Sin Tropez (12 page)

Although her bruises had healed, Oleg’s rage had plainly not subsided. No sooner had he come, he began to cruelly taunt her that he’d lied about his feelings for her, was sick of her
and it was time for a replacement. Devastated at yet another rejection, she thought she could make some money by blackmailing him and threatened to lie to the police that he was beating her up.

To Natalya’s surprise Oleg was more secure in the legality of his fortune than she imagined and went to the police himself. Finding no evidence of physical abuse on her body, but
discovering the deep scratches all over Oleg’s torso, the police made two formal charges against
her
: one for perverting the course of justice and the other for a serious physical and
sexual assault on a senior citizen. In the end Oleg slipped the officers a wad of cash and told them to drop the charges. But she’d learnt her lesson; having more than one man on the go was
dangerous.

Since then she’d decided to concentrate on finding one man who could single-handedly fulfil her needs. She would marry him and they could have a little baby, and she would love her baby
and he would love her and they would keep each other company. She would buy a big, charming place for her mother and she’d have her over to stay all the time as well. Married and with a child
she could receive her mother without embarrassment. She would no longer need to lie about where the money came from. Getting married made more sense than pulling stunts like that.

So, would Claude be her knight in shining armour, if such a thing exists? Natalya turned her mind excitedly to the contents of the parcel. Could it be jewellery? No, that was too extravagant so
soon after they’d met. Perhaps it was something thoughtful, like a luxury Smythson version of the scruffy notebook she’d left with him. But then again, he looked like a diamond man to
her. Maybe it was jewellery after all.

Now at the front of the post office queue, Natalya felt her heartbeat quickening and her palms becoming moist. She ripped open the packaging as soon as it was in her hands.
‘Arrrrrgh!’ she screamed, and hurled the contents of the package across the room, startling the elderly ladies behind her. They stared, alarmed by the angelic blonde flinging a tatty
blue notebook across the floor with such anger.

Moments later Natalya’s phone rang. She wrenched it open and snapped ‘Natalya’.

Claude’s laughter was soft and indulgent. It was as though he was a fly on the wall at the post office and was enjoying the turmoil he’d created.

‘Did you get your notebook?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Natalya sulked, walking over to retrieve it.

‘Then why do you sound so angry? You know, when I realized you had dropped it and I had your address, I was going to send you a wonderful gift, but I worry about these things in the post.
I have it waiting at my house in St Tropez if you’ll do me the great honour of visiting me there one weekend. Or come visit me in Geneva, Gstaad or Shanghai?’

‘You can’t buy me,’ Natalya retorted, thinking that if she were Pinocchio her nose would be a mile long by now. Happily, though, her nose was as flawless as the rest of her.
She looked the picture of innocence.

‘I don’t want to buy you. I just want to get to know you. So far you know that my name is Claude, that I own a plane and homes in St Tropez, Geneva, Shanghai and Gstaad, that I like
blondes and that I am considerate enough to return lost property to its rightful owner. If it weren’t for your notebook I would know nothing about you, other than that you fully take my
breath away. How is that fair? Give a little, ah?’

Natalya had to concede a laugh.

‘I take that as a sign that you’ll have mercy on me? I will book your flight today. When can you come – first weekend in June?’

‘I think I am free then.’

‘Good, then it is sorted. And my full name is Claude Perren, if you want to look me up before you come and check that I am not a serial killer.’

He added, ‘Goodnight my heart’, before hanging up the phone.

Placated, Natalya rushed home. She couldn’t wait to look him up on Google: things were starting to get interesting.

Beep beep. A text message. Claude? No, Henry, and he wanted her to come to one of Reza’s dinners at Cipriani. Gregory was busy with the wife, thank heavens, so, yes, she would go. Natalya
didn’t expect to meet anybody there and she had no particular desire to see Reza, but she didn’t wish to spend the evening alone.

****

Abena’s decision to attend the meal was equally strategic: she was hungry and she liked Italian food. Tara had a mysterious dinner date, but would cut it short and join
Reza’s do if he turned out to be a bore. She was rarely tight-lipped about her men so Abena decided he must be a weirdo – one of the kinky eccentrics she liked to indulge in every once
in a while but was too ashamed to come clean about.

