The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (30 page)

‘I wonder who sent them?’ said Sophie. ‘Not many people know I love them.’

‘Here’s the note,’ said Teresa, passing a tiny envelope to her mistress.

‘I’m busy, Teresa, I can’t open chocolates now – take them to the kitchen and put them on a silver platter to pass to my friends.’

The old woman waddled off, muttering to herself, as Sophie opened the card. ‘To my idol, from your devoted pursuer.’

‘Hmm, who could that be? I think I have quite a few devoted . . .’ Just then they heard an almighty explosion from the kitchen, and a strangled scream from the maid. One of the windows blew out from the blast and Adolpho and Carlotta, who were the closest to the kitchen, were tossed to the floor.

‘Oh, my God! It’s a bomb!’ yelled Maximus.

They burst into the kitchen to find it totally destroyed, and the poor old maid Teresa lying dead on the floor with a massive, bloody hole in her chest. The chocolate box was open beside her, smoke billowing out of it.

‘Call the police,’ Nick ordered Adolpho, and immediately wrapped his arms around a sobbing Carlotta, placing her face against his chest. ‘Don’t look, darling.’

Sophie was shaking with fear and horror. Adolpho helped her on to a lounge chair on the terrace and gave her a glass of brandy, which she sipped gratefully.

‘That was meant for me,’ she said. ‘Someone wanted to kill me.’

‘But why?’ asked Carlotta, putting her arms around the shaken actress. ‘Who would have wanted to kill you?’

Nick shook his head. ‘I don’t think it was meant for you, Sophie. I think for some reason someone is trying to frighten the fuck out of all of us.’

After Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle had thoroughly questioned everyone in the house and allowed them to leave, Carlotta and Nick went outside again. She was still shaking from the shock of the explosion and the tragic death of Teresa.

‘Do you realise there are no mirrors inside the house?’ Nick said.

‘Why is that?’ asked Carlotta.

‘I don’t think Sophie wants to see herself during the day until Adolpho has put her together as she wants to look. It’s tragic really, she’s like stuck together with facelifts, fillers and wigs.’

‘But I do like her,’ said Carlotta. ‘It must be horrible to feel so lonely, the last one standing of a great generation of true stars.’

As soon as Jonathan Meyer learned that the ban on suspects leaving Saint-Tropez was lifted, he called the captain of his Gulfstream II and told him to plot a course for Paris immediately. ‘I’ve got to close that deal with the Von Schreiber brothers,’ he informed his wife.

Vanessa, who was lolling in their beautifully appointed stateroom watching a DVD episode of
Orange Is the New Black
, didn’t look up.

‘Why aren’t you getting ready?’ he asked, already in city mode – lightweight grey slacks, white-on-white cotton shirt from Charvet and a light blue linen blazer. He clasped his Breguet watch on his wrist, adjusted his shiny toupee, which he had recently switched from jet black to dark brown streaked with grey, and glanced at Vanessa. She yawned, stretched and, putting the remote on live pause, purred, ‘Oh, darling, I really don’t feel up to it. It’s that time of the month. I’d like to spend some time with Jonathan Junior.’

‘But honey, you love Paris. I’ll have to be there at least three days – think of the shopping.’

‘Darling, Jon Junior really needs to spend more time with me. He’s been with Nanny far too much recently. I want to take him water skiing, sailing on the boat, and do some mother/son activities . . .’

‘Sure, okay.’ He checked his cufflinks, making a mental note to ring the gorgeous blonde courtesan he had connected with last time he was in Paris. God, she was hot! If he didn’t know he was paying three thousand euros a night, he would have actually thought she had enjoyed sex with him.

Vanessa was still droning on ‘. . . and the weather’s been so bad, that mistral blowing all the time, poor Jonny hasn’t been able to ski at all.’

‘Sure, sure, okay, honey – we’ll keep in touch.’ He blew her a kiss, checked his pockets and picked up his alligator briefcase. Vanessa lay back, a big smile spreading over her perfect lips. When she was sure her husband had left the boat, she picked up her cell phone and dialled a number.

Fabrizio had pulled. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, but the former Honourable Vanessa Anstruther-Formby, now Mrs Jonathan Meyer, was a major coup. At twenty-nine, she was a seasoned beauty at the peak of perfection. Her abundant hair framed an exquisite kitten-like face, with high chiselled cheekbones, a pointed chin and clear eyes. But it was her body that was truly superb. She was tall and slender with perfect breasts and a tiny waist. Whether the breasts were real or not, Fabrizio was about to find out.

