by Lucy Lord
‘Uh-huh. Daisy is cute.’
‘So when are you going to visit us in our run-down rustic hovel?’ Poppy read out, as Natalia passed her phone back to her. ‘I know it’s not up to your levels of glamour, but it’s sooooo pretty – or it will be, once we’ve got everything sorted. Go on, Pops, surely you’re rich enough now to be able to pop over to the White Isle whenever the mood takes you? I miss you xxx.’
‘Sweet girl, Bella,’ said Natalia.
‘Yeah, and I miss her too. I also miss Ibiza.’ Poppy’s mind drifted back, both to her wedding, and also to all the fun they’d had before success had hit them – some more stratospherically than others. ‘I’d love to go back this summer.’
‘What about your work?’ Natalia put the word into ever so slightly sarcastic inverted commas and Poppy smiled. She knew she had the easiest job in the world.
‘Well, we’re shooting Coachella next weekend, and loads of crappy awards ceremonies for a month or two, but I’m sure Damian and I could pay them a visit after that. What about you and Ben?’
Poppy worked as a roaming TV reporter, covering all the coolest things happening in California, and her husband Damian was a screenwriter. Ben, Natalia’s other half, was a movie star almost as famous as Jack Meadows, and equally handsome – though his was the pouty, blond, blue-eyed variety of male beauty. He had starred in his first movie with Jack, and their Matt Damon/Ben Affleck-esque ‘bromance’ had done no harm whatsoever at the box office.
Jack had also persuaded one of the biggest studios to turn Damian’s first screenplay into a major motion picture. So in many ways Jack was their lynchpin in LA. And it had been fun when it was only the five of them hanging out: Poppy, Damian, Ben, Natalia and Jack. Natalia, with her dodgy past, was happy to do the glamour thing at private parties like this one, but avoided the red carpet as much as she could – she found that, provided you didn’t court publicity, on the whole you were left alone. So Ben and Jack often turned up at the premieres and awards ceremonies together, joshing and laughing and playing up their bromance.
But now this little cow Tamara had turned up and ruined everything. Her brattish and demanding ways had destroyed the equilibrium of the easy friendship the five of them had shared. The Jack and Ben show had been replaced by the Jack and Tamara show, so Natalia had been forced to act as Ben’s dazzling consort on the red carpet on more than one occasion.
And after years of hard graft, Natalia liked to call the shots herself. Having transformed herself from teenage Kiev street whore to one of the most in-demand call girls in boom-time Nineties Moscow and London, to canny property investor and uber-glamorous socialite, she felt it was the very least she deserved.
*
Tamara certainly knew how to make an entrance.
Filthy Meadows, Jack’s father, started strumming the chords of one of his greatest hits – ‘Sexy Green-Eyed Woman’ – as three male models, naked from the waist up, carried her horizontal, emerald-bikini-clad body over their heads, out from the French windows to the terrace at the top of the wide marble steps leading down to the mosaic-lined pool.
‘Sexy green-eyed hellcat. I want you so bad, but you can never be mi-y-y-iiine . . .’
‘A little inappropriate, don’t you think?’ said Natalia, turning her slanting ice-blue gaze on Poppy.
‘Yeah, I’ll give you that,’ Poppy laughed, wondering if she could steal the introduction for her Coachella shoot. Her eyes were green too, and it would probably only take two blokes to lift her; she didn’t have the weight of Tamara’s fake breasts, after all.
Jack remained silent, but inside he was seething. What the fuck had Tamara been thinking? His dad?
Filthy came to the end of the chorus, and the beefcakes put Tamara on her feet. The assembled glitterati applauded lustily, and Tamara ran down the steps to give the rock star a huge kiss on the lips.
‘Thanks, Dad!’ She grinned up at him, and there were ripples of sycophantic laughter through the crowd. ‘Hey, Jack – get me a drink won’t ya? Virgin Margarita?’
Not wanting to make a scene, Jack did as he was told, absolutely furious. His ego wasn’t half the size of most Hollywood stars, but this was meant to be their party. The Jack and Tamara pool party. Not the Tamara Gold show. And as for his dad serenading her in that repulsively lecherous way? It was wrong on so many levels.
