The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (22 page)

‘The problem is, my boy, I promised Carlotta a romantic time in Saint-Tropez. I’m sorry to tell you this, and she told me in confidence, mind you, but she seems to have fallen for this American, this journalist, Nick something or other. Pah – a penniless writer.’

‘
What?
’ Fabrizio choked on his celery stick. ‘Fuck . . . Why the hell did you let her get away? I thought you were in charge?’

‘I thought so too, but now I do not know where she is,’ said Max, truthfully. ‘All I know is that she told me she likes this guy very much and they’re going away for a weekend to get to know each other better.’

‘What the fuck? . . . Where? Where have they gone?’

‘If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t. Forget Carlotta – work on Lara. Hey, look, there’s Ivana Trump. I must go and say hello.’ Still chewing his carrot, he lumbered off to greet the vivacious socialite who was lunching with the newest mayoral candidate for London, the boyishly good-looking Ivan Massow.

Fabrizio sat fuming, wishing his life would turn into the fairy tale his wonderful mamma had always told him it would. But he wasn’t alone for long. Zarina and Sin, dressed in skimpy bikini tops and shorts that exposed most of the cheeks of their firm young bottoms, came bounding up, clutching each other’s hands and each holding a cigar in their free hand.

‘You look sad, Fab,’ Sin laughed at her unintentional rhyme. ‘Wanna come play with us?’ she asked.

‘Sure, sit down, girls, let me buy you a drink.’

‘No, this’ll do,’ Zarina said as she poured some of the rosé wine into the glass Max had left, took a swig and passed it to Sin. ‘We like a loving cup,’ she grinned. ‘Wanna hang out with us at our pad . . . Fab? We’re all by ourselves this afternoon.’

They all laughed at the rhyme now, as they stroked each other’s shoulders then started on Fabrizio.

‘Hey, that’s an offer that’s hard to refuse, ladies!’ Fabrizio checked the neighbouring tables to see if any of Lara’s intimate friends were lunching, but all he could see was Roberto LoBianco hosting a table of rich Russian oligarchs with their overly tall and overly dressed hookers, none of whom Fabrizio recognised.

Roberto looked over at Fabrizio, happily sandwiched between the two gorgeous girls, and gave him the thumbs-up and a wink, which made Fabrizio nervous. LoBianco had a big mouth and could easily spill the beans to Lara or to any of the other Saint-Tropez gossipmongers.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Fabrizio.

‘No problem, we can’t wait.’ Sin handed her cigar to Fabrizio, ‘Wanna drag?’

‘No way,’ he said, ushering them to the main entrance. Lara would have a fit if he came home stinking of cigars. She was always suspicious of everything he did and questioned him exhaustively about his day; even though he was an expert in the art of deception, cigar breath was impossible to conceal.

As they reached the entrance to Club 55 and waited for Chris the valet to bring Fabrizio’s car round, an open-top red Tesla zoomed to a halt in front of them and Jonathan Meyer got out, adjusting his black toupee. He nodded approvingly when he saw Fabrizio between the two youngest, prettiest and craziest girls in Saint-Tropez.

‘Good lunch, old sport?’ he grinned, then waited for a very elegant Vanessa to emerge.

‘Hello, Fabrizio,’ she said, smiling coolly. ‘How are you?’ Fabrizio always loved a cut-glass English accent, and Vanessa not only had that in spades but she was a totally classy piece of work. ‘A lady broad,’ he had confided to Maximus some time ago. ‘I would fuck her in a second!’

‘You’d better lay off her,’ commanded Maximus. ‘Don’t even think about it. Jonathan Meyer is a very powerful and extremely jealous man. No one fucks with him in business and certainly no one would ever dare to fuck his wife, especially no one who is already fucking his ex-wife!’

‘The grapevine says she fools around when he’s away,’ Fabrizio retorted.

‘Maybe . . . maybe with a married movie star who would be utterly discreet, but Fabrizio, my dear deluded boy, she would never fool around with you – she’s not an idiot.’

As Vanessa passed Fabrizio, leaving a delicious scent in her wake, she gave him a sidelong glance, which he interpreted as interest.

But right now it looked as if he had two insatiable teenagers to satisfy, and he spent the rest of the afternoon in their hotel room doing just that.

Fabrizio had led a charmed life until ten years ago. The only child of a well-off bourgeois Roman family, his childhood had been idyllic. Spoiled rotten by a doting Italian mamma, he had been popular and adored by girls and women. Men were jealous of his looks and charm, but that didn’t bother young Fabrizio. His father indulged him and allowed him to become the handsome playboy his hard-working father had always secretly wished he could be.

Fabrizio cut a sexual swathe through the young girls and women of the Trastevere suburb of Rome, most of whom fell for the dark-haired, handsome boy. Then, when he was eighteen, one of his casual lovers became pregnant. Papa Marcello forked out enough to keep her and the baby quiet, until a year later another teenager also fell into the same trap. Marcello reluctantly coughed up again, but this time he gave his nineteen-year-old son a warning. ‘Don’t get any more girls knocked up, son, because next time I won’t bail you out.’

But sadly there was no time for that. Within the space of a year, Fabrizio’s adored mother and then his father both developed cancer. By the time they died, within months of each other, the medical bills and death duties finished off what was left of the Bricconni family’s money. Young Fabrizio was on his own – twenty years old, penniless and with two illegitimate infants and two teenage baby-mammas to support. That’s when he met Maximus, and his fortunes started to reverse.

Charlie and Spencer usually spoke to each other by phone at least once or twice a day, but when Charlie arrived in London on a sunny afternoon, he was immediately bombarded with phone calls from friends all wanting a piece of him. Charlie loved the fact that he was so popular with everyone, fans and friends alike, and he spread himself thinly.

