The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘Merde!’ said the woman who sold vintage Victorian pieces from the stall opposite the café. ‘It gets worse and worse each year, no one is buying.’

  Charlie leaned over sympathetically and patted her on the shoulder. ‘It’s the recession, darling. Never mind, I’ll buy a set of twenty napkins from you. They’ll be useful for my party.’

  ‘I thought you were having a hundred guests,’ laughed Fabrizio. ‘Twenty napkins won’t go far.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘Spread the wealth, darling, help the poor, then you’ll go to heaven, although I don’t know about you, dear.’ He winked blithely at Fabrizio, who was making unsuccessful attempts to engage Carlotta with a few card tricks. Seemingly unimpressed but always polite, she smiled up at him and moved closer to Nick.

  The Mayor came to their table to say hello. Nick stood up and asked him if he would like to join them. He sat down and ordered a café crème.

  ‘What’s happening with the ban?’ asked Charlie. ‘Why did they decide to lift it?’

  ‘At a meeting with the city council and the gendarmerie, we realised it’s impossible to implement. God knows what they were thinking in the first place. We don’t know if these incidents were accidents or murders, but in any event we could not hold the whole of Saint-Tropez responsible. To keep everyone here who could possibly be involved was impossible.’

  ‘Any more news? Do they have any suspects?’ asked Charlie. A tear dropped on to his chocolate croissant as he sighed heavily. ‘My poor darling Spencer, what a dreadful thing to happen.’

  ‘I sympathise deeply,’ said the Mayor. ‘The gendarmerie are continuing their investigations. We’ll give you any news as soon as we have it.’

  Nick, who had just returned from a short business trip to Baghdad and had been filing articles with several US publications on the recent strange events in Saint-Tropez, added, ‘What about this Prince Harry hoax – could there be a connection?’

  Carlotta looked guilty, but Nick squeezed her hand and smiled comfortingly. ‘It wasn’t your fault, darling. It was a “sting” that this Serena woman perpetrated on you. Hey, you know, you need me to be with you more,’ he grinned, and she smiled up at him. Fabrizio winced.

  ‘Well, you should stop dashing to the Middle East all the time – I do need you with me.’ It was true – Nick was a pillar of strength, always there for her; reliable, trustworthy and intelligent. He had not been pressuring her to go to bed with him; she knew how much he wanted her, but she felt that when she committed to the act of love again, it had to be for ever.

  Charlie was still studying the front page of the Daily Mail. ‘Look at this picture. “Harry” is kissing me! My God, I’ll become the laughing stock of London.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Mayor. ‘At the meeting today, all of the councillors applauded you, Charlie. And yes, it was a mean thing to do, but this Serena person is known for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you read the caption? Listen . . .’ Charlie grabbed the paper and read, ‘Photographer Serena Forsyth scored another coup when she snapped a lookalike of Prince Harry kissing a lookalike of the popular comedian Charlie Chalk in Saint-Tropez last week. They didn’t even think it was me!’ he squawked resentfully.

  ‘The woman’s brilliant. I would tell her off but she won’t return my calls,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘It could have misfired really badly,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the Mayor. ‘Where’s your sense of humour? No one was hurt, and in fact that picture will encourage more people to come to Saint-Tropez, I hope.’

  ‘I guess it was quite funny.’ Fabrizio, who had been frustrated in his attempts to interest Carlotta, had decided to turn his charm on to a smiling Vanessa Meyer.

  ‘It’s so great that the ban is over. Jonathan will be delighted. We can finally take the boat to Capri, whenever he can tear himself away from the golf course.’ Vanessa sounded delighted and exchanged a meaningful look with Fabrizio.

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ said Carlotta to Vanessa. ‘I know that Sophie will miss you at the birthday party she’s asked me to give for her. I’m a bit overwhelmed actually – there’s so much planning. Thank goodness Maximus is helping me.’

  ‘Ah – talk of the devil,’ grinned Fabrizio. ‘Here comes Dumbo now.’

  ‘Now, now,’ admonished Charlie. ‘How many times must I tell you, we do not mock the fat! We can’t help it, you know.’ He patted his corpulent belly, sheathed in a wildly printed Dolce silk shirt, and moved his seat so Maximus could sit.