‘Here,’ he said quietly as he thrust the drink into Tamara’s outstretched hand. ‘But don’t you ever show me up like that again. And Dad . . .’ He turned to his father. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Uh?’ Filthy’s face, all plumped-up lips and weird facial topiary under his shock of dyed black hair, was the picture of bemusement. ‘Tamara told me you’d agreed this, the two of you. My greatest hit, her greatest assets . . .’ He grinned roguishly.
Jack sighed. ‘Tamara—’ he started.
‘Whatever, Jack,’ she snapped. ‘Now you must excuse me. I gotta greet my guests.’
‘Our guests, Tamara. Our guests,’ Jack repeated, as he took her firmly by the arm and steered her away from his father.
Poppy and Natalia, who had by now been joined by Damian and Ben, were within earshot. The four of them exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, then burst into slightly guilty giggles.
‘Wow,’ said Poppy. ‘Just – wow.’
‘Poor Jack,’ said Ben, who was very fond of his movie-star buddy – the bromance was genuine.
‘I told you she was a little bitch,’ said Natalia.
‘I think Jack’s old enough and ugly enough to stand up for himself,’ said Damian.
They were now sitting at a circular glass table, with a white leather padded circular seat that went all the way round, underneath a huge white parasol.
‘Darling . . .’ Poppy turned to Damian, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Before that entertaining little charade, I got a text from Bella.’ She didn’t bother to mention the photo of Daisy – men were so not interested in baby photos. ‘She’s dying for us to visit her in Ibiza. And I have to say, I’m dying to see their new place. What do you think? This summer? Feasible?’
‘Eminently so, I’d say.’ Damian’s teeth flashed white in his dark face as he smiled at his pretty wife. His half-Indian, half-Welsh genes were an odd-sounding but winning combination. ‘God, I’d love to hit Ibiza again. It seems like years . . .’ His mind drifted back, the way Poppy’s had earlier. ‘Yeah, let’s do it. We could even try to combine it with the opening parties, like we used to.’
‘Shall we all go?’ said Natalia. ‘You can stay at my villa . . .’
‘Thanks, Nat, but I think Bella will expect us to be staying with her,’ smiled Poppy.
‘Of course!’ Natalia hit herself on the forehead in one of her characteristic dramatic gestures. ‘Stupid me. Still . . . Let’s look at our diaries and see what we can all fit in. Ben, sweetie, you should be able to take some time off this summer, no?’ She gazed adoringly at her movie-star boyfriend, who was looking more handsome than ever today in Hawaiian printed boardshorts, his streaky light brown/blond hair, still wet from his swim, flopping into his delicious blue eyes.
‘If you’re all going to Ibiza without me, I’ll bloody well make time.’ The longer Ben stayed in LA, the more posh English his RADA-created accent became. ‘Ooh, Nat, we could even take your boat out, little trip round the Med – Greek islands, St Tropez . . .’
Natalia smiled at him, remembering the magical time they’d had in St Tropez, where they’d first met.
‘What’s this about St Tropez?’ Tamara slinked over and kissed Ben on the lips, leaving a sticky residue of lip gloss. ‘My God, Ben, I swear you get more handsome by the day.’
Poppy kicked Natalia under the table, willing her not to rise to the bait.
‘Hi, Tamara,’ she said, getting up to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Great party.’
‘Thanks.’ Tamara smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Poppy.’ Poppy was one of the few women in Hollywood she didn’t feel patronized by. ‘But tell me, w
hat’s all this about St Tropez?’
‘Hi, Tamara,’ said Damian, getting up to kiss her too. ‘We were actually planning a trip to Ibiza, but then Ben got carried away and started talking about cruising round the Med – which was how we ended up at St Trop—’
Tamara, who’d seen the photos of P Diddy’s yacht and realized that Mediterranean cruises were cool, smiled slowly. ‘In that case, you can count me in. Jack,’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘How d’ya feel about a European vacation this summer?’
Natalia, behind her back, rolled her eyes and mimed slitting her throat.
Chapter 4
‘Yeah, I know. Bloody men don’t understand how exhausting it is, being a full-time wife, mother and entrepreneur – Scheherazade stop that!’ India Cavendish nodded sympathetically as her friend Saffron paused from her moaning to snap at the children. ‘Leave Francesca alone!’
