The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot of unique places in Ibiza and Sardinia,’ said Monty. ‘And if they start closing any more fun and crazy beaches, I just might piss off somewhere else for the summer.’

  ‘Come to Saint-Sébastien,’ said Roberto smoothly. ‘You saw what a paradise it is.’

  Charlie was enraged. ‘How can you do that, Monty? We need people like you; people who spend money to keep this place going. You know the locals need you guys with your big boats and your big hookers to get them through the eight months when no one comes to Saint-Tropez at all.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Nate. ‘Never miss anything that doesn’t miss you, matey. I’ll find another trendy beach where I can chuck champers over people. Eden Beach is getting pretty hot now, so is Bagatelle, but they’d better not start closing them down otherwise I will be outta here . . . maybe I will try Saint-Sébastien. I’m beginning to think that in any case it might be an excellent investment.’

  After the meeting had been adjourned, Roberto LoBianco and the Mayor of Pampelonne had been asked by Sophie to remain and join her for dinner. It had been one of the highlights of Roberto’s life.

  ‘You know that this mayor doesn’t have the best interests of Saint-Tropez at heart,’ mused Jonathan, gazing through binoculars at the crowded port. He was still fuming about Poulpe’s directive to remain in Saint-Tropez, which seemed to have the backing of the Mayor. Idly he waved at Sophie Silvestri, who was sitting at a round table at the back of Café Sénéquier, surrounded by her coterie of hangers-on, minus poor Frick, of course.

  ‘What do you mean, darling?’ Vanessa was idly flicking through the Daily Mail on her iPad. ‘How could he not?’

  ‘I think he’s jealous because so many people go to the beaches, which are all on Pampelonne, as you know, but with the exception of a few big earners like Club 55 and Bagatelle, everyone then goes into Saint-Tropez at night to spend most of their money there.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Vanessa, now flicking through Paris Match. ‘Oh, look, there’s a picture of Mina’s coffin being taken off a plane at JFK. That took long enough.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ said Jonathan. ‘I still believe someone had it in for her. Does it say anything in the Mail about us being kept prisoners in this goddamn place?’

  ‘Nooo,’ said Vanessa scrolling down. ‘Nothing. I guess we’re stuck here for a while – well, there could be worst places,’ she smiled, secretly thinking about the handsome young man she had been flirting with at the beach and at last week’s dinner party. Was she wrong to have given him her number?

  Khris Kane had insisted that Mina Corbain’s body be flown to the US for autopsy. And even though the jurisdiction of Saint-Tropez wanted the body to stay, enough money had passed hands to ensure that Mina went home to New York. There the verdict was announced. Mina had not been poisoned as Captain Poulpe suspected. She had died from anaphylactic shock brought on by a tainted oyster. She hadn’t received treatment in time because no one knew, not even Mina herself, that she had recently developed a serious allergy to seafood.

  ‘You see it wasn’t murder,’ the Mayor of Saint-Tropez glowed as he announced the news to a table of friends at Sénéquier.

  ‘What about my Spencer?’ asked Charlie Chalk mournfully.

  ‘You know our teams are still working on that,’ hesitated the Mayor. ‘You know the autopsy found that he suffocated because of the wasp sting to his throat. We just can’t figure out yet how the wasp got in there, but we will, Charlie. I promise we will.’

  ‘I really believe he was murdered,’ insisted Charlie. ‘I mean, who can swallow a wasp?’

  ‘A can of soda was found nearby. Maybe the wasp was in there and he swallowed it without realising it?’ the Mayor surmised, shrugging Gallic shoulders. ‘Anyway, we won’t rest until we get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Le Mayor.’ Charlie’s big blue eyes filled with tears. He gulped down his Guinness as Sophie put a comforting arm on his shoulder.

  ‘And Frick? What about my Frick?’ she asked.

  ‘That was definitely an accident, my dear Sophie.’ The Mayor, who had always had a tiny crush on the grand diva, hastened to assure her. ‘You had been doing repairs on your funicular, had you not?’

  She nodded sadly. ‘Yes, and my workmen were itinerant Poles and Romanians who worked cheaply.’ She gasped at the realisation, ‘It was my fault!’ A mascaraed tear ran down her cheek and the Mayor gallantly offered her his handkerchief.