  ‘I need a word with Fabrizio.’ Max sounded out of breath and serious. He didn’t take up Charlie’s offer. ‘Come.’ He beckoned Fabrizio over to a quiet corner of the café, and he obediently followed.

  ‘I had a call from CRAP today. Carina actually phoned me.’ Fabrizio sat down, paling beneath his caramel tan. ‘She says your brats Alberto and Pietro are starving, and so is she and your other whore, Raimunda.’

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do?’ Fabrizio said despairingly. ‘I sent them as much as I could last month.’

  ‘She said the kids need clothes for school and lots of other things that kids need – I can’t remember. Thank God I never had any of the little monsters!’

  ‘School doesn’t start until September,’ snapped Fabrizio.

  ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! They’re making threats, Fabrizio – bad threats.’

  ‘What threats? What can they do? They already threatened to stop me seeing the brats – like I care,’ he laughed hollowly. ‘I mean, Carina and Raimunda get a thousand euros a month each from me. It’s all I can afford. Isn’t that enough?’

  Maximus shrugged. ‘Lucky me, I never sired bastards – or screwed teenagers. You were stupid, Fabrizio.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know it – I was only nineteen, for Christ’s sake, I didn’t even know about birth control then, or the facts of life . . . I didn’t even watch porn,’ he laughed hollowly.

  ‘But you were led by your dick as usual. Tut-tut!’

  Fabrizio stared sullenly into the square.

  Maximus continued, ‘Anyway, their latest threat is that they will turn up here – the four of them – and present themselves to Lara. Now you know how she loves publicity,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And of course she is very famous in America. So your “exes” will relish telling the press about Lara’s fidanzato’s two little bastards who are barefoot and starving, and that he doesn’t support them.’

  ‘But I do support them, as much as I can.’ Fabrizio put his head in his hands and groaned.

  ‘Lara will be put in the embarrassing position of being described as the thoughtless bitch who won’t help her fiancé – it won’t look good for you, my friend; not good at all,’ continued Max.

  ‘What the fuck – what can I do?’

  ‘You will just have to face the music and tell Lara the truth at last. Get her in a good mood first, however you manage it.’ Maximus winked lasciviously.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then you confess – put on your “poor little lost boy” look, you know she’s a sucker for that; ask her for more money for your starving kids.’

  ‘What if she refuses to give me any more money for them?’

  ‘Play hardball – break up with her,’ said Max firmly. ‘Even I can see she’s becoming more and more of a pain in the ass. Threaten to leave, and if she doesn’t stop you, then go.’

  ‘But what will I do, where will I go?’ Fabrizio’s voice was a plaintive wail.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop the Scarlett O’Hara act! You can stay with me for a few days. Then I suggest maybe you get to work on her.’ He gestured to where tawny-haired Vanessa Meyer was looking over her designer sunglasses with barely disguised interest at Fabrizio’s well-toned chest in a white designer shirt open to the waist.

  ‘That would be the perfect irony, n’est-ce pas?’ grinned Max. ‘You dump Jonathan’s ex-wife and hit on the newest one!’

  A faint smile played
around Fabrizio’s lips. He was way ahead of the game. He and Jonathan’s gorgeous English wife had already been exchanging long looks and phone numbers for the past week. Maybe soon it would be time to move in for the kill. It was obvious that Vanessa was bored stiff with Jonathan.

  Max gave Fabrizio a little nudge. ‘Go on, work your magic on her, big boy. You know you can.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Carlotta, Nick, Sophie and Maximus sat on Sophie’s terrace, overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean, preparing the guest list for the actress’s seventy-fifth birthday party. Sophie fingered a battered Filofax into which she peered shortsightedly as she read out famous names.

  ‘Deneuve . . . we must ask Catherine. I haven’t seen her since Cannes but we’ve been friends for years.’

  Max raised his eyebrows. Sophie’s female friends, especially if they were famous actresses, were few and far between.

  ‘Okay,’ said Carlotta. ‘She’s in Paris, right?’

  Sophie nodded, ‘Always in Paris, always working,’ she hissed then said, ‘Brigitte – I’m sure she’ll come.’

  ‘Bardot never goes out socially to parties at night,’ said Max, ‘even though she’s known as the Queen of Saint-Tropez.’

