The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘To have sex with him,’ Sophie said firmly but gently.

  ‘Yes. He wants to come and live with me but I’m frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of giving myself and then getting hurt again.’

  ‘My dear, you simply cannot go on reliving the past. The past is history, tomorrow a mystery, and today is the present – which is a gift! You must live for now, Carlotta. You’re too young and beautiful not to have a rich, fulfilling life with someone who loves you. You know I’m an astrology buff and you and Nick are so compatible. Your signs – Gemini woman and Libra man – denote you are meant for each other.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Carlotta haltingly. ‘He has asked me to marry him.’

  ‘One step at a time, my dear. Let him move in with you and then . . . well, just let Nature take its course.’

  ‘You know so much about men, Sophie,’ said Carlotta admiringly.

  ‘My dear, not at all. What I know about men actually could be written on the head of a pin. They are not all so different. Remember that book – Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus?’

  Carlotta nodded.

  ‘That about sums it up. I never married, Carlotta, because I became bored of my lovers too soon. And there were many, many men.’ Reminiscences flooded Sophie. ‘I’ve had many lovers from all walks of life, all ages, all nationalities and religions – and yet I still don’t know what makes men tick.’ She laughed. ‘But an expert blow job usually pleases them all!’

  Carlotta joined in the girlish laughter then said, ‘Do you think it’s true that men think about sex five times a day, like the research says?’

  ‘Oh no, my dear, it’s much more than that. I doubt they ever stop thinking about it!’

  ‘Have you ever watched porn movies?’ Carlotta asked tentatively.

  ‘Oh heavens! I did once or twice, long ago, when they had some sort of plot and the sex scenes were quite erotic.’ She shook her head. ‘Now what passes for adult entertainment is nothing but filth.’

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ said Carlotta. ‘Nicanor used to watch the most revolting images.’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t even begin to tell you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Sophie. ‘I can imagine. I don’t know what has happened to romance, my dear. It has been totally demystified, because sex is served up on a plate twenty-four/seven and it’s as easy to get as a hamburger at McDonald’s.’

  Sophie looked at Carlotta with motherly tenderness, ‘Give Nick a chance, dear. I’m sure it will work out for you two.’

  By dint of persuasion and coercion, Carlotta, Nick and Adolpho managed to get Sophie to agree to attend her own birthday party at Carlotta’s rented villa.

  It was a balmy warm night, and for once there was no mistral wind to blow the ladies’ hair into disarray. The house was pretty and elegantly furnished, without the vulgar ostentation of many of the newer homes in Saint-Tropez. Sophie, having spent three hours with her ‘glam squad’, arrived early, looking beautiful in a ‘Valentino Red’ gown that showed off her creamy cleavage to perfection, and a blonde bouffant wig upon which Adolpho had fixed a white gardenia. Although she lived close to the beach, Sophie never took the sun.

  ‘I don’t want to look like a wrinkled hag like some actresses who live here,’ she sniffed.

  Needless to say, none of her celebrity friends had shown up for the event, with the exception of Dirk Romano, still coasting on the mischievous charm that had made him famous back in the 1970s. His cheeky bedroom eyes hidden by trademark shades, he came to the party alone, looking for action and not doubting for one minute that he would get some. He had always been catnip for females of all ages. Dirk walked over to the coolly beautiful Vanessa Meyer and unsuccessfully tried to charm her. Her husband was nowhere to be seen, but Vanessa seemed unconcerned as she chatted animatedly with the gigolo Fabrizio Bricconni. What was he doing here without Lara? Dirk thought. That bitch is not going to take too kindly to her boyfriend chatting up her ex-husband’s present wife.

  Dirk’s thespian instincts were finely tuned and he noticed the definite body language between them. The way Vanessa smiled at Fabrizio while playing with her long hair gave the game away, and his hands lightly resting on her elegant waist, sheathed in silver silk jersey, left no one in any doubt. Not that anyone really gave a damn in Saint-Tropez. Flirting and affairs were rife, but none of them were taken very seriously.

  ‘If Lara sees that she’ll shit a brick!’ Dirk whispered to Monty.

  ‘Yeah, and if Jonathan sees it, ditto!’ he grinned.

