by Joan Collins
‘Ah, you know what they say about mistrals, don’t you?’ said Sophie with a thin smile.
‘Yeah, they keep telling us!’ smiled Nick. ‘A murderer is forgiven if he kills during a mistral, right?’
‘Exactly – except not any murderer: a man who kills his wife.’
‘Archaic,’ breathed Carlotta. ‘Does that rule still exist?’
‘In this part of the world, my dear, yes, it does. Although I must admit it hasn’t happened recently. You see, what everyone perceives about Saint-Tropez is just the tip of the iceberg, the cherry on top of the cake. There are ancient mystical customs here that have been practised for hundreds of years since the village had to protect itself. We were invaded by Turkish pirates, Spaniards – even the Japanese, you know.’
‘Is that when they built the citadel?’ asked Nick.
‘Yes, by order of the King in the seventeenth century, but the people of Saint-Tropez are still very superstitious, and they don’t like strangers. Nor do I,’ she said firmly. ‘That is why I rarely go out in the daytime. I can’t bear to mix with the hideous mobs that come here in their tour buses, and go camping next to our beautiful beaches, leaving all their filth and detritus everywhere. Sacrilegious!’ she spat, almost choking on a pastry, and looked furiously out of the window. ‘They come here on their boats and try to get a glimpse of me. I’m old now. I don’t want them to see me like this.’
Nick glanced at Carlotta, who was completely fascinated by Sophie’s recollections. The star seemed to shrink and lose her glamour as her anger started to engulf her.
‘I have tried . . . Mon Dieu, how I have tried for thirty years to stop all of this trash coming here. It upsets me so much, but what do they care? All that interests the Mayor and all the councils of the whole of this part of the Côte d’Azur is money, money, money!’ She banged her hand so hard on the tea trolley that the plate of pastries fell to the floor and several cats leapt to devour them.
Suddenly there was another huge gust of wind and somewhere in the back of the villa a door banged so loudly that several of the dogs started howling. Sophie grinned devilishly at Carlotta’s nervousness.
‘Don’t worry, my dear, it’s not a big mistral and you’re not married! Now let’s get started. There were two reasons why I asked you here today. The first one was because I believe it’s more than a coincidence that both Mina’s murder and Spencer’s death occurred during the time of a mistral – n’est-ce pas?’ She stared at them both as the cat jumped on her lap again and she fed it a piece of smoked salmon from her sandwich.
‘Well . . .’ Nick was hesitant. ‘I’m not much of a one for superstitions, but it does seem like quite a coincidence.’
‘And my party for Marvin Rheingold, when my dear darling Frick was killed on the funicular . . .’ Sophie’s eyes filled with tears and she dabbed at her cheeks with the cat’s fluffy tail. ‘There was a mistral then, do you remember?’
Nick and Carlotta nodded. It had turned much darker in the salon, and the wind blew stronger now.
‘I wanted to see if you young people had any ideas about who would want to murder those innocent people? Because Poulpe and that daughter of his don’t seem to have a clue.’
‘I’m a journalist, ma’am, and believe me, if I had any suspicions, I would let Captain Poulpe or the Mayor know. But I’m sorry to say, ma’am, they all look like accidents to me. Gruesome, yes, and freakishly coincidental, but accidents nevertheless,’ said Nick.
‘The Mayor? Bah! He’s useless, and he loves the fact that Saint-Tropez is full of trash!’ Sophie leaned forward ominously. ‘And I don’t mean those shabby-looking people wandering around in their ugly clothes. No, the real trash here are the oligarchs – those billionaires with their obscene yachts, and their jeroboams of champagne that they spray all over their whores at the beaches and restaurants.’
‘Well, yes, there are quite a few of those guys around, I admit,’ Carlotta conceded.
‘But the town needs those people for the season,’ Nick pointed out. ‘Otherwise the locals, the shopkeepers, restaurateurs, the owners of the bars and beaches – they would go broke.’
‘So what?’ snarled Sophie, suddenly back to behaving like a virago. ‘Saint-Tropez should be the sleepy fishing village it was before that puta Coco Chanel started coming here with her fancy friends in the thirties. Then that Brigitte Bardot ruined it even more in the fifties, running around half-naked.’ She took a sip of her tea and stared at them both, becoming even more wild-eyed. ‘Perhaps you don’t agree with me. Many people don’t. In fact . . .’ she stroked the cat and her eyes gleamed as she leaned forward, ‘many people think I am a witch!’
