Sin Tropez (16 page)

****

Harry, the diminuitive owner of the novelty paper-clip company where Tara had just finished temping, reached for a bottle of fizz and climbed on to the booster seat behind the
wheel of his Jag. He punched Tara’s Ladbroke Grove address into the satellite navigation system and set off.

When he arrived, he could see Tara through the window, glass of wine in one hand, black nail polish in the other, and one long, slender leg stretched out on the kitchen counter. He got a stiffy
instantly.

‘Come in, it’s open,’ Tara called through the window. He found a place to park then let himself into her flat.

‘Harry, trust you to arrive on time! I haven’t done my toes yet,’ she frowned.

‘Let me,’ said Harry. ‘But make yourself comfortable first.’

Tara grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and led the way to the sitting room, followed by Harry, clutching the champagne and two flutes. She sat down on the sofa, removed her turban and shook
out her hair. She looked mockingly at him.

‘So now what?’

He knelt at her feet and kissed them both. ‘Now it’s my turn to get on my hands and knees for
you
.’

Tara stared at the top of Harry’s bald head and loathed the sight of it. Then she gasped as he lifted her left foot and brought it to his lips. He let his tongue flicker out to gently
probe the soft skin between her unpainted toes, before taking one fully into his mouth. He licked and sucked it with his eyes closed, as though his life depended on it. As though nothing known to
man could taste better than that toe. Tara leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes too. She said nothing until all her toes were slippery and wet and she had finished climaxing. When she
finally opened her eyes she looked down and saw that he had started to paint her toenails for her. He ran the small brush in careful, straight lines along every nail until each one was black and
glossy. Tara rested her head against the back of the sofa and sighed. This would be the absolute last time.

Natalya removed the small mirror from between her legs. Satisfied that her bikini line looked in perfect shape from every angle, she reached for her Crème de la Mer and
rubbed the moisturizer all over her body. The extortionate price she had paid for it would yield good returns. Every man up until this point had felt like a warm-up, but this was no rehearsal.
Claude was the main event and Natalya was not prepared to screw this one up. She unwrapped a parcel of newly purchased red underwear and stepped into it, relishing the luxurious feel of silk
against her skin. It was a present from Gregory. It hadn’t been difficult to persuade him to buy it for her, for him. Only it wasn’t for him; it was for Claude. But Claude would not of
course be allowed to enjoy it fully on this occasion. It was too soon. Perhaps he would glimpse just a hint of red bra as she let the straps of her dress fall down her shoulders on a balmy night.
He might see a flash of scarlet silk knicker as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, causing her dress to slide up her thigh. He would have to work hard before he saw her in nothing but the silk
underwear. He would have to earn it.

Glancing at her watch, Natalya saw that she had an hour and a half to go before her car was due. Just the right amount of time to finish making herself up. Her crocodile-skin weekend bag was
ready and waiting in the hallway. She had planned its contents meticulously and packed it days in advance. She entered the bathroom and washed off her face mask.

An hour and a half later she was ready to go. In a form-fitting blue dress and towering heels, her face largely hidden behind oversized black sunglasses, she cut a striking figure. Her hair had
been cut short into a peroxide-blonde elfin crop for a test shoot she’d been booked for. It was the first time she had done anything so drastic with her hair, but Mario was a top
photographer, and even though test shots were unpaid, a shot by Mario in one’s book was highly sought after, and she was pleased with the result. Every girl was doing the LA-style long honey
hair thing these days, and to look like every girl was the last thing Natalya wanted. The car arrived on time and the driver leapt out of his seat to carry her bag and hold open the door.

‘Heathrow inn’it?’ he enquired, his eyes glued to her image in the rear-view mirror.’

‘Yes. Terminal One please.’

‘Okey dokey. Where you going to then, my love? Is it work or play? You look like you’re famous or somefink.’

Natalya did not wish to make conversation with the driver.

‘France.’

In full view of the man, who was still mesmerized by her reflection, she reached into her handbag, switched on her iPod and put her earphones in place. It didn’t work.

‘What you up to in France then? There’s a lot a people heading up that way this time a year. I took Madonna up to Heathrow once. She were going a St Tropez wiv that ex-hubby a
hers.’

Natalya gazed silently out of the window, trying to keep her mind off the horrifying letter she’d received. She realized with annoyance that the driver was still talking, telling more
anecdotes about celebrities, most of whom had pots of money and no talent. They didn’t know what hard work was. She despised them, and right now she was ill inclined towards this tedious man
too.

Eventually she snatched out a headphone and snapped ‘What?’

‘Oh sorry, you was listening to yer music was ya? I was just sayin’ that it’s a real honour ta get ta drive lovely ladies such as yourself around. Hope ya don’t mind me
sayin’ so. You’re a right cracker you are.’

Natalya’s eyes rolled behind her shades; someone change the record
please
!

Aloud she said, ‘Thenk you. I will sleep now until we reach Heathrow.’

Natalya’s flight was delayed by half an hour, so she whiled away the time in the business-class lounge, mildly annoyed that the airline only offered first class for long-haul flights.
Forgoing the free food on display, she helped herself to some Perrier and flicked through a copy of
Vogue
. She usually found business and first class fertile hunting grounds, but this time
she was uninterested in collecting business cards.

Once, she’d spent the night with a businessman she met on a flight out to Milan. They’d had a champagne-fuelled night of passion in a Milanese hotel. The next morning she’d
woken up, flushed and happy at the thought she might be in love for the very first time, to find an empty space beside her in bed where his body should have been. She’d called him in a panic,
only to be met by a foreign ring tone. Finally he answered, ‘Baby, I’m in Mexico.’

