Perfect Strangers (33 page)

‘
Et voilà
!’ said Josh, dramatically pulling his hands away

For a moment, Sophie just blinked, not sure what she was looking at. She cast her gaze up and down the street which was filled with high-end fashion boutiques and expensive knickknack shops. Then she saw the name painted on the door right in front of them.

‘Cameron?’ she said, turning to look at him.

‘If we’re going out to a swanky party tonight, we’ve got to look the part,’ he grinned.

‘But this place costs a fortune!’

Sophie had read about Cameron in
Vogue
; he was one of the world’s most in-demand hairdressers. His main salon was in Paris, with outposts in New York and Moscow – and now Cannes, apparently. She had seen the Cameron hair products for sale in Harvey Nichols – thirty pounds for a bottle of shampoo alone.

‘Listen, we are here to investigate Nick’s life, right?’ said Josh. ‘So we need to fit into his world; we can’t just turn up to that party in jeans and trainers.’

‘But how did you get an appointment?’

‘Ah, that’ll be my concierge friend at the Bristol. He knows one of the stylists at the Paris branch personally.’

Now it all made sense: that was why Josh had insisted they stay at a hotel with a world-class concierge. Even Josh’s charm wouldn’t have got them into Cameron; the salon was exclusive in the purest sense: unless you knew how to get inside, you were excluded.

‘Come on, princess, you shall go to the ball,’ said Josh, ringing the bell and waiting as a security guard opened the door.
A security guard for a hairdresser’s?
Maybe this was the Russian influence too.

‘I’ll see you back at the hotel,’ said Josh as he announced Sophie to the receptionist.

‘You can’t
leave
me,’ Sophie hissed, glancing around.

‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed. ‘It’s all paid for.’

Sophie wanted to grab his arm, but a flamboyant stylist with an octopus tattoo peeping out from his skimpy vest appeared and led her to her chair. He introduced himself as George and flipped his hands through her hair, announcing in creaky English that he must lift the colour.

In the end, Sophie thoroughly enjoyed herself. In fact, she couldn’t remember when she’d had more fun. George was camp as Christmas and hilariously indiscreet, telling scandalous stories about his wealthy clients and their husbands, men he swore were queuing round the block to get into his pants. She was brought cute little baby cappuccinos, a bowl of fruit salad and a pile of edgy magazines to flick through while the colourist got to work. She even had a visit from a manicurist, who transformed her chipped fingernails and gave her a soft hand massage. When her hair was finally washed and set, George spun her chair around so she could see the transformation.

‘You like?’

She gasped. It was like magic: buttery blonde highlights had been woven through a darker honey base; she looked sunkissed and radiant, her hair falling in elegant waves.

‘Is that really me?’ she whispered.

‘
Non
,’ said George. ‘It is the
new
you. And about time too, no?’

Josh’s key wasn’t behind the desk when Sophie got back to the hotel, and the gap-toothed Chinese man seemed pleased to confirm ‘man no here’, making her good mood instantly disappear. These last two days – the meeting with Sandrine, her afternoon of pampering – it had been all too easy for Sophie to fool herself that she was on a slightly offbeat minibreak. But always at the back of her mind was that nagging unease that she was in danger. She had no idea how the police investigation into Nick’s death was going, and while she was desperate to call her mother for an update, the last time she had done that they had almost been snatched at Nice station. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but Sophie didn’t want to take the risk. No, the visit to Cameron’s salon had been a much-needed distraction, but it had only been that: a distraction from the chaos which she neither understood, nor had any idea when – or if – it would end.

By the time she let herself into her room, Sophie was anxious and agitated again.

‘Josh?’ she called nervously, but it was empty. It was then that she noticed the two large cardboard bags sitting on the bed.

There was a note pinned to one: ‘Been shopping, had to guess size. Hope it’s okay, call for you at six, J.’

Sophie reached inside and pulled out a tissue-paper parcel. She unwrapped it carefully and gasped as layers of ivory fabric slid out. She held it up: it was a floor-length gown with a deep-scooped neck, made from beautiful silk crêpe trimmed with seed pearls. It was exquisite.

