Sin Tropez (23 page)

She strode confidently to the casting table and placed down her card. Even on the table’s cluttered surface her magnificent image stood out. She knew there were many more breathtakingly
beautiful models to come after her, and they were all in competition with each other. She knew that the chosen model would earn upwards of £60,000 to be the face of Blue Whisper perfume, and
all the others wouldn’t receive a penny. But this time Natalya didn’t care. She needn’t pander to power-happy bookers any more. She had been freed. She exuded the nonchalance a
Mirror Mirror model needed to project.

‘Great face,’ the tired-looking woman behind the desk commented. Her own face was distinctly not great and Natalya wondered what had made her take such a job in the first place. Was
it deliberate masochism?

‘What’s your availability at the beginning of January?’ she asked mechanically.

‘I really couldn’t say right now. I’ll let you know nearer the time if it becomes relevant. Thenk you.’

The woman’s eyes widened. Models at such high-profile castings never spoke to her like that. Unsure quite how to respond, she pursed her lips and scribbled a note on the back of
Natalya’s card. If her intention was to unsettle Natalya, it didn’t work. By the time the woman had taken the lid off the pen, the audacious beauty with the elfin haircut had already
left the building.

Hurrying back to Mayfair, Natalya worried she may have been unnecessarily rude at the casting, but it couldn’t be helped. She needed to have enough time to dress for tonight’s event,
and as she was a sponsor, or representing one at least, all eyes would be on her. She might even bump into some old conquests. She’d show them how far she’d come.

She rushed to her closet, a converted bedroom, and pulled on a skin-tight floor-length backless silver gown. At the front, the dress was slashed to below the navel. Once she’d taped it in
place, it moved with her body like a second skin. She slid on vertiginous silver heels, which took her to well over six foot, and reached for the outrageously expensive diamond-drop earrings that
Claude had presented her with. She slicked her hair to one side in a quirky, fashion-forward style. There was no point going to the salon when her hair was so short. She admired herself in the
mirror. She looked like a mermaid that had been taught to walk.

Natalya was pleased she was going alone. She thought of her third visit to St Tropez and shuddered at the memory. She had decided the time was right to offer Claude her body. So that evening she
came down to the poolside in a pink baby-doll nightie, claiming she felt unwell.

‘Please,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘put your sweet child to bed.’

Claude looked at her, a strange expression on his face, and she recognized it immediately – the no-man’s land between pleasure and pain that she had seen in the market all those
years ago, and then every day after that. Claude gathered her into his arms and sucked her nose. She suppressed an appalled yelp and looked deep into his eyes.

‘Let me take you up,’ he whispered.

Then he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the lift and into the first-floor master bedroom, where he laid her on the bed. Although she was far from heavy, he took a moment to stop
wheezing from the exertion. When he had recovered, he removed her nightie and his own shirt and linen trousers and lay beside her. They did not make love that first night or the night after –
it took Claude a few attempts to achieve an erection, but he was content to simply enjoy the sensation of her naked flesh against his whenever he wasn’t able to get it up, and on the third
night they did it. On two occasions he requested she insert a newly manicured finger into his anus. That was particularly unpleasant.

Shaking her head to banish the image, she picked up her mobile phone and took a photo of herself. The picture was a triumph, and the earrings glistened, illuminating the entire image. She sent
it to Claude’s BlackBerry, accompanied by the message:
I am wearing your earrings and thinking of you. N. xoxoxox.

The Tringate Charity Fundraiser was held in a grand converted Georgian stately home outside London. Inside, it was dark and atmospheric, filled with antiques and ancient oil
paintings in heavy gilded frames. The evening was to begin with a five-course meal, after which there would be fireworks and dancing in the open-air ballroom. In the concert hall, the Royal Ballet
were warming up before their performance of a specially choreographed dance. The biggest draw for most of the guests, however, was the promise of the first live performance in years by legendary
band The Samsons, who had re-formed specially for the occasion. This was where Sebastian Spectre expected to spend the vast majority of the evening. First, though, he had to eat, and he was
delighted to be seated next to a stunner in a positively indecent silver dress and a cute boyish peroxide-blonde hairdo. In the absence of his girlfriend, she’d do very nicely indeed.

‘Hi. Sebastian Spectre,’ he said, extending a hand towards the girl.

