Sin Tropez (34 page)

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‘My name is Philip Avery Hampton and I’m here on a dual diagnosis: post-traumatic stress and severe depression. While here, I’ve learnt that depression is not
something I’m naturally prone to, rather it’s a direct result of a childhood trauma. I am anti-drugs of any kind, so, rather than treat my condition with prescription drugs, I’ve
decided to try counselling for the first time in my life. I’ve been at Appletons for eight weeks now and am really starting to feel the beneficial effects of therapy.’ He paused,
waiting for the supportive clapping to die down.

‘I’ve never been under any doubt that the death of my Greek mother when I was five has had a profound impact on the way I feel, even to this day, and that it has exacerbated the
melancholy side to my character. I’ve never needed a therapist to tell me that. But what I did need, I suppose, was someone to talk about it with.’

‘Thank you for your honesty, Philip,’ the therapist soothed. ‘We can all learn from each other through shared experiences, stories and recovery, that is the key purpose of
group therapy. Tara, do you feel ready to share something of yourself with us today? We would love to draw you closer and strengthen you as your presence strengthens us.’

‘I feel stronger already,’ Tara replied, looking at Philip rather than the therapist. ‘Philip’s story has touched me, he drew me out of myself.’

‘Great.’ The therapist looked pleasantly surprised. ‘Philip, would you like to tell us more? Or is anybody else inspired to share something of themselves with the group?’
She looked at the other four patients who were still digesting Philip’s history and shook their heads.

‘If … if it helps Tara, then I’d like to say more.’ Philip stood again, flushing.

‘I was brought up in London, Oxfordshire and Athens by my English father, who remarried a remarkable English woman shortly after my mother’s death. She looked after me. She brought
me up as her own. She loves me as her own. She went on to have three more children with my father. They have … the same ruddy complexion and fly-away auburn hair as both my father and
stepmother.’ He smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Do you feel … different, Philip?’ probed the therapist.

Philip considered the question for a long time. ‘I feel very different. Not the same as those in my family, and not the same as those around me.’

Nobody spoke.

‘Oh boohoo, get out the violins,’ Philip laughed. ‘I feel very silly now.’

‘Don’t be embarrassed, Philip. Your story is special to us.’ The therapist’s eyes kept flitting from his to Tara’s.

‘My father is often described as righteous and kind.’ Philip pushed a wayward strand of long hair out of his face and looked through the window at the rolling green hills. ‘He
set an example to me of what a real man should be. He respects the past but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s ensured that my family’s farmland remains productive even today and
he’s bred world-class race horses. He has grown our family businesses to even greater heights and written five volumes of bestselling memoirs at the same time. He’s a … a doer,
not a talker. Our family is pretty well known, I guess you could say that. Well, not me, as I’m not into all that’ – he looked bashful – ‘but you’ll often see my
half-siblings photographed in a variety of weird and wonderful outfits as they flit from launch party to society ball to fancy-dress gathering.’ He half laughed, half winced.

Something clicked in Tara’s brain: the Avery Hamptons. She remembered an article she’d read about them somewhere. It had been very rude about Philip – clearly he hadn’t
cooperated with the piece, probably finding the publication too silly for words. In fact, yes, it had reported that Philip had once said the party scene was ‘as empty as the cupboards of my
fashionably emaciated half-sister’s kitchen.’ It was due to his low profile, then, that Tara hadn’t recognized him. She’d actually met his ‘fashionably emaciated
half-sister’ on quite a few occasions.

The view across the Swiss slopes from the height of the ski lift was breathtaking. Abena was only a beginner but she hadn’t thought twice before agreeing to join
Bertrand, a seasoned skier, off piste. It was the only way to ensure none of her family would spot her.

This tranquil twenty minutes in the chairlift, enjoying the sunshine as they inched towards the mountain top, was the first time the illicit duo had managed to engineer some time together.

‘Where’s your wife?’ Abena asked.

‘Told her I’m here with clients. She’s on St Barts with the kids.’

‘Oh God, I keep forgetting about your kids,’ Abena groaned.

‘Sweetie, do just that, forget about them – they’re my problem. Now, do you think anyone’s ever had sex on a chairlift?’