‘Where on earth did he get this?’ she whispered to herself. She picked up the bag to read the address and as she did, she noticed there was something written on the back of Josh’s note. ‘Oh, and try not to pull the tags off, because it has to go back tomorrow. Sorry.’

She laughed out loud.
Typical
, she thought. But still, it was a nice gesture. Josh McCormack
could
do lovely things when he tried. She looked in the other bag: a long white cashmere wrap and a pair of five-inch heels, which would cripple her but look fantastic.

Sophie laughed to herself as she ran a shower, filling the room up with steam. She was just wrapping her hair in a towel – she didn’t want it to get wet after George’s loving attention – when she noticed that Josh had also left a small bag of toiletries on the sink. His choice was tasteful and accurate. Almond Provençal soap, razors, avocado body cream, some clear lip gloss and peach-coloured blush. As she stepped into the shower – mercifully hot – and began soaping herself, she was struck by how intimate it felt using the products he had bought for her. Perhaps they were a reflection of how he might like her to smell and feel, and she was surprised at how much that thought excited her.

It took her no time to dress. The gown slithered over her curves, a perfect fit. Either Josh was psychic or he had been paying close attention to her body – she didn’t know which thought unsettled her the most. The cut was very low around her breasts, but she was tanned and toned enough to carry it off. Her hair fell soft and loose on to her shoulders.

Josh stopped and looked at her as he entered the room.

‘Wow,’ he said finally.

‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ she said.

That’s an understatement
, she smiled to herself, unable to take her eyes off him. She knew from the Chariot party that Josh looked good in a suit, but tonight he looked like a matinee idol: clean-shaven, square-jawed, gorgeous.

‘So tell me, how did you manage this?’ she asked, feeling flustered. ‘I can’t imagine the boutiques on the Croisette lend thousand-euro gowns every day of the week.’

‘Well, we’re only technically borrowing it.’

‘Technically? Josh, you didn’t steal it, did you?’

Josh looked hurt.

‘You underestimate me,’ he said, smiling. ‘Look, I chatted up some bird with a Ferrari on the Croisette. Got her to drop me off at the boutique. I went in, bought the dress. You can wear it tonight and we’ll take it back tomorrow.’

She tried not to think about him chatting up a wealthy bimbo.

‘They’re going to know it’s been worn.’

‘As long as you don’t spill claret down it they won’t. I’m just going to take it back to the boutique’s manager and tell her you – or rather the girl in the Ferrari – dumped me. She isn’t going to quibble with Rudolfo.’

‘Rudolfo?’

Josh put on a hammy Russian accent.

‘I am Rudolfo, son of the oligarch Alexander who has one of the big, big yachts in the harbour,’ he laughed.

‘You didn’t,’ Sophie giggled.

‘I did.’

‘You are terrible.’

‘And you are beautiful,’ said Josh simply.

Blushing, she pulled the pashmina around her shoulders.

‘By the way, the scarf doesn’t have to be returned. Or the shoes – they’re for you.’

‘I can pay you back when we get back to London,’ she said quickly. ‘For the haircut, the shoes . . .’

He shook his head.

‘I said they’re for you.’

She stepped across and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said, watching him looking uncharacteristically off guard.

She caught a glimpse of them in the mirror behind the door, and even she had to admit what a great-looking couple they made. Their eyes met in the reflection and she looked away.

‘I think we should go,’ she said quickly.

‘There’s no rush,’ said Josh, glancing at his watch.

‘There
is
, Josh,’ she said. ‘I just want to get this over with. If Nick was supposed to be meeting this A at the party tonight, I just want to find her and then leave.’

She noted his momentary disappointment. Had he been thinking of tonight as a real date?

‘Don’t pin too much on tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t know if we’re going to find any answers. We don’t know if this woman will even be there . . .’

‘You’re right, we don’t know anything,’ said Sophie, surprised at her own passion. ‘But I want to find out. I want to get to this party and start putting the pieces together, because I want my life back, Josh. I just want to go home.’

31

The somewhat ordinary address on the invitation – 134 Rue de Rivoli – hadn’t prepared Sophie for what she saw as the taxi drove through the iron gates.

