The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘What celebrities are going to be here this weekend,’ said Anton, still shouting, as two screaming models jumped into the pool behind them.

  ‘Loads of them,’ said Alex, forcing a smile as he felt spray all down the back of his chinos. He jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled a regretful face at the rum VP. ‘Sorry, got to take this,’ he shouted. ‘News never sleeps.’

  Anton looked at him. ‘Has something happened? Is it big?’

  ‘Yeah, could be very big.’ He glanced around, then leaned close to Anton. ‘Beyoncé,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and find you later, tell you all about it.’ Anton gave him a big thumbs-up and Alex knew right then that Volcan rum would be committing to a hefty ad spend.

  He pressed the phone hard against his ear, Alex immediately recognised Lara’s voice.

  ‘Hey. How are you?’ He moved to a quieter corner of the pool.

  ‘Bloody hell. Where are you? I thought there were no races on today?’ she shouted.

  ‘Pool party, which means I still need ear-plugs. Do you want me to call you later?’

  ‘I can go one better than that. How about we meet?’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’m in Monaco.’

  ‘You’re in Monaco?’

  Alex immediately felt his mood lift.

  ‘Couldn’t bear to be away from you,’ said Lara, deadpan.

  Of course he was pleased to be in town. He’d much rather be sitting with a drink in the Casino Square, people-watching with his old friend, but it only took him a split second to realise what she was doing here. Jonathon Meyer had a yacht in Monte Carlo. It was surely no coincidence.

  ‘There’s some big advertiser party tonight I have to show my face at, but how about you come along? Then we can escape to the casino.’

  There was a hesitation, then: ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ laughed Alex, although he’d expected some resistance. ‘It’s only the hottest party of Grand Prix weekend and therefore the entire year.’

  ‘No, I’ll come. It will be fun.’

  Alex found himself smiling down at his phone.

  ‘Alex Ford, you dark horse. What are you looking so pleased with yourself for?’

  He turned and was pleased to see his old friend Dominic Parker. Dom was an old colleague from his early days at the Chronicle. Short and stocky, Dom was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a purple tie so loud it hurt the eyes: Dom was an ad man through and through.

  ‘Just glad to see you,’ said Alex, embracing him. ‘Apart from the tie, obviously. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you, I imagine. Advertiser love-bomb. Half of media and finance London is in a one-mile radius of this spot.’

  Dom had started at the Chronicle on the same day as Alex and the pair of them had hit it off on their induction course. They’d lived a mile apart in Finsbury Park, and played five-a side soccer together on Sunday mornings. Their friendship had been short-lived when Alex was posted overseas within twelve months, but they’d stayed in touch, even though Dom hadn’t stayed long at the Chronicle, bouncing from job to job at an ad agency, a music publisher, a TV station, then back to an ad agency, each time climbing several rungs of the ladder, each time gaining more experience in different areas of the media. Dom was self-interested and ambitious, but he was sharp and wasn’t frightened about trying new things. In fact, thought Alex, Dom was exactly the sort of MD they needed at the Chronicle.

  ‘So how’s things in the cul-de-sac of print media?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty good. I’m deputy editor, now.’

  ‘I heard – I rang you to congratulate you,’ he frowned. ‘Or didn’t I?’

  ‘Maybe,’ grinned Alex. ‘Possibly got lost in the haze of flowers and whisky.’

  They spent a few minutes catching up on their news. It was good to speak to someone in the business without worrying about the politics. Back when Alex worked on the news desk, he would sometimes take Dominic along to parties and junkets. Dom’s smooth patter in the hotel bar was always an icebreaker with sources, attachés or celebrities. Dom could get anyone to tell them their story; he’d have made a fine reporter.

  ‘So what are you up to Dom? I heard you left the agency.’

  ‘The rumours are true. I’ve got a start-up.’

  It was something Alex heard a lot these days. His profession seemed to split into two camps. Those who were just clinging on, hoping to make it to retirement, or those taking leaps: over the past year he’d heard of dozens of journalists and executives retraining as life coaches, landscape gardeners and teachers. It was no big surprise that Dom was joining the exodus.