At Cipriani, a crowd was gathering for Reza’s bash. As usual, the female-to-male ratio was about ten-to-one. For randy businessmen this was the attraction; for would-be oligarch’s
girlfriends it was an annoyance; and for everybody else it didn’t matter either way. The spectacle was fantastic, the atmosphere electric, and the mix of people varied and fascinating.

After greeting Reza, Abena took a seat beside another woman who had come on her own, who turned out to be an impressive gynaecologist from Latvia called Beatrise. There was also Lisa, a
successful fund manager from West London. Abena noticed that Reza hardly paid any attention to them even though they looked sensational. Opposite Abena were three sultry brunettes who lived in
Knightsbridge but appeared to have neither an occupation nor an interest in anything around them, other than Reza. Everybody was expensively and seductively dressed. Lots of fierce, black Gucci and
tight, nude Versace. And killer heels were de rigueur. Without engaging anyone in conversation, it would have been difficult for an onlooker to tell the call girl from the City high-flyer. Which
was precisely why Abena was embarrassed when she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Sebastian Spectre from St Tropez standing beside her.

‘Sadly, it seems the leopard
does
change her spots. Atahari isn’t it?’ Sebastian smiled down at Abena.

‘Sebastian. We meet again. Well I’m glad my bikini made an impression on you, even if my name didn’t. It’s Abena.’ They kissed on both cheeks. ‘Are you with
your brother?’ Tara needed to invent an emergency with her dinner date and jump into a cab to Cipriani this second.

‘No, just a friend. Alex might join us later.’

‘Great, I think Tara’s coming later also – you know, zebra print?’ she replied, taking in his outfit. He looked amazing in worn brown cotton drawstring trousers and three
T-shirts layered over each other. He really had perfected the I’m-so-laid-back-but-actually-awfully-well-connected-and-wildly-privileged look. The simplicity of his casual–cool ensemble
only enhanced his smouldering looks. It was as though he was saying ‘I don’t need to wear a jacket and brush my hair because I’m Sebastian Spectre’. But his choice of
footwear gave him away. No one, Abena thought drily, could truly be blasé about fashion if they were wearing Prada men’s sandals, especially when those sandals – as she knew
through Tara, who was almost as obsessed with men’s fashion as with women’s – were not yet on sale to the general public.

Sebastian let his eyes flicker over the other diners at Abena’s long table. ‘Come and join me, darling.’

He was so presumptuous. She hated how her heart sang when he called her darling. ‘That would be a bit rude now wouldn’t it? I’m gonna have some grub with this lot but we could
catch up for a drink later?’

‘I’ll be at my regular table, come find me whenever you like.’ He glanced briefly at Reza, who wasn’t looking, before sauntering off.

‘Oooh la la! And he was …?’ Natalya asked, hurrying into the restaurant on Henry’s arm.

Abena looked up in surprise. Natalya was usually too bored to make conversation but seemed in peculiarly high spirits today.

‘Sebastian Spectre!’ Abena and Henry giggled in unison.

‘You can sit here.’ Abena pointed to two spaces near her. ‘Where have you two been?’

‘I had to sort some last-minute invites to this dinner and picked Natalya up on the way. I hope Lisa made it?’

‘Yes, we’ve been chatting, but why does Reza even bother inviting her, or me for that matter, when he doesn’t pay us any attention?’

‘Oh he adores you, honey,’ Henry reassured her, ‘but he also understands the rules. To make a good party you need a variety of people – all attractive of course –
and now and again his business partners prefer a more cerebral lady who can, you know, speak.’

The girls both laughed. ‘Of course Reza prefers the ones who can’t speak. Smile and giggle, remember! But he’s a real sweetie.’

Natalya and Abena exchanged doubtful looks.

‘You see, you need to understand how people like Reza work. People who can build empires worth billions—’

‘Do tell us Henry.’ Natalya leaned in. There was a look of determined concentration on her face, like that of a child trying to get her head round her maths homework.

‘Well,’ began Henry, relishing his rapt audience, ‘there are three qualities that are almost universal among self-made tycoons. The first is their singular ability to focus
– on an entirely different scale to a normal person. They’re able to be completely single-minded when necessary. And Reza’s in a kill-or-be-killed world.’

‘So what are the second and third qualities?’ Natalya asked.