  ‘One of the queens,’ said Sophie swiftly. ‘You know I am also known by that title.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll put her on the list anyway,’ Carlotta touched the keys on her iPad, ‘and send an invite.’

  ‘Ah! Depardieu – my dear Gérard, such a darling. We made Appointment in Baghdad together; he must be invited.’

  ‘Now we must invite Helmut Berger, and Jean-Paul Le Blanc,’ said Sophie firmly, ignoring Max’s sly dig. ‘Ah, we had such fun together making The Spy I Loved in sixty-eight.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’ asked Max.

  ‘Well, no, but he was a good friend.’ Sophie closed her eyes and let her mind take her back to a long-ago time in Paris, when for a brief moment in time she and Jean-Paul Le Blanc had conducted a wonderfully clandestine affair.

  ‘Ah, he was so young, so famous and so good-looking – in a tough, masculine way, of course.’ Sophie sighed wistfully, remembering how they had spent their afternoons entwined in silken sheets in her hotel on the Avenue Foch. ‘Ah, those afternoons were the stuff that dreams were made of, until his wife found out. She came banging on the door one afternoon screaming, “I know you’re in there with that slut, Jean-Paul. Come out of that puta’s clutches, you bastard!”’ Sophie laughed, then whispered dreamily, ‘He wouldn’t go to her. He wouldn’t leave my bed. He loved me so much. Oh, how we loved each other!’

  ‘So what happened? Where is Jean-Paul now?’ asked Carlotta.

  ‘Well, like all affairs on movie sets, it ended when the director called “Cut”. You know, it doesn’t count on location.’ Sophie came out of her reverie, ‘I don’t know where he went. Maybe Paris? I heard he made some films in Italy for a time. His wife left him eventually,’ she grinned.

  ‘Oh, but I think I saw him,’ Adolpho excitedly blurted. ‘Last week I was in Gassin, dining at Bello Visto, and I swear I saw him at the next table.’ He frowned. ‘I think he was with a couple of people – maybe with some kids? Yes, I’m sure it was him – great hair,’ he finished, ‘considering he’s over seventy.’

  Sophie’s eyes lit up. ‘Gassin, of course – he loved that village. It was where he was born.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t be too difficult to track down, then,’ said Max. ‘Gassin is only a tiny village.’

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ said Adolpho enthusiastically. Thoughts of a romance between his employer and an ex-lover excited him.

  ‘What about Maximilian Schell?’ Sophie was still flipping through her book. ‘My God, what a stud! He could go for hours!’

  ‘Too much information,’ Max mouthed to Carlotta, who grinned then said: ‘I’m sorry, darling, but he died last year.’

  ‘Oh, too bad . . . I don’t suppose De Niro and Pacino are still around?’

  ‘Well, yes, they are, but I don’t think they ever leave the States. I’ll try anyway.’

  Just then the doorbell rang and Adolpho jumped up to answer it.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Sophie, ‘Teresa will get it.’

  The old maid was so crippled with arthritis she could barely walk towards the door. ‘Ah, madame. It was a messenger with a big box of your favourite chocolates – Charbonnel et Walker,’ she called as she tottered into the salon.

  ‘I wonder who sent them?’ said Sophie. ‘Not many people know I love them.’

  ‘Here’s the note,’ said Teresa, passing a tiny envelope to her mistress.

  ‘I’m busy, Teresa, I can’t open chocolates now – take them to the kitchen and put them on a silver platter to pass to my friends.’

  The old woman waddled off, muttering to herself, as Sophie opened the card. ‘To my idol, from your devoted pursuer.’

  ‘Hmm, who could that be? I think I have quite a few devoted . . .’ Just then they heard an almighty explosion from the kitchen, and a strangled scream from the maid. One of the windows blew out from the blast and Adolpho and Carlotta, who were the closest to the kitchen, were tossed to the floor.

  ‘Oh, my God! It’s a bomb!’ yelled Maximus.

  They burst into the kitchen to find it totally destroyed, and the poor old maid Teresa lying dead on the floor with a massive, bloody hole in her chest. The chocolate box was open beside her, smoke billowing out of it.

