Marrying Up (30 page)

‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ Florrie complained.

Alexa wanted to strangle her. The sheer will to survive might release the crucial piece of information. She was determined
to keep pushing. She could feel how tantalisingly close the breakthrough was, that the rusted cogs of Florrie’s brain were
moving, albeit with agonising slowness.

She must find the answer. Before Lady Annabel arrived, as surely, soon, she would. Like the princess feeling the pea beneath
the layers of mattresses, Florrie’s mother would, from the upper floors of the hotel, sense the presence of her daughter in
the bar below. Alexa had to get the name before then.

A loud burst of unplaceable disco was emanating from the iPhone.

‘Disconnected, damn it.’ Florrie shook the instrument. ‘Probably the reception. I’ll go and try it outside. It might be Jack.’

She stood up.

‘Hang on,’ cried Alexa.

Florrie couldn’t leave now. She just couldn’t.

A flame of fury roared up in Alexa. Florrie had not even had the grace to say goodbye, nor had she thanked her for the champagne,
which obviously, yet again, Alexa would have to pay for. And now she was walking out, taking all Alexa’s hopes with her.

No, Alexa decided, springing to her feet and stumbling after her on her unwieldy heels, she wouldn’t let her. Florrie would
stay until she told her what she needed to know.

She had reached the door in pursuit when she drew back in terror. Something auburn-haired in white and diamonds, its face
contorted with anger, had exploded across the foyer and was hurtling itself at Florrie. There was a shriek. Alexa shot back
into the safety of the bar. The waiter put the bill down in front of her. The fact that it was on a silver salver in no way
ameliorated the pain of the final figure.

But somewhere nearby there was a prince, heir to a kingdom with a chateau, who needed a wife immediately. He was ready
to entertain anyone, and Florrie was out of the running. But who the hell was he; and, just as importantly,
where
?

There was one last hope. Barney. This puzzle was just the type his sly, ingenious brain delighted in. She would text him over
at the Casino; her message would be short, dramatic and intriguing. It would communicate the fact that, after so much disappointment
and bad luck, they were finally in sight of what they sought.

Alexa decided on ‘Fortune Ahoy!’

Another fortune, however, that on the bottom of the bar bill, was still staring accusingly up at her. A glorious idea now
struck Alexa; dragging her pen out of her bag, she wrote with a flourish on the bottom ‘Charge to Suite 404, Lady Annabel
T-W-C.’ Florrie had drunk the lion’s share anyway.

‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ now struck up on her phone. A message. Alexa opened it gingerly; there were, after all,
a great many other unpaid bills and general unfinished business left behind in England.

But the message was from Barney. ‘Fortune Ahoy!’ it said.

Alexa returned to the flat to find Barney bursting with self-congratulation. He had got into conversation in the Casino with
the Russian billionaire Bigski.

‘He’s invited us to a party on his yacht tomorrow!’ Barney exulted. ‘Only took a couple of champagne cocktails!’ He was rubbing
his hands with glee. ‘Bloody expensive, but probably the best investment I ever made. Once you become Mrs Bigski and set me
up for the rest of my life!’

‘But he’s already married,’ Alexa pointed out.

Whilst not resident in Britain, the tycoon was a distant presence on the London rich scene, and Alexa knew all about his twenty
houses, fleet of planes and six ocean-going yachts, each bigger and more expensive than the last. But the wife seemed the
most significant factor just now.

‘He’s not available,’ Alexa reiterated impatiently.

Barney waved a plump, dismissive hand. ‘He’s been married to Mrs Bigski since the nineties . . .’ The rest of the sentence
was inaudible against the shattering noise of the helicopter now lifting off behind their apartment. ‘. . . ready to swap
for someone younger and sexier.’

Alexa considered this. Ambitious though she was, married foreign billionaire tycoons were slightly out of her comfort zone.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said, and told Barney what she had discovered that afternoon.

Barney was immediately dismissive. ‘But we don’t know who this prince is,’ he pointed out.

‘Well he lives round here somewhere. According to Florrie, he’s got a chateau, the lot,’ Alexa said stubbornly.

Barney frowned. ‘Florrie’s talking rubbish. You know how thick she is. She’ll have got it all wrong. The only prince
I
know round here,’ he added grandly, ‘is a fellow I knew at university . . .’