He revelled even more in the attention he had received the night he arrived at a chic dinner party in Eaton Square given for him by the notorious Dowager Mariella von Hapsburg. Charlie loved a title and there were many British aristocrats at the soirée in Mariella’s elegant drawing room; there was even a rumour that Prince Charles’s wife Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall – a good friend of Mariella’s – might pop by for a drink after dinner.

Charlie regaled everyone with hot gossip from Saint-Tropez, and attempted to give them the inside track on Mina Corbain’s death, which was rumoured to be murder, and the bomb threat on board Sergei Litvak’s yacht. He really knew little more than anyone else did, but he was a great wit and embellished his anecdotes beautifully.

After having imbibed more than his share of fine wine, Charlie toddled off back to The Dorchester, his preferred home from home. With the time change in France he realised that it was probably too late to call Spencer and, forgetting to set an alarm, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Charlie was awakened by the concierge telling him the chauffeur was waiting to take him to Cardiff, where he was due to host a charity lunch. In the car he tried ringing Spencer but there was no answer. ‘Probably at the gym,’ he told his agent Peter, who was sitting beside him.

‘There are so many golden opportunities for work here, Charlie,’ Peter said persuasively. ‘They love you here in the UK, we can get you a series – why don’t you move back?’

‘Why? Because I have a beautiful villa and my gorgeous roses. I have my darling wife Spencer. I live a glorious, fulfilled life in Saint-Tropez. I’m sixty years old and reasonably rich, so why do I want to schlep back here to this pocket of misery that used to be called Great Britain?’ He looked out of the window at the grey winding motorway, slick with rain, and the bleak, monotonous houses that lined the route. Shabbily dressed, forlorn-looking people shuffled along the streets. ‘They all look suicidal,’ Charlie observed. ‘I don’t see one happy face. In Saint-Tropez everyone is happy.’
Or pretends to be
, he thought.

‘That’s what happens to happiness if you live in today’s UK.’ Peter sounded mournful. ‘Even if you make a decent living, you’re taxed to death. And most of it goes to the layabouts and the immigrants.’

‘That’s
why
I’ll never leave the south of France. This isn’t the country I was brought up in; I could never live in this place again,’ Charlie observed sadly.

‘You had fun last night, didn’t you?’ asked Peter.

‘Well, of course, darling, I was with the rich. The rich are different from everyone else, particularly in England. They live an insulated life of wealth and entitlement, even if they don’t have a title.’

‘But in Saint-Tropez – aren’t the rich different from the hoi polloi?’ asked Peter.

‘You have no idea how different this group of nouveau riche is. They have brought their boats and their egos to Saint-Tropez; they live in a parallel universe from the rest of the world. They are obsessed with money and it doesn’t matter how much they have, they always want more.’

‘Sounds like your average theatrical agent,’ laughed Peter.

‘Oh, no, darling, to the super-rich, money is God; they worship it and they worship those who possess it. Their lives are a ridiculous competition with their peers – who made the most money last year, and we are not talking millions here, we’re talking billions.’

‘Yeah, I read the
Sunday Times
Rich List; they can make fortunes in a year.’

‘And lose them,’ said Charlie. ‘And none of them are really happy unless they’re making a deal that trumps their competitor.’

‘Sounds just like Hollywood,’ smiled Peter.

‘Yes, and they just love to be on the Rich List, even though they pretend they don’t. They must always save face in front of their competitors who are also their best friends, although they love to see them fail.’

‘Yes, that’s really like Hollywood – those actors and actresses who are nominated for Oscars and have to pretend they don’t care if they’ve lost. You can see the envy and hatred underneath their make-up.’

‘My God, I’ll never forget the look on Burt Reynolds’s face when he lost fifteen years ago to Robin Williams,’ laughed Charlie. ‘I thought he was going to kill someone!’

‘Yeah, that clip’s still on YouTube,’ said Peter.

‘But the super-rich oligarchs are the most ambitious lot in the world. They are obsessed with themselves and their contemporaries. They are rarely content with what they’ve got. Why do you think they have to change their wives so often and fuck hookers in between?’

‘I would if I could,’ grinned Peter, ‘Some of those Russian sluts are pretty damn juicy.’

‘And their yachts and cars and planes! They say that the smaller a rich man’s dick, the bigger the boat!’ laughed Charlie.

‘In that case my boat would be tiny!’ Peter grinned.

‘Bragger,’ winked Charlie.

‘But on the other hand, everyone is happy in Saint-Tropez, or they seem to be. The sun shines, shopkeepers take pride in their shiny shops, restaurateurs take pride in their restaurants and waiters enjoy being waiters. Maybe it’s just my opinion, but it’s a gilded, glorious life down there and I love it.’

Charlie clicked the speed-dial on his iPhone again, but Spencer still didn’t answer. ‘He’s probably in the pool, toning his torso. Sometimes he does three hundred laps, he’s such a jock,’ he smiled fondly. ‘And you should see his muscles!’ The men laughed affably as the limo arrived at the venue in Cardiff.

Charlie had great success at the charity lunch in which he raised nearly £100,000 for the children’s hospice Shooting Star Chase, and he was again inundated with gushing fans and friends. As soon as he got into the car to be driven to an evening event at another hotel in Birmingham, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Charlie raised even more money in Birmingham; in the car back to London, he realised his cell had run out of battery so he couldn’t call Spencer and, back at The Dorchester, he again realised it was too late to ring him. He went to bed, well satisfied with his day’s work.