LONDON ALERT (17 page)

‘I find Consuela such great
company. She’s so natural,’ said Holt in reply.

‘Although,’ continued
Jonathan, ‘she can put on a very superior air to discourage overfamiliarity at
the fundraisers and receptions she and her husband host, she’s actually very
unpretentious. The only thing she can’t bear is stupid stuck-up people.
She said you appeal to her because you are highly intelligent.’

‘People think I am
clever, but that does not mean I am satisfied with what I am doing. I want to find
something meaningful before it’s too late. I envy you.’

Although he was pretty
sure Jonathan had nothing to do with the Owl and was simply a friend of
Consuela from way back, he could not be sure and wanted to give the impression
he really was on the lookout for something new.

‘I can understand you
feeling like that, though in my case I was lucky in that I was hooked on the
idea that subsequently made my fortune – if you can call what I have a fortune compared
with what these billionaire yacht owners have.’

‘It’s not really my
business, and don’t answer if you do not want to, but what’s her husband like?
She does not say much about him.’

‘Driven. Ambitious but
open-minded and generous. He does a lot for charity, as I said, and not only
for the tax breaks. He’s got a great sense of humour and gives Consuela a free
rein, but that does not mean she sleeps around. Quite the contrary. She always
seems to be giving pursuers their marching orders. She adores rather than loves
her husband. They make a good couple. Neither can bear fools. He is very
powerful. Not someone to be trifled with. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong
side of him.’

This left Holt again
wondering just how much chance had to do with Consuela’s ex’s fiery end in that
car accident.

They were rounding
another headland and dropping anchor off the beach that Consuela had pointed
out the evening before.

‘We’re here,’ called
out Jonathan, even though Amanda and Consuela could hardly have failed to hear the
clanking of the anchor being lowered.

‘Let’s go to the beach,
Jeremy, darling,’ said Consuela on coming up to join them.

‘I’ll get William to
take you in the launch,’ interjected Jonathan. ‘As we’re a big boat, we’ve had
to drop anchor rather far out. To get to the beach, you would have to swim
between the smaller craft further in and risk getting chopped up by one of their
propellers. Not worth the risk, slight though it is.’

The tiny crane lifted
the dinghy from the upper afterdeck and lowered it into the azure sea. The
‘captain’ jumped in, followed by the two of them. In a couple of minutes, they
were through the pack of other boats further in.

Looking great, this
time in her swimsuit, Consuela turned to Holt.

‘Do you think you can
make it to the beach from here?’

‘Sure,’ replied Holt, trying
to look more confident than he really was.

With the buoyant salty water
at such an agreeable temperature, it was finally no problem making it to the shore.
Even so, they lay panting on the sand, as Consuela had swum very fast.

‘Reminds me of when I was
young,’ she said excitedly. ‘Had such a great time here. It was nice of them to
let us come on our own, thinking we would prefer privacy. Your presence makes
me feel young again. Let’s go and have a pancake at the café over there, in the
cheap place with the ordinary folk.’

The atmosphere at the unpretentious
café was relaxing, though it did not have loungers, like the more sophisticated
ones further along the beach. The sight of the children playing nearby in the
water gave a greater holiday feeling than at the hotel. All too soon it was
time to go back, and Consuela called Jonathan on the waterproof mobile phone he
had lent her to ask him to send the dinghy to pick them up.

Back on the yacht, they went
down to the cabin to change into something more suitable than bathing costumes for
dinner, albeit in the open air under the awning.

 Veronica in her
uniform, consisting of a beige skirt and a white blouse hinting at her young
breasts, busied herself at the specially designed barbeque that fitted neatly
along the coaming. When she left, Holt remarked how nice she looked and asked
Jonathan what it took to be a crew member.

‘Everyone believes the
men have to be tall, dark, and handsome, and the girls have to be blonde with
legs up to their armpits. In fact, the people with enough money to have a
decent boat are quite capable of finding their own beauties for entertaining to
suit the occasion. What they are seeking for crew are people who present well,
have a nice personality, and are willing to buckle down to almost any task
without complaining. And above all, are trustworthy and discreet. No selling of
titbits to the gossip columns.’

