Sin Tropez (32 page)

‘You must be Natalya!’ she squealed, running to embrace her.

Abena deposited the contentious bag in the boot of the Audi and climbed in the back with Tara. A short while later, Tina and Natalya emerged from the apartment arm in arm and giggling like old
friends. Hearing his wife’s cackle, Hugo woke with a start, promptly banging his head against the steering wheel. He opened his eyes narrowly and was delighted to see that his wife had
morphed into a slender young blonde, then realized he was looking at Natalya, and that his wife was following closely behind her. He stared at Natalya in a way that unsettled her – it was as
if he couldn’t quite decide whether he loved or hated her.

Settling into the driver’s seat, Tina peered round and squawked ‘Everybody in?’

‘Yes’, everyone chorused, and as Tina set off with a girlish giggle they could have been on a school trip to the theatre, not a rehabilitation clinic. Tara, the star of the show, was
massively nervous but also overwhelmed with hope and relief. At the clinic she could finally escape the threats from angry dealers, who she’d finally paid off, though far later than she
should have. And more wonderful than that was the chance of ending the pain. The pain of giving up would surely not be easy, but the pain of continuing would be excruciating.

Tina was euphoric that here was a potential solution to her daughter’s suffering that was not only comprehensive and reassuringly expensive, but was far enough away from home to create
minimum upheaval in the horrific period she was going through herself. She would have some much needed ‘me time’, particularly if she could persuade Hugo to check into that grotty NHS
alcoholics’ clinic they had looked at. Orlando was right, she was forever looking after her demanding family and nobody ever thought about her, about her needs and wants.

All Hugo could think about was when he would be able to sneak a few swigs of the vodka in his hip flask. Perhaps they’d stop at a service station en route where he could rush off to the
loo. He was aware that Natalya was sitting behind him and he glanced round at her. She squeezed his shoulder and his hand moved instinctively to hold hers.

Abena and Natalya looked at each other knowingly. Having both worked tirelessly to persuade Tara to seek help, they had developed a mutual respect for one another and now felt a weary
satisfaction that something constructive was finally happening.

‘Are you OK, Natalya?’ Abena whispered

‘Yes, I’m fine … It’s just …’

‘What is it? You can tell me.’

‘It’s nothing, I’m fine.’ Natalya smiled but her eyes were downcast. It had been lovely to feel like part of a family. Even one as dysfunctional as Tara’s.

As the sun went down, the car drew up at Appletons Rehabilitation Centre, a beautiful Victorian house set in acres of landscaped grounds surrounded by the rolling farmland of Kent’s North
Downs. It seemed the setting might really offer the peace and tranquillity necessary for successful recovery that the brochure had promised. Dr Lynne Tomlinson came briskly out of the clinic and
into the driveway to welcome Tara personally. She was dressed casually in blue jeans and an orange sweater and Tara was relieved to see that she wasn’t carrying any odd doctor’s
paraphernalia to prod and jab at her with.

The entire party was offered soft drinks in the cosy reception area, which was warmed by a log fire and felt snug under its heavy, low wooden beams. Afterwards they were taken on a tour of the
clinic, which had the capacity to house forty-three patients on an in-patient basis, with several halfway houses in the nearby village for day- and out-patient care. Tara was to be an in-patient
and they were taken to see her rooms. She had her own private living room for entertaining, which, like her bedroom, was plainly decorated in creams and magnolias with a few simple paintings of
pastel-coloured flowers and fruits on the walls. It wasn’t exactly hip but the overall impression conjured was of welcome cleanliness, calm and serenity.

‘Each programme is individually tailored according to the patient’s needs,’ Dr Tomlinson explained as she showed them round. ‘The process towards recovery normally takes
eight to twelve weeks, but we provide a further extended care period if that’s needed. Once Tara returns home, we’ll allocate a recovery partner from the clinic who’ll continue to
communicate with her for a year after that. We do things properly here,’ she summarized with pride.

The doctor led the guests through to the spa pools in the modern annex at the rear of the building, and elaborated on the centre’s facilities. ‘Treatment in the Narcotics Unit
involves a varied programme of counselling and recreation, including sessions with an art therapist and a music therapist, as well as the choice of tennis, swimming or riding. This will begin
tomorrow,’ she said, turning to Tara and putting a hand on her shoulder, ‘so you’ll need to make sure you eat well tonight to keep your strength up.’