  ‘So what’s the big idea?’

  Dom shrugged, as if it was obvious. ‘Smart news. It’s an “on your phone” news portal called The Filter. Podcasts, digital, TV, non-fiction books. Think of us as a club, not a newspaper. All tailored to your tastes, interests and beliefs. There’s a studio arm too, gathering stories from around the world and packaging them up as IP to the streamers.’

  Alex nodded, impressed. The bespoke aspect seemed smart and he knew that the demand for intellectual property – ideas for film, TV and games – was voracious.

  ‘Sounds good. Have you got backing?’

  ‘There’s some seed funding in place, but I need to recruit someone to run the editorial side before we go out for further investment.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of good people looking for work at the moment. the Herald just laid off twenty members of the senior team.’

  Dom clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Why would I want them when I have the world’s greatest newsman right here?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Al, you’re the best.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I’m flattered Dom, but…’

  Dominic gave an impatient shake of the head.

  ‘Does print news still excite you?’ he asked bluntly.

  Alex still loved his job, but he had to admit that newspapers were falling behind. At the last two elections, the Chronicle’s headline the next morning had read ‘Polls Too Close To Call’, when everyone in the country already knew the result. It looked unprofessional, sure, but it also looked out of touch, which was unforgivable for a news source.

  ‘Traditional media still has power, Dom,’ he said, feeling the need to defend his position.

  ‘But aren’t you sick of working for someone else? With this, you’d own the company. In at the ground floor, full equity partner. You’d be calling the shots – but you’d get to live a life too.’

  Alex knew Dom had a point, but it had always been his dream to be the editor of a national newspaper. It all went back to his local paper growing up: The Cumbrian. When Alex had been 14, a child had gone missing in the hills and Doug Bannen, editor of The Cumbrian, had gone into crusading overdrive. Usually a weekly paper, The Cumbrian had pumped out a mini-edition every day, lambasting the police, praising the mountain rescue, mobilising the community to ‘search every hedge and hayloft’. Given he lived above the newsagents, Alex had felt right at the heart of it; he had seen the excitement in the punters’ faces as they queued to buy the new issue. Six days in, the girl was discovered on the Isle of Man, having been snatched by her estranged father – and The Cumbrian had gone back to being a sleepy rag discussing council plans for a new bus stop. But what a week it had been. It had taught Alex that the news had power to excite, to enthral and to motivate – he couldn’t turn his back on it now. Not when he still hadn’t realised his dream of being an editor.

  ‘How long have you been with the Chronicle?’ asked Dominic. ‘Fifteen years, is it? You know yourself you’re not going to be the sexy appointment for the editor’s job when it comes up. But stepping away for a couple of years might be a smart play.’

  That was the trouble with old friends. They seemed to know what you were thinking. Alex’s climb up the Chronicle’s editorial ladder had been slow and steady. And Dominic was right, when they were looking for a new face to head up their f
lagship, the Avery execs were going to be looking for someone who could bring a new energy or experience to the paper. They weren’t going to be excited by someone they passed every day in the corridor.

  Across the pool, Alex could see Charlie waving at him.

  ‘You go,’ said Dom squeezing his friend’s arm. ‘Go and drink some free cocktails and think about it. The offer’s there, but it won’t be forever.’

  Chapter 13

  Lara had never been to Monte Carlo before, but it looked exactly as she had imagined. As a teenager, she spent most summers in Scotland at the Averys’ Highlands estate, but one glorious week in the Easter holidays she had been to Epcot in Disneyland, which had miniature versions of world destinations: Paris, Kyoto, Marrakesh– or at least fantasy versions of them.

  Monte Carlo was like that, a billionaire’s version of the Belle Époque Riviera, the Casino and the Hotel de Paris facing formal gardens designed for Victorian promenading, now used as a mini racetrack for expensive performance cars driving at five miles an hour: being seen was much more important than getting there.