  ‘Nonsense, my darling, it’s nobody’s fault. Accidents happen. I mean, look over there.’

  They glanced over to a corner table where Lara and Fabrizio were staring gloomily into their drinks.

  ‘That helicopter crash could have been a lot more serious,’ he continued.

  The group were interrupted by a happy-looking Carlotta coming into the café and sitting at the table next to them.

  After greetings and hugs, Carlotta turned to Charlie and whispered, ‘You’ll never guess . . . I’m not supposed to say anything, but guess who’s coming to Saint-Tropez the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘President Putin?’ sneered Lara, leaning over.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Carlotta did not rise to the bait. ‘Much better!’ She waited until she had all their attention, then announced in a hushed whisper, ‘Prince Harry – ta-dah!’

  ‘The Prince Harry?’ asked Charlie excitedly, being a keen royal follower.

  ‘Is there any other one?’ said Lara sarcastically.

  ‘Ah, the Prince! Yes, yes, I heard he might be coming here,’ said Sophie, knowingly.

  ‘Prince Harry! What? No, I don’t believe it,’ gasped Maximus, aghast that the movements of someone famous had eluded his finely honed radar.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ said Carlotta. ‘And guess who’s invited him to stay?’

  ‘Do tell!’ Lara tried to keep venom out of her voice. As soon as Carlotta had announced the news about the Prince, Fabrizio had hastily moved them to a table next to where Carlotta was now holding court.

  ‘Henry and Blanche – he’s staying at their villa!’ Carlotta announced triumphantly.

  ‘But why would a young guy like Harry want to bunk up with those old farts?’ Maximus was contemptuous. ‘My God, Henry’s older than God, and Blanche and that horrendous new dog of hers . . . he’ll be bored to tears.’

  ‘Yes, what’s the attraction?’ asked Sophie, thinking that she might give Blanche a ring later on, invite her to dinner at l’Opéra, and make sure she got an invitation to whatever soirée Blanche would be throwing in honour of the young prince. There was no question that the old hag would pull out all the stops to make a social impact with the fifth in line to the British throne staying in her house.

  Zarina and Sin, who until a few minutes ago had been sitting at a back table engrossed in each other, rushed over when they overheard the conversation.

  ‘I lurve Prince Harry,’ gushed Zarina. ‘He’s hot!’

  ‘Yeah, he’s soooo cool. Can we come please, pretty please?’

  Without asking, the two girls, neither of whom weighed more than one hundred pounds, planted themselves on Charlie’s capacious lap, covering his blushing cheeks in lipstick kisses.

  ‘Darlings, I have nothing to do with the party,’ he groaned as he tried to turf them off his lap, but they had wrapped their long tanned limbs around his body and he felt as if he was in the clutches of an octopus.

  ‘We’ll be your dates!’ they cooed. ‘A Charlie Chalkwich!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, grow up!’ snapped Sophie.

  The girls made sulky faces and wrapped themselves more tightly to Charlie who, despite the asphyxia, was rather enjoying the attention.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Charlie asked Carlotta.

  ‘Oh, I have my sources,’ she gave a secret smile. ‘Can’t reveal them though.’

  ‘I must invite him to my masked ball. Shall I call Buckingham Palace to invite him?’ said Maximus.

  ‘No, no, you c
an’t!’ said Carlotta hastily. ‘It’s a private visit – a secret. We can’t let anyone know, otherwise the press will find out and we will be inundated with them. There’s enough of them here already as it is.’

  Sophie piped up. ‘It’s strange that since that unfortunate event on the boat when her dog was squashed . . . by you, Blanche hasn’t been seen around Saint-Tropez much.’

  Maximus had the grace to blush. ‘Well, she has a new puppy now,’ he said, sounding defensive. ‘And I sent her a massive orchid plant. She must have forgiven me by now, I hope.’

  ‘Not good enough, Maxie – you should have sent her a new dog!’ joked Fabrizio. Max threw him a withering look.

  ‘I want to know why Prince Harry is going to stay with them?’ demanded Charlie. ‘I know Prince Harry, of course. I’ve attended many events in the UK where he was a guest. I think he likes me,’ he finished plaintively. The initial novelty of having Zarina and Sin on his lap had passed, so he was now unsuccessfully trying to dislodge the two teenagers, who stuck to him like twin Band-Aids.