Alexa was electrified. ‘Yes?
Yes?
’

‘. . . and he’s in England studying to be a vet,’ Barney finished. ‘No, my dear.’ His tone had become authoritative. ‘There’s
no point wasting time and energy on some wild prince chase when we’ve got a Bigski in the hand. You have an affair, he divorces
his wife, and marries you.’

‘An affair,’ Alexa wondered about the practicalities. Whilst she had more or less got to grips with the sexual preferences
of the British aristocracy, the international jet set might have entirely different ideas. Would Bigski want her to swing
from the chandeliers? Or do something altogether more unexpected with them?

‘. . . need to go shopping,’ Barney was saying, as the latest helicopter juddered into the distance. ‘Hit the salons. Big
hair, big make-up, big tits.’

‘I don’t have big tits,’ Alexa objected, looking down at her assets.

‘We can fix that,’ Barney mouthed, before another helicopter drowned the rest of his words. ‘. . . getting the right bra,’
he finished as it faded away again.

Alexa was struck by his air of authority. What did
he
know about women’s underwear? Or perhaps she would rather not be told. Once or twice since they had arrived here, Barney
had headed off into the night after a fruitless evening in the Casino. She had gathered he was visiting someone called Madame
Whiplash.

It was a warm night. A beautiful night. The sea was an opalescent cloak spread at the foot of mountains warmed by the sun’s
last pink rays. The lights of the Riviera were beginning to glitter, a white diamond necklace lying along the coast. High
up in the pearly afterglow of the sunset, a crescent moon as narrow as a fingernail paring hung in the sky. To Alexa, it was
an evening of thrilling possibility. They now had a plan, and the means to execute it. Would anything be the same after tonight?

Bigski, unsurprisingly, was berthed in Oligarch’s Row, the area of the marina where the biggest and most expensive yachts
were parked. Thanks to the harbour lights, it was almost as bright as day. Alexa stared out and up at the blinding white plastic
sides of boats as high as apartment blocks, their chrome trimmings blazing.

She felt a wild surge of excitement.

Barney had, during the short journey from the apartment to the marina, been whipping both of them into a state of near-delirium
by reading out facts about Bigski’s vessel from the latest copy of
Megayachts Monthly
. The fact that its cover feature was on the subject seemed to Alexa more than just coincidence. It seemed like fate.

The Big One
, for such was its name, sounded startlingly well appointed. ‘The master suite spans the full width of the yacht,’ Barney
recited. ‘The walls are marble, there are mosaic floors in
all the bathrooms and the plumbing is – you won’t believe this – platinum. A full tank of fuel costs more than most houses.
There’s a glass observation floor at the bottom, a cinema, gym, steam room, massage area, missile detection system, four gun
emplacements, three helipads and a mini-sub. Golf range, running track, tennis courts.’ He grinned at her. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think,’ Alexa grinned back, ‘that I’d happily shag the boat, let alone its owner.’

Bigski’s yacht was not just
The Big One
, they discovered as the taxi drew up. It was the Biggest One, the most brilliantly illuminated of all, lights blazing from
every deck. There were shrouded helicopters on the top and serried ranks of jet skis below. Its exterior bristled with tenders,
CCTV cameras and radar equipment.

The taxi driver cranked on the handbrake. As Alexa shuffled across the back seat, Barney placed a hot, restraining hand across
her thigh. ‘Don’t let yourself out,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll look like a nobody. Wait for the driver to do it.’

‘But what if he doesn’t?’ Alexa hissed back a few moments later, when the driver had not moved, but kept looking at them curiously
in the rear-view mirror.

‘The euro will drop eventually.’

It did, but only after yet more minutes of crackling French local radio and the knot of interested onlookers outside on the
concrete quay staring at them as they sat there. Then, muttering a curse, the driver flung himself out and lurched round to
the back, where, with an expression of the utmost reluctance, he yanked Alexa’s door free. He drew the line at helping her
out, however, and she emptied herself unsteadily on to the concrete, trying not to fall as she straightened up.