‘Bloody hell,’ she gasped, looking towards the end of the palm-tree-lined drive where the Villa Polieux stood like a glorious neoclassical full stop. ‘It’s like something out of
Tender is the Night
.’

‘I think that was set at the Hotel du Cap down the road,’ smiled Josh. ‘But you’re right. It’s pretty incredible.’

Painted a shimmering white, with wings either side of the main house, the villa had pale grey shutters at every window and was surrounded by sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed flower beds.

‘Who owns a place like this?’

‘It belongs to the Polieux family; it’s their summer retreat,’ said Josh. ‘They’re one of the oldest and most prestigious wine merchants in France, and I’m not talking about selling a few bottles of plonk to rich Russians here. I mean these guys are into wholesale distribution, wine bottling and retail; they’ve got a grape merchant division as well as owning some of the top estates in Bordeaux. If you drink a bottle of wine in France, there’s a decent chance the Polieuxs have had something to do with it.’

‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ said Sophie, giving Josh a sidelong glance.

‘You have a suspicious nature, Sophie Ellis,’ said Josh. ‘I haven’t been sunbathing while you were getting your hair done. It pays to know where you’re going and who you’re likely to bump into.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just thought . . .’

‘I know what you thought. Anyway, you can see why Nick got involved with this world, can’t you?’

They were met at their car by a uniformed waiter who handed them flutes of champagne and wordlessly led them into the house. The high entrance hall was lit by dozens of the tallest candles Sophie had ever seen. Even in the flickering light, she could see that the floor was intricately patterned with marble and the furniture was gold and ornate. As the waiter turned to the left, they could hear music and excited chatter. They walked out into a ballroom that made Sophie gasp, despite herself. It was the size of a tennis court and was brilliantly lit by three dazzling chandeliers. As she looked up in wonder, she saw that the entire ceiling was painted in one vast depiction of the heavens: the Holy Mother surrounded by angels, and at the centre, a half-clothed figure she suspected was Marie Antoinette.

‘Try to close your mouth,’ said Josh with a smirk. ‘Sophisticated people like us aren’t impressed by things like that, remember?’

‘Sorry,’ she hissed, and tried to look more regal. It wasn’t easy when she was clearly surrounded by some of the most elegant people in France. The ladies were all wearing flowing gowns – every colour from shimmering silver to peacock blue – the men, beautifully cut dinner suits. Sophie was glad Josh had been shopping; if she had worn her day dress purloined from Josh’s garage, people would have been handing her their empty glasses.

But the more she looked at the women here, the more Sophie began to despair of ever finding the elusive A. If everything she had been hearing about Nick was true, it could be any one of them: young, old, glamorous or even elderly and wizened. Nick’s modus operandi suggested he went wherever the money was; and this party was dripping in money.

‘How the hell are we going to find this woman, Josh?’ she whispered.

Josh looked irritated.

‘I’m working on it, okay?’ he hissed.

‘Seriously, we don’t know anything about her except she’s been invited to this party and her name begins with A,’ pressed Sophie. ‘It’s not exactly much to go on, is it? What are we going to do, get our clipboards out and question everyone here if they’ve seen or heard of Nick Beddingfield, otherwise known as Nick Cooper, or maybe even something else?’

‘I’ll think of something, stop worrying.’

They followed the flow of the party out on to the terrace overlooking the lights of Antibes harbour. The sky was mottled pink and purple, and the Mediterranean shimmered like mercury in the dusk. It was as if they were in their own private world, just the two of them, where everything was good and safe and happy.

‘Can you smell that?’ she said, touching Josh’s arm. ‘It’s roses and pine trees. Oh Josh, I could live here.’

‘I thought you wanted to find Nick’s mystery woman and then leave immediately,’ said Josh sharply. Sophie glanced at him, desperately wishing she could read his mind. He was definitely pissed off about something. Was he simply being his usual moody self, or was he really upset because she wanted to go home? Did he want to stay with her in this strange limbo for ever? She could ask herself the same question. Of course she wanted all this to be over; she hated the constant anxiety of not knowing what was happening, the prospect of prison, while the idea that someone might want to kill her was alien and terrifying. And yet despite the danger, the threats and the fear, there had been something quite exhilarating about the past few days.