  ‘You’re so cuddly,’ cooed Zarina.

  ‘It’s all because of Henry Phillips,’ explained Carlotta. ‘Harry is very involved in motor racing for one of his charities, and Henry has promised to attend the next one and drive one of his classic cars.’

  Everyone nodded sagely as she continued, ‘But no one must know he’s coming and we absolutely must not mention we know about it to Blanche or Henry, otherwise they’ll panic that everyone knows and who knows what could happen? They might blab it to Harry and then he won’t come.’

  ‘I should think they’d love to brag about it,’ said Charlie.

  ‘They can do that after the event. The Prince wants absolutely no publicity at all, and if word gets out, the world’s press will descend upon us. If that happens, Prince Harry will cancel.’

  ‘I see,’ said Maximus. ‘Who told you all this, cara?’

  ‘A woman I met last week – her name’s Serena Forsyth. She’s a great friend of the Prince, and of Henry and Blanche too. So please, if you want him to come, do not tell anyone.’

  ‘How can you trust this woman?’ asked Sophie. ‘Really you should vet people thoroughly before you agree to get involved with them.’

  ‘I trust her. She’s well-known,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘How will we know if we are invited? Are we? Are we invited?’ Zarina and Sin jumped over to Carlotta to try to cuddle her now.

  ‘When the Prince arrives, Blanche has an email ready to send to all of you. But you needn’t RSVP – I don’t think she needs to worry anyone will turn it down!’ said Carlotta sweetly to the two young women, trying to extract herself from them.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ smiled Fabrizio. ‘I really like the Prince. We’re the same age – like the same things.’

  ‘Yeah, girls,’ quipped Maximus, as Lara shot Fabrizio an angry look. She hated to be reminded of the twenty-four-year age difference.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s about all I can tell you for now,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘How is he going to get here?’ asked Maximus.

  ‘Serena told me he’s coming on some bigwig’s yacht the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘If we’re all stranded here and not allowed to leave, how come he can get here?’ asked Fabrizio.

  ‘If anyone can get in, it’s Prince Harry. He knows how to get into all kinds of things!’ joked Charlie.

  ‘Who’s the bigwig?’ Lara didn’t want Fabrizio talking to Carlotta. ‘I know most of the high rollers who have boats.’

  ‘Serena didn’t tell me. All I know is that the party for the Prince is at Henry and Blanche’s villa next Thursday and you’re all invited.’

  Maximus looked at Carlotta approvingly. In the few weeks she had been in Saint-Tropez, she had certainly learned the ropes.

  ‘Well done, cara,’ he patted her on the back. ‘You’re becoming one of us now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There had been such an outcry from everyone who hadn’t been allowed to leave Saint-Tropez that reluctantly the Mayor was forced to drop the ban. ‘It’s unconstitutional,’ Jonathan Meyer had declared. ‘Against human rights.’

  Even Captain Poulpe, who would have loved to interview everyone over and over again, realised the ban was unrealistic. However, he felt he had enough information and was making headway on the murder case. Now, with the news of Prince Harry’s imminent arrival, everyone decided to stay anyway, making his job much easier.

  Carlotta was becoming so much a part of the Saint-Tropez social scene that Sophie had issued an invitation to her to come for an intimate tea one afternoon.

  ‘It was not so much an invitation, more like a royal command,’ Carlotta told Max nervously.

  ‘But you have to go, cara,’ he insisted. ‘Just to see how she lives is an experience. My God, the dogs and the cats . . . oh! And the smell!’ He did a pretend sniff holding his nose and Carlotta giggled.

  ‘But she terrifies me!’

  ‘Nonsense – she’s just an old lady wearing a lot of make-up and too many jewels. Underneath all that she’s really quite sweet!’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No – you’ll see, the diva act is just an act, and besides, she misses Frick, she’s lonely. Maybe she sees in you the daughter she never had.’

  ‘Oh, dear! That’s rather hard to live up to,’ Carlotta said. She paused for a second then added, almost to herself. ‘On the other hand, that would be quite nice – I wasn’t very close to my mother.’