There was a huge crash from upstairs and Adolpho’s voice came down the stairs faintly. ‘Sorry, sorry, cherie, I just dropped a vase.’
Carlotta shuddered. She was beginning to feel quite queasy, and the pastries Sophie had insisted she eat were weighing heavily on her. She wanted to leave but as she started to rise, Sophie grabbed her arm.
‘You don’t think I’m a witch, do you, my dear?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Carlotta could plainly hear a tone of menace in the old woman’s voice.
‘Good, that’s good, because I’m not – although I do foresee things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Ah, that would be telling.’
‘I hope you don’t foresee any more accidents,’ Nick said jokingly.
‘Actually I don’t . . .’
‘That’s a relief,’ he laughed.
‘. . . but I foresee a few more murders,’ she hissed.
‘Oh God, no . . . seriously? When? What do you see?’
‘I just think everyone should be careful because I sense something evil is happening in Saint-Tropez. But I think we can prevent it by the power of prayer.’
Nick rolled his eyes at this but Carlotta, whose arm was in the grip of Sophie’s strong fingers, flinched.
‘Yes, with prayer, and staying close to good people and thinking good thoughts, we can prevent any more deaths. So, Carlotta, of all the people staying in Saint-Tropez now, I believe it is you, cherie, who is truly good. That is why I want to be much closer to you. I want us to bond, like mother and daughter. I never had a child, you know – but then again I didn’t want one. I was a selfish and spoilt bitch, I admit.’ Sophie laughed and suddenly her face seemed relaxed, and warm. She released Carlotta’s arm and started stroking the cat again.
‘It’s my birthday soon. It’s a big one, and every five years I ask someone who is pure, uncomplicated and simply a good person to throw a small party for me. Ten years ago it was Charlie Chalk. Last time it was my poor Frick. This year I am asking you, Carlotta, with your youth, beauty and kindness to give me a party. Will you, my dear?’
‘Of course. I’m honoured,’ smiled Carlotta.
‘Thank you, my dear. I always try to celebrate it, even if I find each half of the decade more and more depressing. I mean, cheese ripens with age, as does wine, so why can’t people get better with age?’
It was a rhetorical question that no one was able to answer, but Nick chimed in gallantly, ‘Just because a woman has a few lines on her face doesn’t make her less beautiful – and you, Sophie, are still beautiful.’
Sophie smiled and preened. ‘Silly boy! It’s not true, but thank you anyway.’
‘Are you looking forward to Prince Harry’s visit?’ asked Carlotta after a minute of embarrassed silence.
‘Ha!’ said Sophie. ‘The soirée for Prince Harry that we’re not supposed to discuss. Ha! How everyone is going to keep their mouths shut is beyond me.’ She rang a bell and an elderly, stooped maid entered to clear the tea things.
The two stood up. ‘Teresa, see our guests out,’ said Sophie. ‘Thank you, sweet things, you have been most amusing.’ She sank back into her chair as the big cat jumped off her lap and three white kittens jumped eagerly on to it.
‘Jesus H. Christ! Was that a trip?’ Nick hugged Carlotta tig
htly against the wild winds outside the villa. ‘I can understand why some people would think she was a witch – she’s a touch scary.’
‘No, she’s not,’ said Carlotta, pondering the visit. ‘I think she’s rather sweet and rather sad too. I will enjoy giving her a birthday party.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Word got out, word always gets out, and by the time the massive yacht belonging to some global nomad that no one had ever heard of came into port, excitement was palpable.
Prince Harry was supposed to be on it, and that was the cue for the movers and shakers of Saint-Tropez to be casually sitting around at various cafés in front of the port on the day it was expected. It was a humongous vessel by anyone’s standards. Five storeys high, it was equipped with all the latest toys.
The usual suspects were clustered together on a large round table smack in the middle of Sénéquier, and even they were impressed.
‘It’s a five thousand tonner!’ It took a lot to excite Sergei Litvak, whose boat was one of the twenty biggest vessels in the world, but he had whipped out his iPhone 6 like a child and started snapping away furiously.
