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. A fighter, Max mused. He was wearing dark mirrored aviators, but Max seemed to remember that he had black eyes, which were curiously flat and showed no emotion – disturbing.
Nevertheless Max thought he could be a potential candidate to add to his stud stable, which was getting smaller by the day. He handed François Lardon his card, along with a twenty-euro note as a tip.
‘Call me,’ he added, ‘I might be able to offer you something that could be of interest to you.’
LoBianco’s speedboat docked expertly at the jetty of the island of Saint-Sébastien. They had passed several small islands – the Iles D’Hyères – but Saint-Sébastien was the furthest away from the main coast and very secluded.
‘Ooh, fabulous! Look at the white sand!’ giggled Zarina, as she and Sin started jumping about and throwing it at each other.
‘C’mon girls, cool it – let’s see the island!’ yelled Monty.
‘Oh, Uncle Monty, you’re such a downer,’ pouted Zarina. ‘All I wanna do is have some fun!’
‘And all I want to do is show you this amazing place,’ said Roberto LoBianco, irritated by the two teenagers. However famous they were in their respective professions as a supermodel and a pop princess, they had no idea how to behave properly in public. They were rolling in the white sand – sand which had been specially imported from the Bahamas and which had cost him a fortune.
‘Stop it, kids,’ Monty ordered, sensing Roberto’s irritation.
‘Yeah, if you didn’t want to see the island then why did you come?’ asked Roberto.
‘Well, you did ask us,’ Sin shot back, smirking. ‘Guess all you wanted was to show the folks what pretty young pussy looks like here on your magical island.’
‘Girls like having fun,’ giggled Zarina. ‘And I don’t wanna see your stupid island, I just wanna play in the sand with Sin.’ She stuck out her tongue at Roberto in full Miley Cyrus mode. And then, giggling hysterically, leaned across to rub sand all over her girlfriend’s now naked breasts.
‘C’mon guys, let’s go,’ Roberto urged, conscious that the sandy floor show could potentially be more interesting than his island tour, and pissed off at the girls’ shenanigans. ‘Leave ’em, Nate – let them get on with their little lesbian cabaret.’
‘Cool it, kids,’ snapped Monty, aware that their behaviour could potentially reflect damagingly on him and his retail business. ‘This isn’t the Crazy Horse.’
‘Oh, Uncle Monty, you’re such a drag!’ yelled Zarina petulantly as the group wended their way across the beach.
As she passed the girls, who had now dropped on to the sand and lit a joint, getting ready to feel each other up and make out, Blanche threw her beach towel over them.
‘Disgusting,’ she sniffed, hobbling across the sand in unsuitably high-heeled boots. ‘Young people today – really. They have no idea how to behave.’ This declaration was met with chortling and guffaws from the two prone bodies in the sand.
The island tour was a great success, and Roberto LoBianco was absolutely delighted. Three of the ‘titans of the universe’ had asked for the investment papers and had called their lawyers in front of him, and Carlotta had expressed interest in purchasing a property, as had Harry and Blanche and Khris Kane. Everyone agreed it was going to be an elegant and fantastic resort.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fabrizio was delighted to receive an invitation from Sophie Silvestri for yet another event honouring Marvin Rheingold. The legendary Hollywood producer was remaking Suddenly, Last Summer and Sophie really wanted to nail the Katharine Hepburn role. Fabrizio too had thoughts of Hollywood stardom with Mr Rheingold. He was still waiting for the perpetually elusive call from The X Factor in Kazakhstan, an offer Lara felt was beneath him.
‘Y’know, I think I should try the big screen,’ he said as they drove up a steep and winding hill to Sophie’s remote villa. ‘I’d be wonderful in the Montgomery Clift role.’
‘Keep dreaming, honey,’ said Lara. ‘That ain’t gonna happen.’
‘You never know,’ he said sulkily. ‘They’re talking Ryan Reynolds but he’s far too old.’
‘Oh, sure – about two years older than you, I bet!’ she crowed.