  Zarina and Sin arrived fresh from Ibiza, wearing matching silk togas that barely covered their panties. Although they had announced they were ‘in love’ with each other, nevertheless they made a beeline for Dirk. He made no protest at all when they bundled him down to the pool-house to smoke a joint.

  Sophie was doing the room in a flurry of red chiffon and feathers. The years had fallen away from her face, thanks to Adolpho’s brilliant ministrations. She looked vibrant and was charming the pants off everyone. Marvin Rheingold stood in the doorway observing her and wondering again if it was perhaps not such a bad idea to cast her in Suddenly, Last Summer. Tonight she looked as if she could show the vulnerability that Katharine Hepburn had evoked so brilliantly. He thought he almost had a lock on Angelina Jolie for the Elizabeth Taylor role. ‘That is, if she doesn’t adopt any more kids,’ he told his partner Joe Schwartzman, and he was hoping for Ryan Reynolds for the Monty Clift role.

  ‘If I get those two it could be the casting coup of the decade,’ he told Roberto LoBianco, who was investing some money in the project, as they smoked cigars while observing the fray.

  ‘Yeah, but if you don’t get Reynolds and Angelina, what do you do then? Aren’t you supposed to start shooting in two months?’

  ‘Sure, sure, I know. And we do need the weather, but it’s still good down here as late as October,’ said Marvin.

  ‘How long did you say you needed to shoot in Saint-Sébastien?’ asked LoBianco.

  ‘Four weeks maximum. Then we’ll do the studio stuff in Nice for six or seven. We should wrap by November.’

  ‘Well, Saint-Sébastien is all ready for you,’ said Roberto. ‘It’s an Eden – gorgeous beaches, unpolluted water and no goddamn tourists gawking at your stars. A producer’s heaven.’

  Marvin smiled. ‘Talking of heaven, I can’t wait to see Angelina on the beach in that white bathing suit Liz wore.’

  ‘Wow, was she hot!’ said Roberto.

  ‘Yeah, well, Angie will be hotter,’ said Marvin.

  But he was worried. Miss Jolie’s agent had told him an hour ago that he hadn’t a hope in hell of getting the delectable actress to appear in Suddenly, Last Summer.

  ‘Even if it is artistic shit, she’s booked up till 2020 – writing scripts, directing scripts. No way, man, sorry,’ barked the workaholic CAA agent.

  Marvin’s backers were banking on him getting a major star for the female lead. He had many contacts, and tomorrow he planned on calling some of them. In a conference call the previous night, one of his backers had said, ‘None of today’s bankable actresses have the “in-yer-face” sexiness that Marilyn, Ava and Liz had. Where are the broads like that today?’

  ‘Gwynnie could do it,’ Marvin replied.

  ‘Yeah, but she ain’t got no sex appeal,’ the backer retorted.

  Marvin reluctantly agreed, his mind working overtime. He’d tried to interest Cara Delevingne, but then who wouldn’t? He was considering Margot Robbie, who was so hot in The Wolf of Wall Street. If he couldn’t get her, he might have to cast an unknown.

  Yeah, that might be the cool thing to do, Marvin thought. Great publicity – the search for Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind had become the stuff of legend. The search for a beautiful fiery actress to replace Elizabeth Taylor in Suddenly, Last Summer could be mega.

  He strolled over to Sophie, who was gracefully accepting congratulations, compliments and presents from the guests. A burly security guard
took each gift from Sophie and handed it to an even burlier security guard, both pre-arranged by Captain Poulpe. The gifts would be thoroughly checked before Sophie was allowed to see them. Marvin offered his gift, a tiny blue box from Tiffany.

  ‘Oh, darling, thank you,’ trilled Sophie. ‘I always say the tinier the box, the bigger the present, and you know how I love presents.’

  Marvin grinned. Boy, did he know! When Sophie was at the top of the tree in Hollywood, she’d had a clause in her contract that the producers had to give her a gift every day of shooting. It could cost anything from a hundred dollars to ten thousand dollars, but she had to have one. Due to her immense stardom at the time, her gifts kept on coming, and some of them were legendary. She preferred jewellery, and often got it, but she was always delighted to accept a stuffed animal or a fine-art book or even a scented candle. But the producers knew that to stay in her good graces, toys were not enough all the time, so every movie budget had a contingency for ‘Sophie Silvestri’s treats’. To Sophie, the more stuff people gave her, the more she believed she was loved, and tonight, judging by the amount of gifts she was receiving, she was very loved indeed.