‘Jeez, they’ve got two helicopters, at least two pools and four speedboats!’ chimed Nate.
‘And those are the latest speedboats.’ Monty Goldman was looking through binoculars and read out the name Dar El Salaam. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’ He quickly scrolled through his phone. ‘I’ve just googled it. It doesn’t show up; it’s obviously from the Middle East – some sheik or sultan from Syria or somewhere. Strange there’s no record of it.’ He scrolled down his phone again.
The men gazed with thinly disguised envy at the massive boat as it slipped effortlessly into its berth. Sailors in pale blue uniforms ran hither and yon like ants, and one of the staff raised a green and black flag, which no one recognised.
‘Blue uniforms,’ sniffed Lara, who considered herself something of an expert in la vie maritime. ‘Tacky.’
The gangplank was lowered. ‘Teak and chrome, the latest from Blohm + Voss,’ said Monty admiringly.
After a few minutes, a jaunty figure ran down the gangplank, wearing khaki cargo shorts, a light green polo shirt and a NY Yankees baseball cap pulled low over his flaming red hair.
‘It’s him!’ Carlotta was thrilled. She had met a few European princes when she was married to Nicanor, but to meet English royalty was much more prestigious and exciting.
As soon as his feet touched the quay, two nubile teenagers in the shortest of shorts, wearing matching red bikini tops and high-heeled hooker shoes, ran up to him. The man put his arms around them, said ‘Hi, girls’, and they started to walk towards Sénéquier. The group gasped.
They were followed by a petite dark-haired woman dressed all in black and wearing two cameras slung around her neck and a large necklace made out of diamond skulls. She was busy photographing Harry as he and the young girls walked briskly over to the group at the round table at Sénéquier.
‘I’d love to see the Queen’s face when she sees those pics!’ said Charlie.
The dark-haired woman came over to Carlotta, who chirped, ‘Hi Serena.’
‘Hi, Carlotta,’ said the woman. ‘Your Royal Highness, I’d like to introduce you to some of my friends.’
‘Pity we can’t see his eyes,’ whispered Carlotta to Nick. ‘Those mirrored Ray-Bans hide so much.’
Prince Harry stuck out one hand with his famous cheeky smile as Sophie, Lara, Carlotta, Vanessa, Lilly Litvak and all the men rose to shake his hand, mightily impressed by the presence of royalty. Zarina and Sin threw themselves on him, elbowing the other teenagers out of the way.
Lara practically genuflected when she met the Prince, and Fabrizio had to hold her up to prevent her falling over. The teenagers, having managed to push Zarina and Sin aside, clung to him like limpets, posing and laughing and tossing their long blonde hair. Serena asked them to pose this way and that, and when Charlie Chalk went to meet the Prince she called out, ‘Kiss him on the cheek, Charlie!’
‘Oh, I couldn’t dear, it’s not respectful,’ he said, but one of the girls, grinning, pushed him so far forward that he lost his balance and planted a smacker on the young prince’s nose.
‘Oh! So sorry, Your Highness,’ said Charlie, turning puce with embarrassment.
‘It’s okay, don’t worry,’ said Harry. ‘I’m a big fan.’
‘Really?’ Charlie puffed up with pride. ‘Well, so am I, sir!’
The whole quay was now throbbing with people, cameras were out, cell phones held up, as were babies, and there was an atmosphere of bonhomie and jollity.
‘Fifth in line to the throne – what an honour.’ Lilly Litvak curtsied so low that her Roberto Cavalli mini-skirt rose up, thigh-high.
Then the group turned as one, as a very tall, elegant girl in jeans and a striped Breton top stepped daintily down the gangplank of the boat. Her long chestnut hair swung in the breeze as she walked swiftly towards Harry with open arms and a big smile, calling out, ‘Hi, babes!’
‘My God, it’s Kate Middleton!’ screamed one of the crowd.
‘Kate, Kate, look here, look over here!’ screamed another.
‘Oh, my God, is that the Duchess?’ They started to push towards her, but several policemen who had arrived at the scene held the crowd back. Cameras and cell phones went crazy as two of Britain’s favourite royals hugged each other.
Serena seemed unfazed by being in the proximity of the popular young Duchess of Cambridge. ‘Kiss Harry, Kate darling,’ she commanded, and with a big grin the Duchess and Prince Harry embraced, then locked lips in a passionate kiss.