It was a clear moonlit night at the villa, but the wind was starting up. Sophie was taking morbid pleasure in Lara’s injury and acting up a storm by being exceptionally solicitous to her. That fateful night twenty-five years ago when Lara tricked her to go to the wrong venue at the opening of her new fashion line was branded indelibly in her memory. Sophie had been forced into hiding and, afterwards, she had become a joke. Lara had shown no scruples when it came to wrenching the society spotlight from Sophie and Sophie had sworn revenge ever since. She grabbed every opportunity to bad-mouth the Russian woman.
Frick and Adolpho stood like sentries beside Sophie, as she held court, greeting guests. ‘It must be terrible to have a painful pussy,’ she purred to Lara, stroking one of her newest Persian cats. ‘What a hideous thing to happen, cara. Who could hate you that much?’
Lara smiled through gritted teeth. ‘It was an accident, honey, everyone knows that.’
The old star gave a disbelieving smile, ‘Well, all I can say is you show amazing recuperative powers down there . . . or perhaps the nerve endings have all been destroyed? Must be terrible not to have any feeling there any more,’ she cooed sympathetically. Then spotting the guest of honour, producer Marvin Rheingold, she hastened to him.
‘Bitch!’ snarled Lara. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she did it.’
‘Don’t be silly, cara,’ Fabrizio attempted to soothe her. ‘She’s much too famous in Saint-Tropez. Someone would have seen her go into the salon, you know that.’ Fabrizio’s role in placating and tending to Lara was becoming more and more difficult, and he was finding it hard to keep up the pretence of enjoying having sex with her. Luckily with her wounded vagina it was ‘games off’ in that department now and he was mightily relieved.
They walked to the edge of the terrace, surveying the illuminated pool and the dazzling view. Palm trees and parasol vines grew wild down the side of the steep rocky hill where a funicular was nestled into the rocks. A three-quarter moon lit the Mediterranean with a shimmering glow, but the mistral was starting to whip up the waves.
Several guests milled about, complaining about the wind. Charlie Chalk, in mourning for his lost lover, was trying to put on his happy face but he was only able to muster a weak smile. ‘Spencer was the love of my life,’ he wailed to those who offered sympathy. ‘My wife, my partner, my best friend.’
Many of the guests sympathised, although aware that Spencer had been less than a faithful lover to Charlie. But this, after all, was Saint-Tropez, where hedonism reigned supreme and infidelity was a way of life. If bad things happened it’s up, up and away on to the next fabulous fiesta, and put on a happy face. Robin Thicke’s hit song ‘Blurred Lines’ was playing, and a few guests were clapping their hands and bouncing around to the catchy tune. Some of the Sénéquier waiters were there helping with the service, amongst them François, whom Lara vaguely recognised. Sophie breezed over to Marvin, who was singing along with a lissom blonde on h
is arm. Smiling archly at the producer, Sophie dismissed the blonde and cornered him, displaying her most feminine charms.
‘Do you recall when we went to Las Vegas together?’ she cooed, playfully toying with his greying chest hair with one hand while the other held one of her newest kittens. ‘Remember we went to see Sinatra at the Sands and do some gambling, but we spent most of the time in my bedroom?’ She looked up at him through a forest of false eyelashes.
Marvin, looking uncomfortable, gently untangled her talons from his hirsute chest. ‘Of course I remember,’ he said gallantly. ‘No man could ever forget you, Sophie, my dear. I’ll never forget your appearance on The Tonight Show when you came out with your cat.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ she smiled. ‘I asked Johnny Carson if he’d like to pet my pussy.’
‘And he said yes, as soon as you get rid of the damn cat!’ Marvin laughed loudly, and Sophie joined him with a tinkly girlish giggle. Lara, resting on the chaise loungue with her leg up, glowered at Sophie. Fabrizio stood by solicitously.
‘Stupid old bitch. She’s too long in the tooth for that sort of come-on.’ Her voice was thick with scorn.
But Fabrizio wasn’t listening. Across the terrace he saw Carlotta enter, arm in arm with Nick Stevens. They appeared to be glowing with happiness.