‘Mr Tycoon doesn’t have to be well educated or clever, not in the recognized sense, but he needs to have a strategy, and also to be opportunistic enough to benefit from unforeseen
circumstances. I mean, Reza’s doubled his bank balance in the credit crunch.’ Henry took an extra-long sip of wine while Abena and Natalya waited expectantly.

‘The third quality is that they are delusional – which, oddly enough, actually helps them. Their inflated sense of their own power and importance becomes self-perpetuating and helps
them gain even more power and importance. Let’s face it, when we’re told something enough times we start to believe it, and when Reza tells me he rocks my world, I can’t help but
shake.’

Abena devoured a beef carpaccio, seafood salad, a plate of tagliolini with shredded ham and a slice of tangy lemon meringue pie without any trouble at all. As Sarah was always grumbling, anyone
else with her appetite would be clinically obese by now. In the mood for some dangerous flirtation with Sebastian, she said her goodbyes and made as if to leave. Then she sneaked off to the
adjacent room, hoping that Reza wouldn’t see she’d jumped ship. She felt suddenly very aware that it had been a long time since her last proper boyfriend, Kunle, and allowed herself a
brief surge of nostalgia for the last time she’d felt really, truly happy.

Kunle was a young Nigerian lawyer. They’d met at Oxford when he returned to the university to cheer on his old college at a boat race. When she first set eyes on him the rowers had long
since paddled by but he was still by the water, staring deep into it. It was a striking and romantic picture. She’d wandered past, and perhaps he’d caught her image in the water beside
his own. He turned. They chatted and began dating. The next thing she knew she was in the intense heat, humidity and hectic social flurry of a Lagos Christmas. They ate succulent, spicy food at the
Sky Bar, enjoying its panoramic views across the city. They strolled hand in hand along the beach. They scoured markets and exhibitions for exciting pieces of contemporary art. They danced and
partied at Kunle’s friends’ houses, swam and relaxed at his home, and ate the sweetest, ripest mangos she’d ever tasted, lazing in his grounds while cooks prepared an endless
series of welcome feasts. He read plays to her and wrote her poetry. She fell deeply in love. They stayed together for a year, but when his law firm seconded him to New York and he’d demanded
she ditch her degree, marry him and follow him out there, she’d realized that Kunle loved Kunle even more than she did.

Whoah. Abena snapped out of her daydream and steadied herself by placing a hand on the wall before approaching the boys. She must have had more to drink than she’d realized; she was
finding it difficult to focus. Sebastian and two friends were laughing raucously and Abena was struck once again by the self-assuredness that punctuated his every movement. The easy way he sat in
his chair; the relaxed abandon with which he laughed; the chiselled perfection of his profile. A twist of longing pulled at the base of her stomach.

‘Oh Sebastian …’ She sang, rather than called, his name. All three looked up instantly, first in surprise and then with mild amusement as they noticed her swaying. They rose
from their chairs to greet her as she slid into the free seat beside Sebastian.

‘Sebastian, you’ve got to hide me. I’ve got to hide,’ she giggled, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Reza thinks I’ve gone home but I haven’t,
I’m here, you’ve got to hide me!’ This time she steadied herself on Sebastian’s knee rather than the wall.

Sebastian threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘I’ll hide you, baby, don’t worry, stay with me.’ Turning to his two friends, he explained, ‘She’s a
friend of Stefano Banio – you know, Banio Insurance.’

‘Oh yeah, Stefano – what’s he up to these days?’ Stefano was clearly a source of great interest to the boys.

‘Alex and I bumped into him in St Tropez. He’s in good shape, joining the firm.’

He turned and beckoned to a waiter. ‘Could I get another bottle of the Allegrini La Grola, and an extra glass?’ And turning to Abena, who had by now removed her head from his
shoulder, although her hand was still lodged resolutely on his knee, he asked, ‘You’ll have a glass of wine darling?’

‘Oh no, I really shouldn’t,’ Abena protested. ‘I’m absolutely wasted, I ha—’

‘Come on Grandma, one glass won’t kill you,’ cut in Sebastian. ‘Here, try mine.’

Abena raised Sebastian’s glass to her lips, savouring the aroma.

‘For such a “casual” guy, you certainly know a lot about luxurious wines,’ Abena whispered into his ear, her mouth just brushing his earlobe.