‘I see. What about
Veronica?’

‘Actually, she’s an
exception. She’s William’s cousin, which makes everything easier all round, as
we are like family. In the old days, everything on boats, even smallish ones
like this, was very formal; now it’s much more relaxed. As I said, the great
thing is trust, and owners look for people with experience who can prove they
are reliable. That makes it difficult for a young girl, or lad for that matter,
to get started in the profession. Indeed, it is a profession, and early on crew
will often work for a number of owners. Hard work, though, but
it c
an
be quite exciting.

The four of them were
sitting around the table under the awning on the top deck, with William and
Veronica beavering away below.

‘We’ve,’ said Jonathan,
‘a small but fully equipped kitchen below, but up here we’ve hotplates and the mini
barbeque set in the coaming. Means we can finish things off up here in private.’

‘I’ve always wondered,’
said Holt, ‘why these boats, and the much bigger ones owned by Russian
oligarchs, are called
yachts
when they don’t have sails.’

‘I wondered that
myself,’ said Jonathan, ‘and actually looked it up in Wikipedia. It seems a yacht
was originally a fast Dutch boat for catching pirates and smugglers in shallow
waters. After Charles II of England used one to bring him to Britain from
Holland for his restoration, the term came to be used to mean a vessel for conveying
VIPs. Of course, in the old days all those boats used sails, and for a time the
term
“
yacht” was synonymous with
boats with sails. Nowadays, for people with money, it often means a motor yacht.’

‘I see,’ replied Holt.

‘Interestingly, the
great improvements made to motor yachts are now being applied to sailboats. The
introduction of carbon-fibre
-
reinforced hulls has made a
big difference. They are so strong and easy to maintain, though repairs in the
event of serious damage can be expensive.’

‘I would love a boat
like this, Jonathan.’

‘Be careful about for
what you wish, my dear Jeremy. A boat is something you should only have if you
have enough money left over after buying it to pay people to look after it, and
if a large one, enough money to pay the crew. Wasn’t it when being taken to
task about the high cost of maintaining his yacht that J. P. Morgan famously
said, “
If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it
”?
’
 

‘Yes, but can’t one do
a lot oneself?’

‘That’s the big mistake
people make, for without adequate funds, the boat becomes your master and takes
over your whole life. It was worse in the old days when the hulls were made of
wood rather than carbon-reinforced plastic. An English guy I once knew bought a
sailboat he could barely afford. He thought it was his dream come true, but
with little money left, he had to spend every weekend scraping barnacles off
the hull and painting it, leaving his wife sulking at home. Plus she hated boats.’

‘I can understand her,’
exclaimed Consuela. ‘That is if the boat was in England with the bad weather.
Here’s different.’

‘Nowadays,’ continued Jonathan,
‘you can remove the barnacles and foreign matter from the plastic hulls with a
high-powered water jet, but even so there’s a lot that needs to be done. You’ve
only got to look around the marina at Antibes in the two or three months before
the season to see the crews assiduously polishing and painting.’

‘Jonathan, you yourself
are lucky to be rich enough to do it in style.’

‘It wasn’t luck. I worked
my arse off, but now I’ve finally got all this, I’m almost too old to enjoy it.
My greatest satisfaction is seeing other people, like you and Consuela,
enjoying it. Please make the most it.’

‘I certainly am. By the
way, what happened to that English guy with the boat?’

‘Oh, his wife got fed
up sitting at home alone, divorced him for half his money plus maintenance for
the three kids, and married a young layabout who was always on hand to rub her
down. My friend had to sell the boat and ended up with the dog, which at least
had enjoyed the days spent watching him scraping away. But let’s forget about
that loser and have some more champagne.’