As he casually took a step towards her, he overheard the Hollywood producer whisper to Sophie, ‘You always had a trick pussy, honey, and now I see you’re collecting them.’
Fabrizio grinned to himself. Good line. The old guy certainly knew his business. Lara, suddenly aware of Fabrizio’s gaze towards Carlotta, grabbed his arm possessively.
After three ‘vodka on the rocks with a slice of orange’, Lara was feeling no pain when Sophie wafted over to suggest that Fabrizio take Lara down to the beach. It was Sophie’s party, and after seeing the way Lara scowled at her, she wanted to avoid a confrontation while appearing to be solicitous.
‘It’s beautiful tonight with the moonlight,’ she said.
Lara struggled to her feet, snuggling up to Fabrizio as he helped her, as did Frick and Adolpho. But as they all prepared to board the funicular, Lara groaned, ‘Oh, my God, I’m in too much pain to go on that rickety thing.’ She sank back into a chair again and signalled to Fabrizio for a drink.
The warm winds of the mistral were making Frick and Adolpho feel amorous. Seizing an opportunity to be alone on a moonlit beach, they boarded the funicular as Sophie waved them goodbye with a throaty, ‘Now, boys, you’d better behave yourselves – there’s a full moon.’
Fabrizio stared at Lara, who was splayed out drunkenly, lying on a chaise.
‘For God’s sake, you’re embarrassing me! Lara, you’ve got to stop drinking.’
‘Why should I? I like the taste of it. Don’t tell me what to do, asshole!’
Suddenly they heard the sound of desperate screams and cries for help as the funicular plunged down 150 feet in a ball of fire.
‘What’s happened?’ cried Sophie as she ran to the edge of the hill. ‘Oh, my God – Frick – Adolpho, where are you? Are you all right?’
In six-inch heels, the distraught actress attempted to clamber down the ravine, but Marvin grabbed her arm.
‘You don’t want to go down there, honey,’ he said quietly, holding on to her.
The guests clustered in helpless horror as they watched the carnage and the huge fire below. They stood in mute shock as they heard terrified screams from the burning wreckage. As sparks flew into the wind and began to ignite the brush, Fabrizio, François and some of the waiters tried to clamber down the steep cliff, but there was nothing they could do to help. They managed to pull a charred and blackened body out of the funicular as it writhed in death throes.
‘I think he’s still alive,’ yelled Fabrizio. ‘For God’s sake, get a doctor down here to help him!’
Sophie’s screams echoed across the hills and, as if on cue, the mistral wind blew even stronger. The fire department arrived and several gendarmes, led by Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle, clambered down to the scene, once again to investigate foul play.
‘This is a disaster!’ Roberto LoBianco, the property developer, puffed on his Havana, trying to look concerned and watching as the firemen attempted to douse the flames. ‘This kind of publicity is gonna kill Saint-Tropez.’
‘You sound almost pleased about it,’ said Captain Poulpe.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not,’ blustered Roberto. ‘But my God, there have been so many disasters before the proper season has even started. Are people ever gonna want to come to Saint-Tropez any more?’
‘There will always be people who come to Saint-Tropez. It is a magical place,’ retorted Captain Poulpe quietly. He didn’t like this arrogant man but he would never let his true feelings show.
‘Yeah, sure – sure was magical for him.’ Roberto gestured towards two gendarmes labouring up the hill carrying a body on a stretcher.
The crowd moved closer to the edge of the cliff – even Lara managed to sit up and rouse herself.
‘Oh, my God, it’s Adolpho! He’s alive!’ screamed Sophie.
‘He was in the bushes,’ said one of the gendarmes. ‘I think he must have managed to throw himself off the machine before it hit the ground. He’s a lucky man.’
‘But Frick, where is Frick?’ asked Sophie fearfully.
The fireman shook his head. Sophie started screaming uncontrollably as Marvin held her.
‘There, there, honey – I’m sorry, so sorry.’ He felt her warm body shudder with grief. Her make-up had worn off and suddenly she looked vulnerable and softer. Maybe she should get the Hepburn part, he thought, but decided it would be inappropriate to talk about that right now.
