The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (21 page)

At approximately the same time as Spencer was dining at Chez Joseph, Carlotta and Nick were having their second dinner date.

They had spoken several times while he’d been away, and of course he had come to her rescue the night she’d heard the intruder. She was more than interested in him, but when she mentioned to Maximus Gobbi that she was having dinner with Nick Stevens, he went berserk.

‘Why you want to go out with that penniless boy?’ he spat.

‘He’s not a boy. He’s thirty-eight.’

‘Okay, okay, but when I give my masked ball next week I have someone wonderful for you to meet. A prince – very rich—’

‘You know that I don’t care about rich,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m rich enough.’

‘My dear, as Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, so rightly said, “You can never be too rich or too thin”.’

‘Oh, what nonsense! I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Carlotta hung up, slightly annoyed with Maximus. He had promised her a wonderful romantic summer in Saint-Tropez, and now that she was finally becoming involved with somebody, he seemed to be trying to prevent it happening. Never mind. She was thirty years old; she would do what she wanted.

Nick took her to Nioulargo, which couldn’t have been more romantic. Perched on the sands on one of the most secluded beaches of Pampelonne, it was surrounded by trailing vines and waving palm trees. The heavy scent of jasmine, which climbed the outside walls, hung in the air. Candles dimly lit the interior, the music was soft and mellow, and the other diners were mostly French as tourists weren’t encouraged.

They dined on delicious food, and made inroads into two bottles of the excellent rosé wine, a specialty of Provence.

It was a mild, moonlit night and after dinner they took a walk along the shoreline. The sand was warm beneath their bare feet and a faint breeze ruffled Carlotta’s black curls.

They didn’t speak much. Nick took her hand tentatively, which felt small and soft in his. He loved the feeling of it. After a while they sat on the sand, the water lapping at their feet.

When Nick took Carlotta’s pashmina, laid it on the sand, then tenderly lowered her on to it, she did not protest, and when he kissed her so gently her heart pounded, she felt an emotion she had not experienced in a very long time. As his kisses became more ardent she wanted to succumb.

‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, what a cliché that is!’ All the feelings she had stored up inside her went flooding through her whole body.

Nick smiled. ‘I think you have had a hard life, Carlotta.’

‘How do you know?’ She wanted to break the spell he was creating with his embrace, but at the same time she didn’t want his kisses to stop. His lips were warm and soft, so unlike Nicanor’s, who was the first and last man who had ever kissed her.

‘What do you know of my life?’ she whispered.

‘I know you were married very young and had a little girl quite quickly. I know your husband was . . .’ Nick paused, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

‘Go on, say it . . . He was a devil,’ said Carlotta bitterly.

‘I didn’t think I should say, but there were rumours . . .’

Carlotta sat up, feeling the bitterness engulf her that she had tried so hard to suppress.

‘Sometimes the nightmares frighten me. That’s why I woke up that night. Nicanor hurt me, you know. He . . . he . . . hurt me so much that I can’t have any more children.’ She stopped, feeling she had said too much. Her cheeks were flushed and she felt giddy.

Nick stroked her cheek, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You already have a child. I believe kids aren’t so important if two people love each other.’

‘That’s what I’ve always wanted, Nick – to love and to be in love and to have someone love me. Is that naïve?’

‘No, it’s what everyone wants deep down, if they’d only admit it.’

‘And you? What about you, Nick? You’re thirty-eight, so you must have a history – wives, girlfriends, children . . .’

‘Oh, I do,’ he grinned boyishly, which made him look younger. ‘There have been a few relationships. No kids, though. As you know, I’m a journalist . . . I went to Bosnia to cover stories for my newspaper.’

‘Your newspaper? You owned it?’

‘No, of course not. It was only a local paper in Ohio, but they were hot to get all the news live – I was young and ambitious so I went to Bosnia. I saw some sights there, my God . . .’ His eyes became cloudy. ‘You’d never believe some of the things those bastards did.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Carlotta stroked his forehead. ‘You never wanted a wife? Just girlfriends?’

‘Never had a wife,’ he smiled. ‘Girlfriend, yes – college sweetheart. Talk about clichés. We were going to get married when I returned from Bosnia but it didn’t happen.’

‘Why not?’

‘She met another guy. Happens a million times,’ he grinned wryly. ‘I mean, we’d been together a long time and she got sick of waiting, I guess.’

‘And then?’

‘And then and then . . . Well, what do you think? I was still in my early twenties and the news services like my stuff so I decided to base myself in Europe as a freelance to cover all the crap that was happening at the beginning of the millennium. You know, the riots in France, the Kosovan crisis, the usual Middle East problems; I travelled a lot and yes, there were girls of course, women, but nothing serious. Not until I met you.’

‘But you hardly know me,’ she whispered.

‘Ah, but I do know you, Contessa Carlotta. I think I know you well, and one of these days I think I shall ask you to marry me.’

The following day, Lara Meyer limped into a beauty salon on the Place des Lices for a facial and a full ‘Brazilian’ bikini wax. Lying on the bed, her face covered in a mask of thick clay and cucumber slices on her eyes, she heard the attendant Blandine, who did the waxing, enter the room.

‘Gently, Blandine, gently; you know I’m delicate down there,’ she said, opening her legs as the therapist pulled down the towel on her waist.

‘
Oui
,’ replied a deep voice, ‘I know.’