She looked at his hand, then gingerly touched his fingers with her own. ‘Natalya’, she said shortly, and turned back to her truffles.

Why was this mere boy seated on the top table and seated beside her, the sponsor? She recognized him from somewhere and he was unnervingly attractive; she’d tried not to think about how
many years it had been since she’d spent a night with a hard-bodied youth.

‘And what is your involvement with the Tringate event?’

‘I’ve sponsored it.’ That should teach this haughty model.

‘You? You’ve sponsored this?’

‘Well, my father has, last year and the year before. What’s your involvement?’

‘I’m this year’s main sponsor.’ That should put this handsome rich kid in his place.

‘You?’ Sebastian asked.

‘My partner is Claude Perren.’

‘Ah, Mr Perren. How do you keep up with him?’ Sebastian mocked.

Natalya pierced him with an unsmiling stare. ‘What?’

‘Just he’s doing big things in Paris at the moment, isn’t he? Is he ever going to slow down?’ Sebastian asked, playing innocent.

‘Yes, he is. And no, he’s not.’ Natalya answered both questions curtly, torn between wanting to gloat about her famous connection and wanting to pretend that she was kind of
single. She’d be foolish to jeopardize her future with Claude but the thrill of enslaving a man was addictive, particularly if he was good-looking and rich.

A waiter came round with a choice of red or white wine. ‘I would like vodka,’ Natalya said imperiously.

‘Certainly Madam,’ came the waiter’s polite reply and he returned immediately with a bottle of Grey Goose.

‘I’ll have some of that too,’ Sebastian told the waiter. He was about to ask for some tonic when Natalya picked up her glass and downed the contents in two gulps before calling
for some more. Steeling himself, Sebastian swallowed his in three sips and tried not to splutter. Natalya tried not to betray her amusement.

‘So where is Daddy tonight?’

‘He’s at our place on St Barts. Where is Mr Construction?’

‘Buying the rest of France,’ Natalya smirked. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

There was a long pause. Sebastian downed another vodka and filled both of their champagne glasses from the bottle of Cristal on the table.

‘I’m kind of seeing someone,’ he said.

‘Lucky girl,’ Natalya whispered.

‘It’s nothing serious,’ Sebastian said.

Sebastian’s readiness to be ensnared was beginning to ruin Natalya’s fun. But then she caught sight of his thigh, taut and toned against the velvet chair. She took a long sip of
Cristal and looked again at the gold name-card in front of Sebastian’s plate. Where did she recognize Spectre from?

Sebastian stole a closer look at the marvellous cut of Natalya’s dress. He was devastated to realize that it didn’t reveal anything when she moved or leaned forward. What a tease. He
felt his BlackBerry vibrate in the pocket of his trousers and remembered he’d told Abena they’d hook up later. Guiltily he set the machine to divert all calls to voicemail. The truffle
plates were cleared away and tender fillets of rainbow trout appeared on the table. Natalya wasn’t in the mood for fish so she placed hers on Sebastian’s plate. By the time the duck
arrived, served on a bed of meltingly soft foie gras, the pair were laughing so much they neglected to eat anything. When the waiters came to clear pudding, Natalya was licking lemon and chilli
soufflé from Sebastian’s quivering fingers. And by the time the petits fours were set down, Sebastian and Natalya were nowhere to be found.

‘Get it out!’ Natalya ordered.

‘What? Now?’

‘Get it OUT!’ Her fingers trembled as her hand found its way to the bulge in his trousers. Sebastian was alarmed and aroused in equal measure. His cock strained against his jeans but
the stony expression on Natalya’s face was terrifying.

Eyes flashing, Natalya ripped open the top of his jeans and knelt down. And then suddenly her mouth was on him.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ He gasped as her tongue flickered across his cock. ‘And I thought you weren’t hungry earlier …’

‘Shut up!’ Natalya came up briefly for air. ‘I don’t want to talk.’

She grabbed Sebastian’s hand and pulled it between her legs. She moaned loudly at his touch, and then, suddenly, she was straddling him, rocking gently at first, then building up to a
frenzy. And even though he was talking all the while, groaning, murmuring and stammering his encouragement, all Natalya could hear was the sound of angels and cherubs playing the violin while they
floated, pink and chubby, in the clouds above. Yes, she thought, this is what heaven feels like.