‘Let’s all have a drink, for God’s sake,’ announced Lara, who seemed considerably cheerier than before, as she held up her glass for a refill from François. ‘I think we all need one.’
After Frick’s body had been brought up, Captain Poulpe gravely addressed the group. ‘The cables on the funicular have been tampered with. I’m afraid I have keep you all here for questioning once more. This is now definitely a murder inquiry.’
‘Fuck this!’ said Sergei Litvak quietly to Lilly, his trophy wife. ‘We’re getting on the yacht first thing tomorrow, honey, and out of this hell hole.’
‘Can we come too – please?’ Zarina, Chloe and Sin whimpered, huddled together, their bony knees knocking and their tiny mini-dresses blowing above their panties from the mistral, which was becoming stronger by the minute.
‘You know what they say about the mistral?’ grinned Fabrizio to Lara. ‘If a man murders his lover, the judge will not condemn him during a mistral.’
‘Bullshit!’ snapped Lara. ‘Don’t even think about it. Let’s get the hell out of this place.’
‘No one can leave.’ Captain Poulpe had found a megaphone to counter the whistling noise of the mistral. ‘You are all suspects here. No one can leave here – in fact, none of you must leave Saint-Tropez at all.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘It’s impossible,’ said Jonathan Meyer to his wife Vanessa some days later, ‘They can’t just hold us here – it’s illegal.’
They sat on the front deck of his mega-yacht Yankee One gloomily watching the scruffily dressed tourists wandering around the port.
‘Look at them,’ scoffed Jonathan. ‘More than sixty thousand of them visit Saint-Tropez each year and none of them buys more than a bottle of water or a cup of coffee.’
‘That’s because a cup of coffee costs nine euros, darling; they can’t afford it.’
‘Then they shouldn’t fucking come here. The tourists are ruining the place – Brigitte Bardot was right.’
Vanessa nodded as she always did. The couple had had the rare honour of dining with the other queen of Saint-Tropez the previous week. In her house on a promontory, hidden by pine trees and well away from the madding crowd, Sophie Silvestri held a meeting with various locals, members of the council of Saint-Trop
ez, and the Mayor. Their aim was to return Saint-Tropez to the halcyon days of the 1950s and sixties, when it was just a simple fishing village. Although Sophie was still in mourning and had barely set foot outside her house during daytime, she considered this long-planned meeting important enough to show her face. She sat silently in a tall bergère in her dark sitting room, watching the big businessmen decide the fate of her village. She stroked one of her cats and several dogs clustered at her feet.
Roberto LoBianco had also been at that meeting and had agreed with Madame Silvestri that Saint-Tropez should return to its grass roots and former unpretentious simple glory. The Mayor had started to implement plans the previous year when he had closed down the popular beach restaurant, La Voile Rouge. The building had been bulldozed to the ground, in spite of entreaties from those who lived there and many of the regular visitors who loved the louche atmosphere.
‘Voile Rouge was one of the reasons people kept coming to Saint-Tropez,’ Charlie Chalk had insisted. ‘Fifty people lost their jobs when it closed.’
‘I agree,’ said Sophie Silvestri. ‘And now I hear they’re closing Bora Bora Beach as well.’
‘These beaches attract thousands of people who spend a ton of money every year,’ chimed in Nate Kowalski.
‘Well, you spent a ton at La Voile buying champagne by the crate and spraying it over all your mates and annoying the tables around you,’ laughed Monty Goldman.
‘You don’t do too badly yourself in that department!’ scoffed Nate. ‘How much did you spend on “shampoo” last year – two hundred and fifty grand, wasn’t it?’
‘About that,’ grinned Monty, ‘maybe closer to three. Gotta give the plebs what they want – action, babes, plenty of theatre.’
‘Whatever,’ chimed in Charlie. ‘The bloody Mayor of Pampelonne finally succeeded in getting La Voile Rouge closed, and it’s a great pity because it was unique and people loved it.’
