by Lucy Lord
‘Awww, don’t they make a cute couple,’ said Barbara, one of the hangers-on, the blonde fifty-something wife of a billionaire studio head, who’d had so much plastic surgery her face looked as if it had melted. Tamara thought it unlikely Barbara was capable of genuine human emotion, but smiled back sweetly nonetheless.
Come on, get a grip, Tam. Think of something funny to say.
‘Did I tell you about the time I . . .’ she started.
‘Jack! Tamara!’ Crap. The moment of truth. It was Ben, making his way through the glamorous crowds with the others in tow behind him. Heads turned to gawp at the drop-dead gorgeous movie star as he passed. Jack bounded up to greet his friend.
‘Hey, buddy!’ he said warmly, embracing him in a man-hug and slapping him heartily on the back. Jesus Christ, they’d only seen each other yesterday. This bromance was seriously starting to get on Tamara’s tits.
‘Tamara.’ Ben gave her a brief hug. ‘Nice bikini.’
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? She looked at him enquiringly, silently begging him not to tell tales. Ben said nothing else, just gave his head the slightest shake, as if to say, ‘Not now’.
The others joined them at the bar and ordered drinks, and soon the mood was livelier than before, Tamara no longer the centre of attention. She hated it when it got to this time of day, when, with the drinking catching up on them all, they became louder, sillier and much more annoying.
Poppy, nursing a margarita across the bar from Tamara, and wondering what the hell had got into her this time, suddenly felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.
‘I would recognize that back view anywhere,’ said a deep voice. ‘Poppy Wallace.’ She turned.
‘Lars!’ she squealed, jumping off her stool and flinging her arms around an enormous blond man. ‘What are you doing here?!’
‘What do you think? That I am on business?’ The huge man gave an equally huge, hearty laugh. ‘I am on holiday, of course! The same, I guess, as you?’
‘Sorry sorry, stupid question, but – oh, I can’t tell you how fabulous it is to see you! Damian, look who it is – Lars is here!’
A big grin spread across Damian’s handsome brown face and he walked round from the other side of the bar to give the larger man a hug that practically swallowed him up.
Lars was six foot seven, most of it muscle, and pleasing to look at, with even, Scandinavian features, clear, honest blue eyes, a large, square head and straight, blond hair that he kept cropped short. He had met Damian a couple of years previously when they were both in their early thirties and newly unemployed in New York, and had proved a very loyal friend to both him and Poppy when their marriage hit a rocky patch. As well as providing a vast shoulder to cry on, he had mediated between the two of them, to the extent of joining Poppy and Bella on a road trip across the States in hot pursuit of Damian, who had taken off on his own to find himself (‘When did my bloody husband become such a fucking idiotic hippy?’ Poppy had sobbed at the time).
You knew you could rely on Lars, whether in a crisis or to have a good time, and Poppy and Damian – and Bella too, after their eventful road trip – were extremely fond of him.
‘How long are you here for? Have you got time to join us?’ Poppy was babbling, dragging Lars across to meet the others. ‘You remember Ben and Natalia, don’t you? Oooh, I’d better introduce you, not that they need much introduction. Lars, these are our friends Jack and Tamara. Jack, Tamara – our very good friend Lars.’
As Lars looked at Tamara, it was as though time itself had stopped. Luckily, nobody else seemed to notice.
*
Several hours later, they’d repaired to Bar Senequier in the Vieux Port of St Tropez village. Natalia, Ben, Poppy and Damian had made the journey back in the yacht; Jack, Tamara, Lars and a couple of his friends had travelled by chauffeur-driven limo and rented Mercedes, respectively.
With its distinctive red awning and white tablecloths, Bar Senequier was a St Tropez institution, situated right on the seafront where the most expensive yachts were moored – the place to watch the constant promenade of the rich and beautiful. Naturally the rich and beautiful were more interested in watching the table occupied by three extremely famous movie stars, but they gave them no trouble – it simply wouldn’t have been chic.