Vanessa had given the captain and crew the night off. She had sent nine-year-old Jonny and his nanny to the funfair at La Foux, to meet Vanessa’s cousin Louisa and her twin sons. They were the same age as Jon; he would be spending the night with them in Saint-Maxime. She was excited. She had only had one other fling in her nine years of marriage to one of the most influential and important moguls in America – and, after all, didn’t everyone cheat? Besides, this was different. She was genuinely attracted to and intrigued by Fabrizio; knowing that he was the kept man of Jonathan’s ex-wife made the assignation even more exciting.

Jonathan’s boat was now moored in the less inhabited part of the port, far away from the throngs who gawped at the major yachts in front of Sénéquier, L’Escale, and all the other shops and cafés, which suited Vanessa perfectly.

At eight thirty it was practically deserted, except for a few empty sailing boats and a couple of empty mega-yachts whose owners were also away. The rich liked to save money, so when they were not on board the captains were usually told to moor their boats in the less expensive port at Cogolin. Mooring charges in Saint-Tropez were astronomical in the season from May to September, but still competition was rife for the best berths.

Fabrizio, wearing his deepest darkest Ray-Bans, ran quickly up the gangplank and into the gorgeously over-decorated salon. There, Vanessa waited, a vision in Tom Ford’s sexiest black lounging pyjamas, her breasts barely covered by a thin strap of shining black bugle beads, her long legs visible behind transparent chiffon trousers. She handed him a glass of chilled Cristal and smiled seductively. Fabrizio felt himself harden. No need for the blue pill tonight. He raised his glass, took off his shades and locked eyes with her.

‘To us,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, to us,’ she replied huskily, and slinked closer to him.

Vanessa pressed her body to Fabrizio as if she was offering him pastries from a platter – and he was very hungry. She was far more beautiful and sensual than any of the trophy wives or young hookers he’d been banging since he had been living with Lara. Vanessa was top-of-the-line, A1 pussy, and Fabrizio was in his element.

The sexual tricks Vanessa had learned from Roman Scavolini, her first lover, always fascinated and enchanted any new lover. She tried not to think of Roman and his total rejection of her, but the pain surfaced like maggots on ripe fruit whenever she had one of her rare assignations. Maybe it was the feeling of a new man’s body close to hers but the only way she could assuage those hateful memories was by a toke of coke. As Fabrizio prepared to enter her after what he considered to be an adequate amount of foreplay, Vanessa raised herself on one delicate elbow to reach into a silver box and offered him a generous line of the white powder and a crisp new hundred-dollar bill. Fabrizio didn’t hesitate. Although he was fired with lust for Vanessa, he knew the magic powder would make the sex even more exciting. He sniffed deeply – and the game was on.

Vanessa Anstruther-Formby had been born to Lord Charles and Lady Elizabeth Anstruther-Formby in a gloomy castle in the wilds of Gloucestershire. Her parents were aristocrats. Their lineage went back to the fourteenth century, when the family owned half the county. But by the 1980s many fortunes had tumbled and they were finding it difficult to make ends meet. They had to sell off great tracts of land and, as their final ignominy, opened part of the castle to visiting tourists, who wandered around in bug-eyed awe at the gorgeous artifacts and paintings in the exquisitely appointed rooms. The third daughter was a surprise, as Lady Anstruther-Formby was well into her forties.

‘Another daughter!’ Charles fumed. ‘Another bloody wedding we’ll have to spend a fortune on! Damn it, Elizabeth, couldn’t you have produced another boy? My God, we have four children to bring up now.’

‘Darling, it’s the will of God!’ She lay back in a nest of white lace pillows, cradling her baby. ‘Look at her, Charles, she’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a pretty newborn – I don’t think we’ll have too much of a problem marrying her off.’

Charles barely gave a glance to the baby as his two elder daughters, Jessica and Jane, came bounding into their mother’s bedroom to inspect the latest arrival. Brother Jeremy had no interest in the infant, and spent most of his time in his room drawing and painting.

‘Ooh, she’s got red hair,’ cried Jessica, ‘that’s awful!’

‘And dark eyes,’ said nine-year-old Jane. ‘Gross!’

‘Most babies have dark blue eyes,’ said Elizabeth with a smile. ‘Don’t worry, they will get lighter like yours, darling.’

And they did. By the time she was three, Vanessa was a gorgeous, blue-eyed, auburn-haired pin-up baby who could have been plucked from the label of a Gerber’s baby-food jar. People stopped her nanny in the street to coo and comment about how cute and gorgeous she was. However, her sisters felt differently. They loathed the little girl and made no bones about letting her know just how much. Older and taller than she, they played crafty and wicked tricks on her. Since she didn’t take to riding horses and playing the blood sports her sisters loved to indulge in, she was left to her own devices much of the time. She played with her dolls’ house until she was almost fifteen. School friends were few, since she attended the village school and most of the girls were too intimidated to visit the castle.

‘It’s spooky,’ said Beryl, one of her few friends. ‘I’m sure it’s haunted, Vanessa. How do you sleep at night?’