Her glittering silver dress was the tightest and shiniest outfit they had been able to find in Monte Carlo, which probably,
Alexa thought, made it the tightest and shiniest outfit in the world. It had also cost a fortune, but Alexa was by now beyond
caring what happened to her credit card bill. If all went according to plan, she would never need to worry about money again.
If things went wrong . . . well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. Possibly jump off it, too. As Barney kept
saying, failure was not an option.

In best supporting roles to the dress were blocky Perspex heels in which Alexa was completely unable to walk. ‘Who’s walking?’
Barney had asked satirically. ‘No one wears shoes on deck. And after the party,’ he added gleefully, ‘you’ll never walk again.
Limos, PJs and yachts from now on, sweetie.’

Alexa’s hair, spritzed in musky perfume, hung gleaming down her back. Her face was so stiff with make-up she could hardly
move it.

They had discussed tactics at great length, and had settled eventually on two possibilities. Scenario one was that Alexa faked
illness during the party. Taken to one of the bedrooms and her condition promptly worsening, she would assume residence for
as long as it took to hunt down Bigski within his own compound. Scenario two was seducing the great man during the two hours
of the gathering.

They were being watched, Alexa realised now. Within seconds of their appearance, a pin-neat crew member in white shirt, navy
trousers and gold-braided cap shimmered down the gleaming gangway and unfastened the silver clasp holding the white rope at
the bottom of it.

He led them to the first deck. Alexa looked round, gathering a hasty impression of cognac marble and smoked-glass mirrored
ceilings. Walls were dotted with heavily gilt-framed oils of garish flowers. Erotic marble sculptures stood about.

‘Please to remove your shoes.’ The gangway man had melted away and a pretty brunette in navy blue shorts and matching polo
shirt had appeared with a large basket lined with white linen.

Alexa tugged off her heels with relief. There were others already in the basket. Recognising Manolos, Choos and Louboutins,
Alexa felt a rush of adrenalin. Competition. She stared at her toes; Barney had been right to insist on a top-grade pedicure.

They followed the brunette up various gleaming mahogany corridors and arrived in a glittering salon the size of a football
pitch. Alexa’s feet sank into pale carpet so deep her toes were invisible. It was like walking on sponges.

There were people everywhere; the heavily perfumed air was filled with the tinkle of champagne glasses, exclamatory conversation
and the occasional overloud, overconfident male laugh. In one corner, a man in white tie tinkled a shiny white grand piano.

Everyone in the room had turned to look at them both, and particularly at her. Alexa met the women’s gazes boldly, but didn’t
bother looking at the men. There was only one man here of interest to her, and she would find him sooner or later.

‘My dear Mrs Bigski!’

Barney was grasping the tiny, birdlike hand of a tiny, birdlike blonde. Alexa swept the world’s richest wife with an appraising
glance from between her stiff eyelashes.

It was encouraging. Mrs Bigski was a certain age. Stick thin, with a skull face and sunken eyes. She looked confusedly at
Barney. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked bluntly, in a heavy Russian accent.

‘Know me?’ Barney exclaimed. ‘My dear Svetlana – I can call you Svetlana, can’t I? – your husband and I are old friends! We
spent a very interesting evening together in the Casino just the other night.’

Mrs Bigski looked more doubtful than ever. ‘My husband, he meet a lot of people,’ she muttered, flicking a nervous glance
at Alexa, who met it with a triumphant stare.

She guessed that Mrs Bigski’s life of apparent luxury was actually life on a tightrope. Life in tight everything, frankly;
the white trousers she wore tonight with her magenta strappy top were so close-fitting that an eel would have to lie on its
back to get into them. Of course, Alexa knew, rich wives dressed like this
because they were terrified of losing their husbands to newer, shinier models. Models like herself.

Ironic, she thought. Here they were, on this hi-tech machine, with its guards, its CCTV, its state-of-the-art surveillance
systems, its missile detection early-warning whatever. But the most dangerous predators of all, so far as Mrs Bigski was concerned
– women like Alexa, who might steal her husband – could slip through all checks without challenge.

‘And this is Alexa!’ Barney was saying now.

Alexa smiled the smile on the face of the tiger. Her eyes still on Mrs Bigski’s rubies, she felt a sharp jab in her ribs.
Barney’s elbow. She looked quickly round.

‘Ah, Benny, my friend,’ the newcomer was saying, clapping Barney heavily on the back.