‘Hmmn … well, what with four layers of clothing to get through, libido-zapping thermal underwear, fibreglass feet and being suspended a gazillion metres above ground level, I would
think you’d need some serious skill. It would be quite a lovely way to die though.’

Bertrand threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nearly knocking off her sleek Chanel goggles – pinched from Tara’s wardrobe before she left. Abena may not have been
skiing before, but she’d begged, borrowed or stolen all the gear and had perfected her ski-chic look long before she learnt to walk in the clunky ski boots. Repositioning her eyewear and
smoothing down her fitted black ski suit, she leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and breathed in the lush air.

‘I love it here. I’m absolutely dreading going back home,’ she said. And then, ‘B, when you first saw me, did you think I was just a vacuous, mercenary cow?’

‘Oh, darling, we’ve been through this. Are you still talking about this Benedict fellow? I told you, first impressions are often completely deceiving and we’re all mistakenly
taken in by them. After all, everyone always thinks I’m a perfectly nice, uptight, well-behaved, old-fashioned English gentleman.’

‘True.’ Abena grinned. ‘When really you’re a devilishly handsome, international man of mystery.’

‘Quite.’ Bertrand smirked.

They removed their protective helmets to kiss. It was an awesome sensation at such a high altitude and Abena felt giddy. Then Bertrand pushed the bar up on the ski lift, grabbed her arm and
pulled her whooping and shouting through the trees.

As Abena finally slid to a controlled stop at the bottom of the mountain she caught sight of her mother in the jam-packed restaurant nearby, balancing a giant serving of raclette on a paper
plate as she tried to wade through the crowd in her unwieldy ski boots. She was clad in the highest-spec ski-wear despite having stayed well away from the slopes all day. Abena stifled a giggle.
Her mother was the real reason the family rarely went skiing. She had a weakness for hearty West African specialities, especially pounded yam, and goat meat pepper soup, and over the years her
waist had, slowly but undeniably, spread. Eventually the day came when she realized that if she tried to balance her entire bulk on two thin strips of fibreglass and then propel herself down a
crowded mountain, there was little chance of her arriving at the bottom in one piece without having crushed a small child along the way.

Bertrand slid to a halt beside Abena and spotted her mother easily.

‘Abena! Fancy seeing you here,’ he grinned.

‘Piss off, Bertrand,’ she muttered in a panic. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting at your chalet!’ But Bertrand was in a playful mood and wouldn’t let up.

‘Oh there you are, Abena, I was worried about you,’ called her mother, stepping gingerly out of the restaurant and clutching at her husband as she tried not to slip.
‘You’ve found a friend?’ She looked suspiciously at Bertrand.

‘Erm, Bertrand works with Sarah Hunter. We just ran into each other actually.’

‘Well, come and have a drink with us, Bertrand.’ Abena’s father had been feeling outnumbered and was pleased to have some male company. Abena swallowed, eyes wide with fear.
They moved on towards the bar and ordered a round of Glühwein.

‘Do you have any children, Bertrand?’ asked Abena’s mother when they’d run out of conversation about how good the snow was.

‘Yes, two girls.’

‘How lovely, how old are they, do you have a photo?’

‘Actually, yes. Yes I do. But I’m not sure it’s, er, appropriate.’ He saw Abena’s parents exchange a concerned look and realized he sounded like someone barred from
public playgrounds.

‘No, of course I’ll show you if you’d like to see. They’re five and seven.’ He just had time to flash up two adorable kids on the screen of his phone when it began
to ring. ‘In fact that’s probably them now.’

He put the phone to his ear, ‘Hi poppet, can I call you back later? Oh does she? OK, put her on quickly.’

Abena could just make out a child singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ at the top of her shrill voice. She felt sick and ran to the washroom as fast as her cumbersome boots would
let her. She would end this affair as soon as she got back to England.

On her return to the bar, Bertrand offered to get the bill before leaving, but was refused. He shook Abena’s father’s hand, kissed her mother on both cheeks, and then turned to Abena
herself.

‘Wonderful to bump into you. I do hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

With that he was on his way.

‘Well, he seemed perfectly nice,’ Abena’s mother announced. ‘A little uptight maybe, but a true old-fashioned English gentleman.’