Veronica had come up
with some nibbles – and what nibbles. So fresh and appetizing, made all the
better by the dry champagne. Shortly afterwards, Amanda and Consuela joined
them, and Holt took the opportunity to give Consuela a broad smile, which she
returned, pretending to bite her lower lip for being such a naughty girl. Had
she told bosom friend Amanda what they had been up to?

It was a lovely evening,
with only a slight swell. The food and wine, the great company, plus being served
by Veronica made it one of the best evenings Holt had ever spent. To cap it
all, he had the night to look forward to. Were it not for thought of the
initiation test that lay ahead, it would have been perfect.

As on
the previous morning, Consuela remained in bed for breakfast. Having time to
spare, they went for a last walk around the grounds with the freshness of the night
still lingering under the trees.

Consuela signed the very
substantial bill as if it were nothing, telling the receptionist to debit it
from her husband’s account. A member of staff took charge of their bags and
accompanied them down to the jetty as Amanda and Jonathan’s boat eased its way
alongside.

They would cut right
across to Villefranche-sur-Mer, where a tender from the
Vessos
would pick Holt and
Consuela up. No need to moor.

After they had cast
off, Jonathan pushed the throttle fully forward and the boat surged ahead. Soon
they were hydroplaning at high speed with hardly any pitching, thanks to the
stabilizer, and Holt commented on that.

‘I should,’ said
Jonathan, ‘have explained that there are basically two kinds of motor yacht: light
ones with relatively powerful engines like this one, which rise out of the
water and hydroplane at speeds up to thirty knots, and heavy ones, which sit in
the water and travel relatively slowly.’

 They were at the tip
of Antibes Peninsula, with the long coast leading to Nice Airport well to their
left, and were able to watch several aircraft make their approach over Antibes,
descend over the water and land. They scanned the long beach at Nice through
binoculars as they passed. Soon they were rounding the headland, jutting far
out to sea beyond, and entering Villefranche bay. There they found themselves
in a different world.

 Encircled on three
sides by high mountains, the bay had a tranquil atmosphere, quite different
from the bustle of nearby Nice.

‘It is actually,’ said
Jonathan, ‘a very convenient spot for a gathering of important people. It’s
next to Nice, with its airport, and not far from Monaco, with its rich
residents. Did you hear the story about one of them, the famous tennis star
Boris Becker?’

‘All I know is how he
had an expensive fling in the broom cupboard at Nobu, the well-known Japanese
restaurant in London.’

‘Well, Becker, who
claimed to be resident in Monaco, was allegedly caught out by the German tax
authorities, partly because his accountant boasted to a man he happened to meet
on a German train, who unknown to him was a tax inspector, about how clever he
was helping Becker avoid tax, as they could not prove anything. However, the
kicker was that Becker snubbed a fanatical fan by refusing to give him an
autograph. Enraged, the man went to the German tax authorities with proof that
Becker had not been in Monaco long enough to avoid German taxes – he had newspaper
cuttings reporting everything Becker did and where.’

Down in their cabin to
get ready, Consuela changed out of the somewhat formal attire she had worn to
check out of the hotel into a striped fleece sweatshirt, tucked into white
twill shorts. The contrast with the expensive-looking black leather belt drew
attention to the shorts and her thighs. Had Holt not lain between them, he
would not have been able to take his eyes off them.

He himself had what he
thought was a trendy rich-guy-on-a-yacht number that Consuela had
insisted on bringing. They were not quite film stars, but looked successful.

The
Vessos
’s tender arrived promptly
and took them to the boarding steps. Holt had intended to mount them two at a
time and request ‘permission to come aboard
’,
 
just like US Navy officers
do in films, but with Consuela determined to precede him he was unable to do
so. Instead, the more senior of the two officers waiting for them at the top was
the first to speak, saying, ‘Welcome to the
Vessos
,’ to which Holt was obliged to reply lamely,
‘Thank you.’

‘Although,’ continued
the sarcastic and supercilious officer, ‘we shall not be graced with your
company overnight, you have been granted a stateroom so you can relax before
the reception begins.’