Sebastian had taken Natalya to his country estate, having correctly guessed she’d be more impressed by his Sussex mansion than his London flat. Besides, he’d been fantasizing
throughout dinner about sliding her naked down his father’s chute and having scorching sex in the pool.

So they made love, more slowly, in the pool, and again, frantically, on a sofa by the south terrace. Finally Natalya was sated. She knew she wouldn’t come again, so while Sebastian was
going down on her she calculated the value of the house and its owners. About £9.5 million for the house, she decided, and £350 million for the Spectre family’s net worth –
nothing on Claude. And besides, this one was clearly not the settling-down type. She realized his head was still between her legs.

‘OK, thenk you,’ she said, bringing her knees together sharply and sitting upright on the sofa. ‘I want to go now.’

‘Oh. OK, well, I’ll drive you to London, I’m going that way too. I reckon we’ve had a pretty good innings already.’

Natalya rolled her eyes. Why did the English always have to bring cricket into it?

Sebastian couldn’t resist showing off his Chelsea pad and Natalya couldn’t resist another orgasm, so they stopped for one last quickie on the way. Finally he dropped Natalya back
home in Mayfair.

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Abena checked her telephone for a sign that Sebastian had tried to contact her. She’d left a message saying she was going to stay
overnight in Bristol and that she would see him tomorrow. She had thought the screening was in London, but it had turned out to be part of a three-day festival near Bristol. So she’d booked
into the boutique hotel that Carey was staying at. As it happened, Benedict Lima was staying there too.

‘So anyway, what did you think of the film?’ Benedict asked Abena. ‘Yet another new adaptation of
Romeo and Juliet
, and still it had me wiping away a tear.’ He
grinned sheepishly.

‘Really?’ Abena’s eyes slanted suspiciously. ‘I didn’t exactly have you down as the romantic after all those withering remarks about my boyfriend at the
ball.’

‘Please. That wasn’t love, that was a grand gesture from a spoilt attention-seeker. All the world’s a stage …’ He trailed off when he saw how hurt Abena
looked.

‘Sorry,’ Benedict shook his head, ‘but that’s not what I’m talking about. Imagine meeting somebody who is everything to you. Really everything, so that when they
aren’t there then nothing is left in this life; you die because you can’t go on. I’ve sure as hell never loved like that.’

‘I hope you never will.’

‘You don’t want me to experience passionate love?’ Now it was Benedict’s turn to look hurt.

‘I want everyone to know life-affirming love. A love that makes you happier just knowing it exists. An honest love that doesn’t masquerade as passion when really it’s
poison.’

‘But what about when it doesn’t exist? What if your lover dies, like in the film?’

Abena paused for a moment. ‘I think maybe the love can live on – just evolve, and change. The energy can be shared, transferred, grown, whatever. Why should it stay the same? I just
don’t think love should cripple, make us less equipped to deal with the world around us. I think it should strengthen us and make everything we encounter more exciting.’

Benedict was looking at Abena intently, a rapt expression on his face.

‘What?’ she said, quite sharply. ‘Can’t a girl who wears nice shoes have a real opinion?’

‘If you’ll stop treating me like a pretentious über-intellectual because I wear glasses, I’ll try to get over your stilettos. Deal?’

‘But I didn’t …’ Abena paused and laughed. ‘Deal.’

‘Have you heard anything from Mr Universe then?’ He watched Carey wonder off to the other side of the hotel bar to talk shop with some industry acquaintances over from New York.

‘No, it’s strange. Perhaps his BlackBerry is out of juice. He’s crap at charging it. It’s no big deal.’

‘Idiot!’ Benedict muttered with seemingly uncharacteristic aggression.

‘Hey, it’s no big deal!’ Abena laughed. ‘After all, I’m the one changing the plan – or at least I would be if he’d answer the damn phone!’

‘Actually it is a big deal. No one cares about manners any more but it’s just plain rude. No one deserves to be treated like that by their boyfriend, even an independent girl like
you who can look after herself.’

‘How very eighteenth-century of you,’ Abena said drily. ‘Sorry, that was rude. Thanks for sticking up for me. And for looking after me at the ball. It was very
sweet.’