That evening after dinner, Abena met up with Bertrand at his chalet. An unconventional combination of pinewood and thatch on the outside, with gadgetry and glass inside, it was like stepping
from a charmingly traditional Swiss cottage into a cosmopolitan Berlin penthouse. A real log fire blazed and enchanting arias filled the room, thanks to a discreetly placed Bang & Olufsen
speaker system.

Abena and Bertrand lay facing each other on a fluffy rug by the fire. This time there were no layers of clothing to separate them. He traced the outline of her lips with his finger and then ran
the finger down the side of her body, bringing his hand to rest on her bottom. Abena stared at him, taking in his physique, neither soft and flabby nor hard and firm. The way he looked at her was a
more powerful aphrodisiac than any vibrant youth’s muscled stomach. She really felt truly, exquisitely beautiful and desired.

After some time had elapsed, Bertrand rolled Abena over to take in her back view. God she was marvellous. And she made him feel so very youthful. In fact, with such a pert young bottom in his
hands, he could be back at Eton.

Tara snorted as yet another therapist explained the benefits of his particular session.

‘As you know,’ Dr Jacowski began, ‘immersion in art encourages the true expression of our inner fears and hopes. I believe that even through the medium of A3 paper and felt-tip
pen, each of my patients can come to know themselves and each other.’

Tara tried to catch Philip’s eye so they could laugh together at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. After weeks of waiting they had finally been assigned as therapy partners for this
session. But he was leaning forward in his chair, earnestly looking up at Dr Jacowski, so she decided to try and give the process a chance. She thought fondly of Abena; if she’d been here the
two of them would be on the floor weeping with laughter by now. She couldn’t help but yawn out loud. She hadn’t slept soundly for three weeks and was suffering from chronic fatigue.

‘Tired?’ Philip asked, as soon as the therapist left the room in search of crayons. ‘It must be tough coming off coke so suddenly like that. How are your withdrawal
symptoms?’

Tara was touched by his sympathetic tone and considered milking her condition a little in the hope of maybe getting a hug, but there was something about the way his gaze penetrated her that made
her unable to be anything but straight with him.

She reflected for a moment. ‘It’s been hard. Really, really hard. But, now … I feel I’m coping with it a bit better than I thought I would.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s … it’s strange,’ Tara continued, ‘I mean, the first two weeks were horrific, just awful, and I didn’t sleep for a week, and I was … shaky
… and nauseous – I mean physically sick quite a lot. Sorry, I know that’s really unattractive! But now I suppose it’s just combating the depression …’ She
didn’t add that things got easier when she could dream about him as a diversion from the pain. And that now that she’d met him, life at the clinic gave her more hope of eventual
happiness than anything waiting for her back in London.

‘I know the feeling,’ Philip replied.

‘But you … I know I barely know you, but you seem so together and fulfilled and kind and … I’m sorry, I’m babbling, but you just don’t come across as a
depressive person.’

‘Thank you! That’s sweet, Tara. I suppose I try not to, and in fact when I’ve company, things aren’t often so bad, it’s more when I’m alone. And then I tend
to become very introspective. And I bottle it up – my therapist says I don’t talk about things when apparently I should. I need to socialize a bit more – loosen up!’ He
smiled at Tara and raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘Well, here it is – this is who I am, I know I’m peculiar but I’ve bared my soul to you and you can take it or leave
it.’

Tara tried not to stare at him but his face still took her breath away. Close up, rather than appearing more human than his almost unnaturally elegant profile, he seemed even more otherworldly
to her.

‘I love to talk.’ Tara blushed at how stupid her words sounded. ‘Talk to me whenever you need to.’

If Philip felt that she was silly, he didn’t show it. His haunting eyes misted over and he squeezed Tara’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The therapist returned armed with a bunch of multi-coloured crayons. After explaining what to do, he poured three cups of green tea and settled down to his drawing. Tara couldn’t help
feeling like she was back at prep school, but she reluctantly reached for one of the coloured sheets of paper and a felt-tip pen and settled herself next to Philip, who was sprawled on the floor
and scribbling intently. She observed him with undisguised interest for a good five minutes before starting on her own drawing, quietly cursing her father for having passed down to her his
addictive personality rather than his remarkable artistic flair.