The jerk had pronounced it Me-hi-co and there was no hint of regret or embarrassment in his tone. She had hung up the phone and been about to cry, tears of frustration more than sadness, when
she’d glanced at the table by the bed and spotted an envelope with her name written on it. In the envelope was a wad of cash. She never saw the man again, but she had herself a great few days
in Milan, and returned home with a suitcase full of gorgeous clothes. Every cloud has a silver lining.

This time, though, nothing would distract her from Claude. Natalya boarded the aircraft without removing her dark glasses and found her seat near the front of the plane. She dozed lightly until
the food and drinks trolley arrived, at which point she declined the food and requested a glass of champagne instead. She asked the stewardess if she could borrow a pen, but before she could fetch
one a previously unnoticed gentleman three rows back thrust his Mont Blanc in Natalya’s direction. Thanking him, Natalya ripped out a couple of pages from her notebook and started a letter to
her mother. It had been so long since she had written regularly in Latvian that she preferred to write in English. Her brothers, who had become proficient in English at school, could translate for
their mother.

She ripped out the photograph of herself from the
Vogue
that she’d sneaked out of the business-class lounge. The photo had been taken during graduate fashion week. Not as
prestigious as the main shows, and the graduates didn’t have much of a budget to pay models with, but they were the stars of the future and she’d been pleased to be snapped there. She
slipped the photograph and the letter into an envelope and put it in her bag to post from France. Then she handed the pen back to its owner.

Claude was waiting to greet her in person when she arrived in Nice. Natalya had expected he would send a car, which would have enabled her to touch up her make-up before seeing him. So she
wasn’t in the slightest bit cheered to spot him sweating in the arrivals lounge, clutching a huge bouquet of orchids.

Natalya’s irritation appeared to go undetected by Claude as he gathered her up in his arms and lifted her into the air.

‘Mmmn …’ He sniffed her hair, her neck, for what seemed like ages. All the while his eyes were closed and he murmured again and again, ‘My sweet child … my
darling heart.’

Natalya was repulsed by this grievous invasion of her personal space. The deviation from her plan had unsettled her and she was incensed. She took a deep breath and slowly counted to ten in
Latvian, something that her mother had taught her to do whenever she felt fear or anger.

Regaining both her composure and control of the situation, she took a step back and said, ‘Monsieur Perren. I was not sure you would recognize me with my hair like this. Do you like
it?’

‘I know your face very well. I have seen you hundreds of times. I looked at all of your pictures on the web. Even when dreaming, I see your face.’

Natalya giggled, looked down at the floor then back up at him in what she hoped was a shy glance. As she did so she noticed a thickset man in a smart suit standing a couple of metres behind and
slightly to the left of Claude.

‘Do you go everywhere with protection?’ she asked, as Claude reached down to carry her case, declining the bodyguard’s offer of help.

‘Outside the confines of my own property, then, yes. Everywhere.’

The silent bodyguard led the way to the helicopter waiting to fly them to St Tropez. A peculiar little man with a long, pointed beard and a shock of haphazard curls was waiting with a briefcase
beside the aircraft.

‘My doctor; he flies with me everywhere,’ said Claude, ignoring him. ‘So, now, I hope you won’t mind, but I have taken the liberty of organizing a party for this evening,
to welcome you to my home.’

‘But that is so sweet!’ Natalya gasped. ‘I am overjoyed.’ And she was. A ‘party’ meant crowd, and a crowd would take the pressure off her interaction with
Claude. If she could, she would avoid being alone with him in a romantic setting for a while. Only then could she prolong the courtship and retain the power.

‘Good. It will be dinner and dancing at my place. I hope you have something spectacular to wear? Or you would like us to go and buy something now?’

‘No, no, absolutely not. I think I can put a little something together. I don’t want you to buy me a thing; you have treated me far too much already.’

In the past, Natalya would never have turned down the offer of a shopping trip, but this time she figured she would forgo a dress right away, in favour of a diamond ring on her wedding finger in
the future.

Natalya racked her brains for something to talk about with Claude during the twenty-minute chopper flight and, failing dismally, decided to stay quiet and demure unless he initiated a
conversation. He didn’t. But he smiled at her and told her, in French, to relax and enjoy the views. Compared to Reza’s private jet the aircraft was small, but it did have vast
floor-to-ceiling windows that offered far-reaching views from every angle. She felt dangerously close to the elements. It was as though their helicopter was a delicate bubble in this great expanse
of blue sky, soaring above a mythical forest of green. Natalya wondered at the bounty of the trees and the endless azure ocean and felt a twinge of sadness, seeing such beauty spread out beneath
them. Why did humans always have to spoil the fairy tale?

‘
Tu aimes ça, ma petite chérie
?’ Claude looked up from his BlackBerry, himself unaffected.

‘
Mais oui. C’est magnifique
!’

They landed at Claude’s sprawling white villa, which was classic and beautiful, but nothing Natalya hadn’t seen before. As if sensing she was unmoved by the size of his St Tropez
headquarters, Claude guided her straight through to his garden at the back. Strangely, the door seemed to be unlocked.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Natalya. The garden appeared to go on forever and the view over the hills and valleys of southern France extended as far as the eye could see. The landscape looked as
striking as it had done from the air.

‘This … is why I bought the place. For the view. And the security. I have the most secure home in France. Every inch of this place is under constant surveillance. There are no house
keys, just retina-recognition technology. Nobody but me, my staff and the people I let in can enter.’

By late afternoon the crocodile-skin bag was unpacked and Natalya had time for a brief swim before starting to get ready for the party. She freshened up and changed into a black string bikini.
She deliberated for a few minutes over whether or not to add heels, then decided that as Claude liked to call her his ‘sweet child’ he must prefer the young look. She kicked off the
wedges and slinked barefoot through the villa and out to the pool area.