  Lara had grown up around wealthy people, she had been to a boarding school boasting one princess and two Comtesses, but this world, the world of the billionaire party-goer, was on a whole different scale. The Averys’ wealth was old and quiet, this was flashy and loud, like a performance engine revving in the street with the sole purpose of drawing admiring looks.

  There were designer boutiques and jewellers everywhere too, but Lara was looking at the real spectacle: the couples. Barrel-chested Eastern Europeans in open-necked shirts and dinner-plate watches that cost more than a house. The women were leggy and groomed, wearing anything floaty and short, strappy high shoes, perhaps an ostrich Birkin.

  Lara paused for a moment, idly looking for a dress for that night’s party. No Monaco designer store would stoop to putting the prices in the displays, but Lara had to assume they would all be ruinously expensive. Anyway it was the company she was looking forward to. Hopefully tonight Alex could get that corporate stick out of his backside and go back to being the unpredictable fun-loving goof she used to know. Hope springs eternal, thought Lara as she walked back up towards the Hôtel Hermitage with its elegant balconies and queue of expensive vehicles parked outside. Lara saw a Porsche and a Bentley and a shiny pumped up 4x4 all queued up behind a shiny Fiat van with rakes and brushes poking out the back – the driver, presumably the hotel’s gardener, leaning out the window, smoking a Gaulouise. The one drawback to being a billionaire, thought Lara. Even supercars get stuck in traffic.

  Lara strode into the Hermitage, smiling at the doormen. Lara turned at the stairs past potted palms and out onto VistaMar, the restaurant on the open terrace at the side of the hotel with a sweeping view of the principality. Lara didn’t usually go to fancy places, she preferred dive bars with loud music, but the setting here was stunning. Sometimes it was worth the money.

  Lara spotted Melissa before she stood. Even among a bar full of beautiful people, Melissa stood out. Unlike the rail-thin clones hanging on the arms of the tourists, Melissa had curves, with a natural beauty that made her stand out.

  ‘Melissa? I am Lara.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Lara.’

  Another surprise: a cut-glass English accent, home counties, certainly. Lara immediately imagined Melissa wafting around Pony Clubs before sidling off to the hayloft with an Argentinian polo player: or perhaps she had read too many Jilly Cooper novels as a teenager.

  ‘I ordered tea and cake, I hope that’s alright?’ said Melissa as she poured Darjeeling from a bone china pot.

  ‘You’re a friend of Tom’s, I understand?’ she asked, passing Lara a cup and saucer. Lara nodded, hoping not to give too much away.

  ‘Tom’s fabulous,’ said Lara smoothly.

  Melissa would not be pushover, not in her business. Even if Tom hadn’t filled her in, Lara knew that the woman would have already Googled ‘Lara Stone’ and would know she was a journalist. And yet she had still agreed to meet. That told her something – that Melissa had something she wanted to say.

  ‘Did Tom mention why I wanted to talk to you?’ asked Lara.

  The other woman shook her head. ‘Something about the Pandora?’

  ‘Yes. Sex trafficking,’ said Lara.

  There were many tools in a journalist’s tool-box. Sometimes you had to chip away with a source for weeks, months, sometimes years, persuading them to talk. Other times you just had to go for the throat in the hope of catching them off-guard. She watched Melissa’s face. She had expected outrage and denial, but the woman simply threw her head back and laughed. Full and fruity, a laugh of genuine pleasure.

  ‘Well, I appreciate you getting straight to the point,’ she smiled. ‘I spend far too much time being achingly polite, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who cuts the crap.’

  Even the word ‘crap’ sounded pretty coming from Melissa’s lips. She was a class act.

  ‘So I’ll return the favour and do my best to speed things up,’ said Melissa. ‘The answer is no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No sex trafficking. Not on the Pandora or any other yacht in Monte Carlo that I am aware of.’