  Max expressed a touch of fake sympathy as he thought about how he could turn this unexpected social event to his advantage. ‘Maybe I should come for tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry, she told me I could bring a friend as long as it wasn’t you!’ Carlotta giggled.

  Max made a disappointed moue then smiled excitedly, ‘Fabrizio! Why don’t you take him?’

  ‘Oh, God, no – perish the thought! I’ve asked Nick, if he’s back from the Middle East, and I’ll ask Sophie if that’s okay.’

  ‘He’s press,’ said Max gloomily, ‘she won’t like that.’

  ‘He’s promised not to write about her – and besides, he’s been commissioned by the Mail to do an interview with Henry Phillips, which he’ll be working on when he’s finished the stint he’s doing now. Oh dear, do you think maybe the Daily Mail has heard about Prince Harry coming?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Max, sounding disappointed and sad, realising the opportunities that were being denied him. Had he known about an offer for a Mail interview with the racing legend Henry Phillips, he could have negotiated it himself and made himself a little bit of money. God knows he needed it. Everyone seemed to be getting a piece except him.

  When Carlotta and Nick entered the dimly lit entrance hall of Sophie Silvestri’s secluded villa, Carlotta wrinkled her nose. ‘It reeks of animals,’ she whispered.

  ‘Man’s best friend,’ Nick smiled, ‘and obviously Madame Silvestri’s best friend as well.’

  A sombre figure sheathed in black with his arm in a sling appeared at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Madame will see you now,’ Adolpho, still mourning his lover Frick, announced gloomily.

  The salon was dark, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. Sophie was ensconced in an enormous eighteenth-century gilt and red velvet bergère armchair. It had definitely seen better days, as had all the furnishings in the room. She was clad in a voluminous silk caftan in purple to pink ombré. It bore the signs of wear and tear from the menagerie of animals that drifted in and out of the salon and crowded around her chair looking curiously at the newcomers. There was a strong smell of cat’s pee and Carlotta noticed several litter trays stashed around the room. Sophie held out her hand, smiling warmly at the young lovers.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ she commanded. ‘Adolpho, bring tea. You like English tea?’

  Carlotta nodded.

  ‘I always have it every afternoon, most refreshing in this hot climate,’ smiled So
phie.

  ‘Out, out!’ she barked at two enormous poodles that had taken over the cosy armchairs opposite her.

  Incense burned on a rickety table beside Sophie, and the enormous grand piano was covered in a Spanish shawl, on which were stacked about thirty silver photo frames. Nick, with his reporter’s eye, quickly spotted the famous star smiling with Reagan, Sinatra, Streisand and Nelson Mandela amongst many others. ‘Shades of Gloria Swanson,’ he mouthed to Carlotta as Sophie turned to throw off her lap the giant cat she had been caressing. Adolpho had brought in an old-fashioned tea trolley gleaming with exquisite china, and plates piled high with sandwiches and a selection of patisserie. Sophie poured the tea elegantly, in a passable imitation of how the Queen might do it and, without asking, sloshed a generous amount of milk into their delicate cups.

  After a limited amount of small talk she said, ‘Now maybe you are wondering why I asked you here?’

  ‘Yes . . . I actually . . . I mean, I’m extremely flattered to be invited, Madame Silvestri.’

  Sophie held up her hand and said, ‘Sophie, please.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Sophie. I’ve seen so many of your movies and my mother really admired you.’

  A slightly irritated frown crossed the actress’s heavily cosmeticised face and Carlotta swiftly realised she’d crossed an invisible no-no line.

  ‘But I loved you in The Barefoot Bride. It was on TV a couple of months ago,’ she added hastily, trying to repair the damage. Nick shot her an affectionately warning glance and Carlotta decided to shut up.

  ‘Ah yes, The Barefoot Bride, one of my favourites. Jack Lemmon . . . ah, he was such a sweetie, we had so much fun.’ She sipped her tea and, taking a bite out of a chocolate éclair, fed the rest to a massive basset hound who had been lurking under her chair. She stared off into the distance for a few minutes, apparently lost in thoughts of high jinks with Jack Lemmon.

  It was quite gloomy in the salon, the windows shielded from the afternoon sun by thick parasol pines. Another fierce mistral had been brewing since lunchtime and it started its familiar high-pitched whistle as the branches knocked against the windows.