The crowd gasped.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Charlie was aghast. ‘It’s not them. It can’t be!’
‘They’re lookalikes!’ screamed one of the crowd angrily. ‘Shame on you!’
‘You’re right, there’s no way it’s them!’ yelled another.
The crowd started booing.
Quickly ‘Harry’ and ‘Kate’, still entwined, turned and ran swiftly back on to the boat, followed by Serena, who was still snapping hastily.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Sophie turned furiously to an almost tearful Carlotta. ‘They were fakes!’
‘I . . . I don’t know. Serena’s a friend – well, an acquaintance really. She called and told me the Prince was coming and he wanted a party and that no one should know. I don’t know why she would play this trick on me.’
Nick put his arms comfortingly around her and she started to sob.
‘How good a friend?’ demanded Sophie.
‘Well, actually I only met her once in Monaco – but she’s been calling me a lot.’ Carlotta was horribly embarrassed and crying copiously. The others rolled their eyes.
‘You’ve been done, darling.’ Lara was quite delighted to see the younger girl in hot water. She was becoming sick of everyone saying how wonderful, sweet and beautiful Carlotta was. ‘Serves her right,’ she whispered to Fabrizio, who looked determinedly neutral.
‘It’s a bit unfair, I admit,’ said Charlie, ‘but a jolly bit of fun. My, but those lookalikes were really good – we were all taken in by them!’ He started to laugh uproariously and the others, getting the joke, started laughing with him.
‘Look, the boat’s leaving!’ Monty was astonished at how quickly Serena, the two lookalikes and the girls had hopped onto the boat, which was already on its way out of the port.
‘I notice Blanche and Henry aren’t here. Were they in on it too?’ asked Sophie sternly.
‘No,’ Carlotta was crying softly. ‘Serena told me not to call them; that it had to be such a secret. I was supposed to tell them today and help organise the party. She felt that Blanche would maybe let the cat out of the bag,’ she sobbed and Nick held her tightly.
‘You’re right about that, dear.’ Charlie patted Carlotta’s arm comfortingly. ‘That woman has a bigger mouth than I have.’ Everyone laughed.
‘Carlotta, don’t take it too seriously darlin
g,’ said Nick. ‘I know that woman. She’s a professional photographer who specialises in taking photos of celebrity lookalikes in compromising positions – just like that famous photographer Alison Jackson.’
After they had sat down and ordered a large bottle of rosé, Charlie said, ‘I’ve seen her work, it’s very original.’
‘Well, she’s going to have to get permission from all of us if she wants to use those photos,’ said Jonathan Meyer, who was the only one of the group who didn’t get the joke. ‘It’s not funny, for Christ’s sake! In fact, it’s a goddamn liberty.’
‘Calm down, dear.’ Charlie patted him on the shoulder. ‘I think the pics will only be of him and “Kate” kissing in front of the mob.’ He gestured to the people who were still gathered around them curiously. ‘And of course Prince Harry with the hookers! My dears, that will go viral!’
And it did. Within hours it was all over the internet and the next day the picture of ‘Harry’ kissing ‘Kate’ hit the front pages of every tabloid in the Western world. So much shock and outrage followed that Buckingham Palace was forced to issue a statement that they were lookalikes and Serena Forsyth had to release a profuse apology.
‘Well, so much for asking our permission!’ Charlie Chalk threw copies of the Daily Mail and the Daily Mirror on to the table and issued a loud, ‘Harrumph! Shall I sue?’
Carlotta, Nick, Fabrizio and Vanessa were taking their morning coffee and croissants in a little café on the corner of the Place des Lices. It was market day, and the leafy square was jammed with tables and stalls full of goods ranging from cheese to socks, from pizza to art-deco tea sets. The place buzzed with hundreds of tourists. Language-wise it was like a league of nations, with German, Dutch, and Italians vying with the English and the French as to who could shout the loudest or be the pushiest. Dogs on leads and babies in strollers entangled themselves in the shoppers’ legs as a strong mistral whipped through the stalls, sending sarongs and scarves fluttering like flags outside the UN. The stallholders were looking glum as the holidaymakers, carrying enormous rucksacks on their backs or pushing prams containing fretful babies, fingered their goods but then moved on.