  Lara frowned. She hadn’t expected a tearful confession of orgies with women groomed for the ordeal, but she had anticipated evasion. This flat denial was a surprise. Melissa looked at Lara over the rim of her cup.

  ‘You think I’m a madam, don’t you?’

  Lara shook her head.

  ‘I don’t want to make assumptions.’

  ‘You shouldn’t.’ For the first time Lara saw a hint of the steel under Melissa’s polish. Just a flash, then it was gone.

  ‘Let me make some important distinctions,’ said Melissa, her perfectly buffed nails toying with a silver fork. ‘A madam provides sex workers. I do not. I run a companion service, an escort agency if you prefer. They are not prostitutes, they are more like extras in a movie. They are paid to fill out party scenes, chat to the party goers, laugh at their jokes.’ She spread her hands. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘No sex at all?’ Lara could hear the disbelief in her own voice but Melissa was polite enough to ignore it.

  ‘If there is sex, the girls do it on their own time. It’s not part of the job.’

  ‘But why did Jonathon want to pay for female company? Why did he have to? Surely they’d jump at the chance to meet rich men.’

  ‘Because the last thing a rich man at a party wants is someone looking to be his wife.’

  She sipped her tea and put it back on the table.

  ‘These are bold claims, Lara. Why are you making them?’

  ‘A friend told me that Jonathon was involved in trafficking.’

  ‘A friend? Well, Jonathon was my friend; I actually knew him personally, so forgive me if I find your accusations hurtful and offensive.’

  In that moment, Lara could see how fond Melissa was of Jonathon.

  ‘I’m sorry Melissa, but I have to ask. I’m sure you know I’m a journalist.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said crisply.

  ‘I’m looking into the trafficking claims, but also the theory that Jonathon was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ said Melissa. Her expression was sceptical.

  ‘I think Jonathon might have been deliberately targeted. Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm him?’

  Melissa shook her head slowly. ‘The high-finance world is tough, ruthless even. But they’re not murderers.’

  ‘His brother Simon thought he might be worried about his business.’

  It was a slight exaggeration, but Lara was convinced that Melissa knew something.

  ‘I have no knowledge of his business affairs, although there was one thing…’

  ‘Go on,’ pressed Lara.

  She hesitated before she spoke again.

  ‘I’ve worked with Jonathon for nearly ten years and he always paid promptly, but his last two invoices are still outstanding.’

  ‘Jonathon di
dn’t pay you?’

  She waved it away.

  ‘Look, financiers have cashflow problems like anyone. Besides, I owed him. Jon helped me out over the years, so I was prepared to cut him some slack.’

  ‘How much did he owe you?’

  Melissa told her a six-figure sum. Not for the first time, Lara wondered if she was in the wrong business.

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘He was a good friend.’

  Lara leaned forward.

  ‘If you did care for him, help me out here, Melissa.’

  ‘Help you fuel a wild conspiracy?’ she said, shaking her head.

  She put her hand on the table, her dark red polished nails like spots of blood on the starched white linens.

  ‘Lara, rich men die every day. They may have more money in the bank than you or I, but they bleed the same blood, succumb to the same illnesses. I’m not sure theories involving murders and trafficking are helpful.’

  Lara knew Melissa was talking about Jonathon, but she had unwittingly touched a nerve. Lara had been young when her parents had died, but she wasn’t too small to hear the whispers – from adults and from bullies at boarding school.

  ‘Have you seen something, Melissa? Heard something?’

  ‘There is someone who might help you,’ she said finally. ‘A guest.’

  She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. ‘Jago Bain, he’s some sort of PR guy, lobbyist. There was a party on Pandora a few weeks ago, Jon’s inner circle.’

  ‘His inner circle?’

  ‘Jon had a special select group, the A-list of finance people and influencers – the really big hitters. Anyway, on this jaunt, Jago got into some sort of argument with Jonathon.’

  ‘Were you there?

  Melissa shook her head.

  ‘I wasn’t, but my friend Willem, one of the stewards, had to escort him off the boat by tender and get him to shore.’