Tara wasn’t really listening and felt a fleeting surge of pain at the thought that she wouldn’t have a chance to see heavenly Alex for at least eight weeks.

Moving on to the tennis courts and then the stables, Dr Tomlinson continued, ‘As you can see it’s not all serious here. Patients get to enjoy outings to places of interest, and we
actively encourage them to socialize with and strengthen each other through regular group interaction
and
a three-course dinner every evening, cooked by a wonderful chef who used to work for
the
royal family
.’ She glanced at Tara as though she hoped that might impress her. Passing through the dining hall, Tara thought idly that it looked like the inside of Cipriani in New
York – the grand uptown one, not the cooler downtown restaurant. Hugo reflected morosely that if someone would pay for him to go here then it would be a bloody good incentive to tear himself
away from the bottle.

At length it was time for the group to leave Tara in the capable hands of Dr Tomlinson. Hugo broke down in uncharacteristically loud sobs as he put his arms round his daughter. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he stuttered, his deep voice breaking in a futile attempt to pull himself together, which only made him cry harder. Tara herself felt numb. She couldn’t cry, only stand
listlessly, while her father, who had always been so strong, leaned the entire weight of his shaking body on her thin shoulders. His breath smelt of alcohol and it seemed absurd to Tara that she
and not he was the one being made to seek help. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. Tara could see in his eyes he had given up. The youthful hope that had filled Tara’s throbbing
chest in the car journey to Kent was something that Hugo didn’t understand.

Only then did Tara’s eyes begin to water, and after that everybody followed suit. Dr Tomlinson took a few steps back to give the party some privacy. As the Audi eventually rolled off she
put an arm around Tara’s shoulder and led her slowly back into the clinic.

Arriving back at Claude’s Mayfair house, Natalya jumped as she heard her phone ring. Her heart stopped beating momentarily and she braced herself for the worst. Seeing
that it was just her booker calling she let out an audible sigh of relief.

‘Hello, Gaby.’ She wondered what her booker wanted from her; she hadn’t called for a while.

‘Hi, Natalya. How are you today?’

‘Fine.’ Natalya wished she’d get to the point. Some bookers might pretend to be your friend, but Natalya knew that the motive was and would always be money. So why the small
talk?

‘Well, I’ve got some very exciting news for you, Natalya.’

Natalya inspected her manicure in the moody light of her bedroom.

‘What is it?’

‘You got the job!’ There was an expectant pause.

‘What job?’

‘The Mirror Mirror campaign, Natalya. You know, the big, prestigious Blue Whisper job that all the top girls were considered for? And you got it, over everybody else! They need you for two
days. You’ll earn £70,000 for two days’ work.’ Gaby enunciated her words slowly, as though she were speaking to somebody with learning difficulties.

‘Oh yes, I remember.’ Natalya thought back to the unattractive, po-faced woman at the casting who she had shocked with her nonchalance. She hadn’t had a big job in years. How
ironic that one should come along now when she was hardly in need of the cash. But she’d do it anyway. It was always a nice thing for a man to be able to say that his girlfriend, or,
hopefully soon, fiancée is a model. Of course she’d be expected to give up work once married but she would take this job.

‘When is the shoot?’

Gaby was becoming angry at Natalya’s impassiveness. ‘They told you at the casting, it’s in a week’s time. On the 15th and 16th of January. There’ll be a couple of
other girls there too but you’re the main one.’

‘Very well, thenk you, Gaby.’

Natalya snapped her phone shut and rang Claude in Dubai to check she was allowed to accept the job.

****

At 7.50 p.m. on Tara’s first night at Appletons, a young nurse knocked on the door and then let herself in with her key. She ignored Tara’s sullen look and bustled
into the room.

‘Hi Tara, I’m Nurse Allison but I prefer to be called by my first name, so call me Nurse Sally. Oh, that’s a nice outfit.’