  ‘Call the police,’ Nick ordered Adolpho, and immediately wrapped his arms around a sobbing Carlotta, placing her face against his chest. ‘Don’t look, darling.’

  Sophie was shaking with fear and horror. Adolpho helped her on to a lounge chair on the terrace and gave her a glass of brandy, which she sipped gratefully.

  ‘That was meant for me,’ she said. ‘Someone wanted to kill me.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Carlotta, putting her arms around the shaken actress. ‘Who would have wanted to kill you?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I don’t think it was meant for you, Sophie. I think for some reason someone is trying to frighten the fuck out of all of us.’

  After Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle had thoroughly questioned everyone in the house and allowed them to leave, Carlotta and Nick went outside again. She was still shaking from the shock of the explosion and the tragic death of Teresa.

  ‘Do you realise there are no mirrors inside the house?’ Nick said.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Carlotta.

  ‘I don’t think Sophie wants to see herself during the day until Adolpho has put her together as she wants to look. It’s tragic really, she’s like stuck together with facelifts, fillers and wigs.’

  ‘But I do like her,’ said Carlotta. ‘It must be horrible to feel so lonely, the last one standing of a great generation of true stars.’

  As soon as Jonathan Meyer learned that the ban on suspects leaving Saint-Tropez was lifted, he called the captain of his Gulfstream II and told him to plot a course for Paris immediately. ‘I’ve got to close that deal with the Von Schreiber brothers,’ he informed his wife.

  Vanessa, who was lolling in their beautifully appointed stateroom watching a DVD episode of Orange Is the New Black, didn’t look up.

  ‘Why aren’t you getting ready?’ he asked, already in city mode – lightweight grey slacks, white-on-white cotton shirt from Charvet and a light blue linen blazer. He clasped his Breguet watch on his wrist, adjusted his shiny toupee, which he had recently switched from jet black to dark brown streaked with grey, and glanced at Vanessa. She yawned, stretched and, putting the remote on live pause, purred, ‘Oh, darling, I really don’t feel up to it. It’s that time of the month. I’d like to spend some time with Jonathan Junior.’

  ‘But honey, you love Paris. I’ll have to be there at least three days – think of the shopping.’

  ‘Darling, Jon Junior really needs to spend more time with me. He’s been with Nanny far too much recently. I want to take him water skiing, sailing
on the boat, and do some mother/son activities . . .’

  ‘Sure, okay.’ He checked his cufflinks, making a mental note to ring the gorgeous blonde courtesan he had connected with last time he was in Paris. God, she was hot! If he didn’t know he was paying three thousand euros a night, he would have actually thought she had enjoyed sex with him.

  Vanessa was still droning on ‘. . . and the weather’s been so bad, that mistral blowing all the time, poor Jonny hasn’t been able to ski at all.’

  ‘Sure, sure, okay, honey – we’ll keep in touch.’ He blew her a kiss, checked his pockets and picked up his alligator briefcase. Vanessa lay back, a big smile spreading over her perfect lips. When she was sure her husband had left the boat, she picked up her cell phone and dialled a number.

  Fabrizio had pulled. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, but the former Honourable Vanessa Anstruther-Formby, now Mrs Jonathan Meyer, was a major coup. At twenty-nine, she was a seasoned beauty at the peak of perfection. Her abundant hair framed an exquisite kitten-like face, with high chiselled cheekbones, a pointed chin and clear eyes. But it was her body that was truly superb. She was tall and slender with perfect breasts and a tiny waist. Whether the breasts were real or not, Fabrizio was about to find out.

  Vanessa had given the captain and crew the night off. She had sent nine-year-old Jonny and his nanny to the funfair at La Foux, to meet Vanessa’s cousin Louisa and her twin sons. They were the same age as Jon; he would be spending the night with them in Saint-Maxime. She was excited. She had only had one other fling in her nine years of marriage to one of the most influential and important moguls in America – and, after all, didn’t everyone cheat? Besides, this was different. She was genuinely attracted to and intrigued by Fabrizio; knowing that he was the kept man of Jonathan’s ex-wife made the assignation even more exciting.

  Jonathan’s boat was now moored in the less inhabited part of the port, far away from the throngs who gawped at the major yachts in front of Sénéquier, L’Escale, and all the other shops and cafés, which suited Vanessa perfectly.