Summer Larsson sighed as the two thirty-something yummy mummies approached the beachside crèche with their squabbling children. India and Saffron were both married to extremely rich and good-looking men, living in beautiful villas with extensive staff, and were constantly going on about how arduous their lives were. Physically, they were almost indistinguishable, although India’s streaky light-brown hair, currently held up in a messy bun, was slightly less blonde than Saffron’s, which today hung to her shoulders in insouciant plaits. Skinny and tanned, they conducted their lives in short, floaty kaftans that showed off thoroughbred legs, glittery flip-flops and large, round designer shades. Both had high-cheekboned faces that had probably been rather beautiful before the botox.
India, with the backing of her husband Jamie (who had been a hedge-fund manager in London before they’d moved to Ibiza – all a bit dodgy), had just launched a Fairtrade kids’ clothing company. Saffron made jewellery from bits of driftwood and pebbles that she found on the beach.
‘And can you please stop that, Milo!’ India grabbed her son by the scruff of his Fairtrade T-shirt, and frogmarched him into the crèche. ‘Hi, Summer,’ she said. ‘Rather you than me. He’s been an absolute little horror all morning. The nanny’s threatening to resign and God, do I need some me-time.’ She gave a weary smile.
‘Hi, India, hi, Milo!’ Summer smiled back. The little boy’s face lit up at the sight of her.
‘Summer!’ He jumped up into her arms.
‘Yes, well,’ said India. ‘I suppose the change of scene does him good. Right, I’m going to get changed. See you on the beach, Saff,’ she added over her shoulder to her friend, who was vaguely ushering her twin daughters into the crèche.
‘What? Oh, right, yeah.’ Saffron bent down and picked a twig up from the ground. ‘Wow, that could make, like, the most incredible statement piece. What is it, Francesca?’ she snapped at one of the little girls, who was tugging at her arm. ‘Mummy’s being creative. Oh, you want to go to the loo – well, go on then, you know where it is. Nobody’s stopping you. Honestly,’ she added to Summer, ‘Kids. Who’d have ’em?’
‘Oh, they’re great girls,’ smiled Summer, because, in all honesty, most of the children were fine as soon as they were away from their mothers.
‘Whatever. God, I’m looking forward to this class. I can’t tell you the stress I’ve been under this week.’ And Saffron made her way to the changing rooms, pausing to do a couple of limbering stretches, without so much as a backward glance at her daughters.
Summer sighed again as she busied herself making sure all the children had everything they needed, wondering, not for the first time, if running the crèche three mornings a week was worth it. She loved the kids – most of them – but some of the mothers were so horrendous that it took every last bit of willpower she possessed to smile politely at the inane, self-centred crap they came out with. Still, since she’d opened the crèche a couple of years ago, her mother’s yoga classes had soared in popularity; she owed it to Britta to keep it going, she supposed.
Summer’s main job was food and drink columnist on Island Life, an extremely hip and glossily produced English-language website chronicling every aspect of life in Ibiza, from fashion, to festivals, to new restaurant or club openings. Its offices were in Ibiza Town, though she didn’t have to set foot in them much, filing most of her copy from the Mac in her little apartment, high up in the Old Town.
Summer loved Ibiza. She’d grown up in her parents’ hillside villa, which had direct access to the unspoilt beach that now housed the Art Resort, via steep stone steps. Naturally athletic, she loved swimming and hiking and cycling in the great outdoors. Still, she’d tried to flee the nest: she’d studied Modern Languages at the University of Barcelona, with a vague idea of becoming a journalist in New York, or London, Stockholm, Paris or Rome (her French and Italian were now as fluent as her Swedish, English and Spanish). But after travelling around the world teaching languages for a couple of years, she’d realized that she was always happiest on the island of her birth.
Much as she adored the house overlooking the beach, she couldn’t live with her parents for ever, and had been delighted, on her return, to find a quirky little flat in the Old Town that wasn’t too extortionate to rent. From time to time, recommended by her childhood friend Clemency, who ran an upmarket Ibiza concierge service, Summer cooked fabulous meals for rich tourists in their villas. Her gift for languages and sensational good looks were as much a factor as her excellence in the kitchen when it came to the high fees she commanded. The varied and unstructured nature of her professional life suited her perfectly. Life was pretty cool, she reflected, although the David situation was becoming a bit tiresome.