  ‘How’ya doing, honey?’ Marvin gave her the Hollywood hug and she gave him a kiss that left a big red lipstick mark on his cheek.

  ‘I’m wonderful, Marvin, so happy. This is such a lovely party that sweet girl Carlotta is giving me.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Marvin looked around for some celebrities but he could only see the usual suspects. ‘I thought Lauren Bacall was coming?’

  ‘Oh, poor Betty! She died last year, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Shit, I’ve been down here too long prepping the movie! Y’know, I’ve been thinking about you for Violet Venable. Are you interested?’

  Was she interested? Of course she was! Mrs Venable was a plum role made iconic by Katharine Hepburn. But she knew never to show too much interest when a prime role was dangled before one like a carrot. Negotiations would be necessary – as Bette Davis once remarked, ‘I’m not to be had for the price of a packet of peanuts.’ Although Sophie hadn’t worked in years, the name Sophie Silvestri was still very well known, and she was considered a star even though many people believed she was dead.

  ‘I might be a little old for the part,’ she said coyly. The words stuck in her throat, but subtle self-deprecation was always attractive when talking to producers.

  ‘Nonsense! You can play sixty easy. No problem. Honey, the studio is thinkin’ about you!’ Even though Hepburn was fifty-three when she played it, he thought.

  ‘So am I . . . on your wish list?’ she smiled.

  He gave her a swift peck in the cheek, careful not to smudge the immaculate maquillage, and said, ‘Keep the faith, honey. Keep the faith.’

  She’d be good as the wealthy harridan Violet trying to bribe a young doctor to lobotomise her beautiful niece, he thought. In the story, the character of Catherine, who hopefully would be played by Angelina Jolie, had gone on holiday with Violet’s son Sebastian, who died in such terrible circumstances that it had sent the young girl insane. Roberto had told Marvin that the beaches of Saint-Sébastien could certainly pass for the Spanish resort on film, where the Tennessee Williams play had originally been set. It was a torrid, terrifying plot with many twists and turns, and Marvin was convinced he could make it into a big, money-making blockbuster.

  ‘But the cast, the cast,’ he muttered to himself, thinking back to the phone call with Angelina Jolie’s agent. The decisive ‘no way’ brooked no argument. ‘Who do I get to play Catherine?’ he mused. Of course if he could get Meryl or Mirren to play Violet that would guarantee immediate interest with the studio, who had still not committed to the extra millions he needed. ‘Then we say bye-bye to Ms Silvestri,’ he reflected philosophically.

  Everyone at the party was milling about drinking mojitos, which were Sophie’s favourite cocktail. The DJ was playing mellow mood music for the cocktail hour, and there was much gossip about the bomb in the box of chocolates that had killed Sophie’s maid. They were surmising who could hate Sophie that much. The answer was a lot of people. Several of the Saint-Tropez regulars were talking about jumping ship and leaving for Monaco or Ibiza.

  ‘I’ve had enough, I can’t sleep at night,’ announced Blanche Phillips to Charlie Chalk. She was cuddling her new pooch, an even uglier mutt than the one Maximus had fallen on and killed. ‘Aren’t you scared, Charlie? I mean your boyfriend was murdered in your own garden. How can you live there any more?’

  ‘He wasn’t my boyfriend, dear, he was my husband,’ said Charlie frostily. ‘We don’t know for sure if he was murdered and I love Saint-Tropez, so no one is going to scare me away.’

  ‘Well, Henry and I have had enough.’ Blanche started kissing her dog’s brown wet lips. ‘We’ve put the villa on the market,’ she whispered, ‘and so have several of our neighbours.’

  ‘No great loss to society,’ Charlie said sarcastically. ‘We’ll be glad to get rid of the geriatric set,’ he added under his breath as he walked over to greet Maximus and Fabrizio. He noticed the latter seemed quite taken with the lovely Vanessa Meyer who was standing between them. He observed that the two of them seemed at ease with each other; the kind of cosy camaraderie that lovers have.