Lara screamed as a pan of boiling wax was poured on to her delicate female anatomy. Shrieking to raise the roof, she struggled to pull off her eye mask. There was no one in the cubicle. The staff came running, but no one recalled having seen any men other than those who worked there.

The police were called and some of them were unable to contain their amusement at what had happened to Lara, but there were simply no clues. Even the fingerprints on the waxing bowl only matched those of the female workers.

Unable to walk for several days, Lara suffered horribly. She lay in bed nursing a scalded vulva and a hurt ankle from the helicopter crash, spending her days watching DVDs of
Desperate Housewives
and drinking straight vodka until she fell into a stupor. She tried to make Fabrizio stay in to watch TV with her, but after some desultory attempts at cooking and tidying up, he became so restless that she dismissed him as totally useless and brought in a woman from the village to cook and be her slave.

After escaping from the third day of Lara’s cranky behaviour, Fabrizio and Maximus lunched at a quiet corner table at Club 55, still the most popular beach restaurant in Saint-Tropez.

‘It’s not working with her. She won’t set a date to get married any sooner. She even says she doesn’t want to now – in fact she says she hates me.’ Fabrizio was becoming seriously worried about his future.

‘She hates everyone, don’t worry.’ Maximus swallowed the last of his oysters and signalled to the waiter to refill his wine glass. ‘So would you if you had a wounded pussy,’ he grinned.

‘I’m going to be thirty in six months, I think I’m losing my hair, and I’m becoming sick and tired of her. Apart from everything else, she’s an absolute fucking bore.’

‘Well, maybe you’re a boring fuck,’ hooted Maximus as Fabrizio shot him a look.

‘That I’m not,’ huffed Fabrizio.

‘Too bad,’ Max continued. ‘That’s the deal, sport.’

‘I want to end this ridiculous relationship with Lara. I’ve decided that – whether you like it or not, Max – Carlotta’s the one for me. Every time I see her, I feel a connection,’ Fabrizio said firmly, eyeing up a smiling young beauty at the next table. He continued his sentence, albeit slightly more distracted. ‘Not only is she beautiful and nice, but she’s also goddamn rich.’

He smiled back at the young beauty. Well, maybe . . . why not? His afternoon was free and he’d been celibate now for four days – a record for him.

His eyes roamed around Club 55. It was packed with people, many of them celebrities who liked to pretend they were just plain folk, many of them rich not famous, yet too grand and sophisticated to acknowledge the sprinkling of actual celebrities in their midst. There was a snobbery about the higher-echelon millionaires and oligarchs. Most of them considered themselves far above mere movie stars, even though they covertly eyed them, whispering amongst themselves, ‘There’s Puff Daddy – that’s his yacht; it cost thirty million euros’, and, ‘Oh, look – it’s Simon Cowell and his girlfriend.’

Johnny Depp sat at a long table, with a group of American agents and producers. With his hat pulled low over his eyes, he seemed inconspicuous except to a stream of young children who lined up respectfully for ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’s’ autograph. Liam Neeson and his sister-in-law Joely Richardson were seated at a quiet table in the far corner next to the bar and, unmistakable in spite of dark shades and a battered baseball cap, Leonardo DiCaprio sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by acolytes and pretty girls, whom he entertained so well that raucous laughter shook their table. The young model Zarina and her girlfriend Sin were at the centre of a group of young and obviously wealthy young men and they were all screaming with laughter and taking countless selfies.

It was a hot day and Patrice, the owner, had switched on the ‘air conditioning’, which consisted of fine sprays of cool water emanating from small pipes attached to the wooden slats above.

Several white super-yachts were berthed at sea beyond the jetty, and small tenders zoomed back and forth across the waves to pick up passengers and bring them to the club. They picked their way through the oiled sunbathers lying supine on striped mattresses on the sand up to the packed beach bar.

Maximus glanced over to the bar, which was crowded with young men and girls, all wearing the most minimum of designer beach wear and bikinis, talking animatedly as they waited for their table. Max spotted a couple of his ‘stable’ and wondered why they were chatting up nubile young flesh, obviously without money, instead of older prey – divorcées and widows with wealth. There were plenty of those around. He frowned. He’d have to see about that. He’d obviously been concentrating too hard on the Fabrizio/Lara deal and on Contessa Carlotta too.

‘So, where is she?’ asked Fabrizio. ‘I’ve called her every day now for a week. The damn housekeeper blows me off. If I could have some time with Carlotta, I know I could make her fall for me – I just need time. You know I could.’

Max turned to study Fabrizio. ‘You know you’re looking a bit rough around the edges. You need more rest – stop screwing around. I think Carlotta is a lost cause for you, Fabrizio.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I’m handsome, I’m funny, I’m great in the sack and I have a huge dick. Why can’t you talk her into at least
seeing
me?’

‘Fabrizio, you aren’t the only stud on the beach, nor the youngest,’ said Maximus.

‘Yeah, but I’m the best looking and the most amusing one.’

‘To tell the truth, you’re not any more – you’re fast approaching your sell-by date. You’ve
got
to close the deal with Lara,’ said Maximus. ‘I’ve told you a million times. Spend more time thinking how you are going to persuade her to marry you. Get the money, honey. She’s been divorced for ten years now, for God’s sake.’

‘She told me after that ridiculous accident in the salon she will only marry me if
I
agree to a pre-nup, which means if we split I get fuck-all. I’ve gotta get out of this deal, Max. Help me, please,’ pleaded Fabrizio.

Max chewed slowly on a carrot from the exquisite arrangement of fresh vegetables in the middle of the table.