‘Summer!’
She looked up from Milo to see Bella, pushing Daisy along in her buggy.
‘Hey. So glad you decided to brave the yummy mummies on the beach.’ Summer gave Bella a warm hug, and Bella felt instantly nervous.
‘How yummy are they?’ she asked.
‘Some of them are OK, but some of them – well – don’t get me started.’
Bella laughed as she took Daisy out of her buggy and, showering her face with kisses, handed her over to Summer.
‘You’ll be OK with Summer, darling, I can tell. She will, won’t she?’ Bella sounded as anxious as she felt. The only person she’d ever left Daisy with before was her own mother.
‘Don’t worry, Bella. Daisy will be fine with me.’ Summer smiled, wishing that all the mothers with whom she had to contend showed as much consideration for their little ones.
*
Bella had never been more glad that ninety minutes were over. The white sandy beach, lapped by clear tourmaline water and backed by dense, highly scented pine forest, was on the east coast of the island, perfect for the rising sun. Britta, Summer’s mother, was a delight – a very blonde, very hippy-ish woman in her late fifties who took her job as a yoga teacher seriously; she took the time to readjust the postures of every single one of her clients, all of whom she knew by name.
Bella, who was wearing old baggy yoga pants and an even baggier T-shirt, had sweated profusely during the exhausting workout. The other participants were clad, almost uniformly, in short lycra shorts and tiny vest tops that showed off their absurdly neat little bodies as they contorted themselves into shapes that were way beyond her abilities. The yummy mummies to whom Summer had referred – India, and particularly Saffron, had made her feel horribly uncomfortable as they acknowledged her presence with a snooty once-over, turning to one another with raised eyebrows. She was sure she’d heard Saffron sniggering as she’d failed, yet again, to go smoothly from a downward into an upward dog.
However, as she lay on the sand, looking up at the morning sun and reflecting that the only time she’d ever been up in Ibiza at such an ungodly hour in the past had been post-clubbing, Bella smiled, feeling strangely peaceful yet elated. Maybe she’d finally grown up. She only wished she wasn’t so red-faced and sweaty.
‘Hey!’ Summer approached her, Daisy in her arms. ‘I think your daughter wants to say what a cool mom I have, to ha
ve gotten through Britta’s yoga class.’
‘That’s sweet of you, Summer, but I don’t think I excelled myself.’ Bella dusted the sand off her body, every muscle burning. ‘I was the bloody class dunce.’
Summer laughed. ‘Be easy on yourself. My mom does put people through their paces, and you did OK for your first time. Don’t you think so, Daisy?’
Daisy gurgled and grinned.
‘See? Daisy thinks you did just fine.’
‘You’re an angel.’ Bella stood up on very shaky legs and took her daughter from Summer. ‘I think I’d better go and have a shower now, though.’ She hugged Daisy and planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I must look horrendous. I don’t s’pose you could look after her for ten more minutes?’
‘For sure.’ Summer stretched out her arms to take Daisy. ‘And then, maybe you’d like to join me for breakfast in the café?’ She nodded over her shoulder at the whitewashed stone building at the back of the beach, fronted by white-painted wooden tables laid out under rainbow-striped parasols in the sand.
‘Thanks.’ Bella smiled. ‘I’d love to.’
*
‘You lived there?’ Bella paused from her breakfast of free-range eggs, scrambled with wild spinach on organic spelt bread, to gaze up at the little white house halfway up the hill, with its steep stone steps leading down to the beach. ‘Wow, what a location.’
‘Uh-huh. My parents still do. Pretty handy for work, huh? Not much of a commute.’
Bella laughed. ‘So where do you live now?’
‘I’ve an apartment up in the Old Town. It’s small, but cute. I like it. I only work here three mornings a week,’ she added, pausing to take a mouthful of her eggs – she’d opted for the same breakfast as Bella.
‘What do you do the rest of the time?’ Bella was expecting something along the lines of model or dancer.
‘Mainly I write a food column. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a website called Island Life?’