  Carlotta stood at the bar with Nick, impressed by the eclectic group of guests who had turned out to honour Sophie.

  ‘Oh, look. Isn’t that Tony Blair?’ she asked.

  Nick glanced towards the suntanned, middle-aged man surrounded by a coterie of sexily dressed young women.

  ‘My goodness, he looks like a used-car salesman,’ said Carlotta.

  ‘Well, it’s not used cars he deals in, it’s new diamonds,’ Nick replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That, my sweet, is Bert Burrows, otherwise known as “the diamond geezer”. He carries bags of the jewels around with him like some people carry bags of Maltesers. No wonder he’s so popular with those gals.’

  They watched as Bert removed a huge emerald-cut diamond ring from his pocket and waved it in front of the women with a satisfied leer. They all passed it around with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

  ‘Just a little bait,’ laughed Nick. ‘A bit of a carrot to get them either into the sack or persuade one of their boyfriends or husbands to buy the thing.’

  ‘And do they?’ asked Carlotta.

  ‘Sometimes – he’s not called the “diamond geezer” for nothing.’

  Lara arrived, slightly unsteady on her feet and wearing a mauve Lurex dress so tight that her breasts squeezed out of the top like toothpaste. Maximus saw Lara first. She seemed out of sorts and lost, but that was not unusual for her recently.

  ‘Head her off at the pass – I’ll take care of Vanessa,’ he hissed to Fabrizio. ‘Get your ass over to her now – andiamo! – or I think the brown stuff may hit the air conditioning!’ He laughed at his wit and gave Fabrizio a shove, who reluctantly slouched over to his sulky mistress.

  Gabrielle was outside in the garden of Carlotta’s villa, double-checking Sophie’s presents, when François came out of the house.

  ‘I’m taking a break,’ he smiled at her and she smiled back. Then he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head and he asked, ‘Mind if I do?’

  She had been dodging his calls, but he was nevertheless extremely friendly.

  ‘I had a great time last week. Maybe one day I can cook for you in my apartment,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied enigmatically.

  They exchanged pleasantries and Gabrielle subtly steered the conversation towards the murders, deftly probing his recollections about the various episodes. François simply shrugged, lit a cigarette, and reiterated that he hadn’t seen anything suspicious at any of the incidents.

  The bomb-disposal expert, whom Captain Poulpe had summoned from Paris, was examining the presents with the help of a large Alsatian trained to detect any signs of explosives. He looked up at François as he lit his cigarette.

  ‘
Move away, man – move!’ he barked. ‘This is a no smoking zone.’ François bowed sarcastically, moved a couple of steps and continued smoking his cigarette. ‘So when are you going to let me cook my or coq au vin for you?’ he whispered to Gabrielle who wondered if she had imagined him emphasising the word coq. ‘I miss you – you’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘I’ve been very busy.’ Gabrielle was flustered. She was attracted to this man but at the same time she knew that starting an affair with him – for there was no doubt that that was what François was aiming for – was a bad idea. There were four deaths that were keeping both her father and her awake at night, and several unexplained and terrifying incidents that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to them.

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ She turned as Gerald the bomb-disposal specialist held up a black gift-wrapped box bound with black satin ribbon. ‘I don’t like the look of this one. I think I’m going to have to open it.’ Putting on protective gloves and goggles, he moved to an empty part of the garden. The dog followed, sniffing eagerly, and Gerald started cutting open the black box.

  François stamped out his cigarette, blew a cheeky kiss to Gabrielle and went back inside to the party.

  The next morning, Sophie sat in an elegant wicker armchair on her terrace, surrounded by all the gifts she had received from the previous night’s party. Carlotta and Adolpho sat nearby, exclaiming in delight over the gifts and, in some cases, mock horror.

  ‘Oh my, look at this from Blanche and Henry!’ crowed Adolpho. ‘It’s a jewelled salad bowl with matching servers. How on earth could you eat out of this? The Swarovski crystals would fall into the lettuce!’

  ‘Crunchy – like bacon bits,’ laughed Carlotta.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice!’ Sophie had opened Marvin’s Tiffany box and held up a gold heart encrusted by diamonds on a chain.