Abena had packed only Tara’s most flattering clothes, which forced Tara to look a little better than she intended. She longed just to pull on her cotton tracksuit bottoms and her holey
college sweater from Oxford, but instead she wore a pair of once tight and now baggy dark blue Chloé jeans and a tight-fitting bright blue mohair jumper, which brought out the striking blue
of her eyes.

‘Have you washed your hair like the doctor ordered?’ asked Nurse Sally bossily.

Tara felt like retorting that no, her hair was just naturally wet, but she refrained and was surprised when Nurse Sally reached for the hairdryer and brush provided by the clinic and proceeded
to blow-dry her hair into a voluminous silky golden curtain. Tara would never have styled it like that herself, preferring something flatter and edgier, but she had neither the energy nor the
inclination to argue. And after all, she did look prettier than she had in months. She followed Nurse Sally to the dining hall and thought about the other patients she was about to meet. Probably
all spoilt brats and self-indulgent mentalists – she’d have been better off in an NHS hospital with people who had real problems to overcome like she did. She was suddenly immobilized
with fear and an intense craving for some coke.

Putting her hand flat against the wall to steady herself, Tara stopped still and breathed heavily in and out. She was hyperventilating. Had she been at home she would have taken something,
anything that she could get her hands on, then and there. But there was nobody she could turn to for drugs in this prison. Nurse Sally waited a few metres away, casually examining the clear nail
polish on her own neat, short nails, first one hand, then the other. Tara was still gulping down air, panic clutching at her chest. ‘There, there,’ Nurse Sally smiled, but she made no
attempt to move closer. Eventually Tara calmed down and turned as if to return to her room.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Nurse Sally asked.

Sighing, Tara swung back round again and followed Nurse Sally into the dining hall, where she was ushered to a seat near a nondescript brunette in her late thirties, a slight blond man in his
forties, a pretty teenager, and an obese man in his twenties. Tara couldn’t help noticing that all were dressed in upmarket, well-cut clothes.

‘What are you in for?’ the teenager asked, wide-eyed.

‘Cocaine. You?’

‘I’ve been clean from heroin for three weeks now.’ The pride in her voice was obvious.

Tara nodded, wondering what the boring-looking people on either side were being treated for. She turned to glance at the man to her left, who muttered ‘Alcoholic’. The teenager
reached across and squeezed his hand and the nondescript brunette gave an encouraging nod. ‘I’m an alcoholic too,’ she said. A sweating, overweight middle-aged man across the
table chose that moment to join the conversation.

‘Thex and love. I juss can’t ssshtop having thex …’ he wheezed. ‘I want it all the time … I want to do it when I’m s-s-sssad, I want to do it when
I’m happy. I want to do it when I’m alone and when I’m in public … I want to do it with boys and girls and men and women and …’

When the rest of the party greeted this disturbing outburst with empathetic nods and smiles, Tara turned away, disgusted.

And then she noticed him. In her heightened emotional state his presence in the dining hall was like an epiphany. If Alex Spectre had taken her breath away, this man was her reason to breathe
again; her reason to live. He sat at the table opposite, apparently conversing amicably with those around him, and yet he seemed somehow distant from them. While they gesticulated and talked
frantically, he remained still. He watched them intently and with kind interest, and yet he seemed to be holding something back from the conversation. He was tall and slim and there was a
distinguished quality about him and his restraint, but Tara saw at once that it was not arrogance. His dark, wavy hair was longer than was fashionable, falling to just above his shoulders, but it
showed off his face perfectly, like a beautiful, unusual frame around an Old Master. His face was long and thin, gaunt even, but his complexion was healthy and naturally tanned and his light-brown
eyes were encircled by thick, dark lashes. Tara wondered what his history was. A tortured artist perhaps? Then she took in his outfit: a sumptuous chunky black cashmere cardigan with red corduroy
trousers and dapper red loafers. Well, thought Tara, perking up, the only thing better than the romance of a tortured artist, was a super-stylish and evidently well-heeled man with the
looks
of one.

He met Tara’s gaze and gave her a welcoming smile. He hadn’t seen her around the clinic before, so he raised his glass of sparkling water in a toast. Tara noticed the beautiful old
watch on his slender wrist. Probably a relic from a distinguished ancestor with excellent taste. She lifted her own glass of water and smiled, feeling distant stirrings of something she’d not
felt in a long time. Hope.