Lars, who was sitting next to Poppy and Damian, reminiscing about old times, had recovered his equilibrium, but still hadn’t quite got over the enormous jolt he’d felt on seeing Tamara. Of course he knew what she looked like – he’d watched Antony & Cleopatra, seen her face on countless billboards, and had been vaguely aware of the car-crash child star when she was growing up.
But in the flesh, she was exquisite, irresistible. The tilt of her head as she smiled, her delicate jawline, tiny frame, cat-like green eyes, retroussé nose and full, luscious lips aroused feelings in Lars he’d managed to repress for several years, after a particularly messy and painful break-up had made him vow never to feel that way about a woman again.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself sternly. You are behaving like a star-struck imbecile. She’s a world-famous movie star, engaged to be married to another world-famous movie star. This is nothing more than common lust, and you must not make a fool of yourself.
So he did his best to ignore her, extremely glad of Poppy and Damian’s company, but couldn’t resist sneaking the occasional glance in her direction.
Tamara, for her part, was by no means oblivious to the effect she was having on the Swedish giant, and was thrilled. At least somebody appreciated her. She’d stopped being centre of attention hours ago; both Poppy and that bitch Natalia, she had to concede grudgingly, were looking far too attractive tonight for her liking.
While Tamara knew she looked beyond fabulous in a backless – and practically frontless – violet Versace silk minidress, Poppy was channelling Bardot in a ridiculously cute outfit of blue-and-white sleeveless gingham shirt that tied under her bust, paired with fraying denim cut-offs. With her hair now streaked white by the sun and her teeth gleaming in her (naturally) tanned, slightly freckled face as she laughed, Tamara could see that none of the men at the table were immune to her charms. Even Natalia looked good for her age, she supposed, elegant in a midnight-blue chiffon minidress that showed off her endless legs.
Ben, sitting next to her, saw that Natalia was engrossed in chatting to Jack on the opposite side of the table, and decided that now was the time.
‘Tamara,’ he said quietly. She looked up at him through big, innocent eyes. ‘Quit the innocent act. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but if you don’t stop, I’m going to tell Jack. Capisce?’
Tamara nodded, her bottom lip quivering. Capisce? Who did he think he was, Don fucking Corleone?
Ben noticed the quivering lip and said, a bit more gently, ‘Jack’s my mate, and I love Natalia. Whatever you’re hoping to achieve, it’s not going to happen, so . . .’ Something made him look up. Natalia was looking across the table at them intently. ‘Nat, darling,’ he added smoothly. ‘I was telling Tamara about the first night I met you – how you were sitting just over there, and how I was mesmerized by your beautiful back. Wasn’t it magical, my love?’
It had been here, at Bar Senequier, that he and Natalia had met. Ben had been on location filming his first film, and Natalia, attracted by the loud chatter of the movie people sitting outside the restaurant, had wandered ashore from her yacht. The attraction had been instant, but had turned into something much deeper for both of them.
Natalia smiled, looking relieved. ‘Magical!’ She blew him several kisses across the table and Ben blew several back. Tamara felt sick, and humiliated.
‘Hey, garçon!’ She suddenly shouted, clicking her fingers like some demented flamenco dancer. ‘Over here! Vite!’ Her Californian accent grated against the soft and balmy night air.
‘Oui oui, Mademoiselle Gold? ’Ow can I ’elp?’ One of the white-aproned waiters, who were generally laid-back to the point of rudeness, rushed over i
mmediately.
‘I asked for my salad with the dressing on the side.’
‘Mais, mademoiselle, I brought it to you on the side. Look!’ The waiter picked up the small white jug that still contained around half the vinaigrette. Tamara had poured the other half over her salad.
‘Well, it’s not on the side any more, is it?’
Natalia, across the table, raised her eyebrows to heaven.
‘I want a fresh one – and don’t bother bringing any dressing this time – your dressing sucks.’
‘Of course, mademoiselle,’ said the waiter, taking her plate away.
‘Well, that was grown-up,’ said Ben.
‘Oh fuck you.’ She glared at him, daring him to say more, but he merely shrugged and turned to the chap on his right, a friend of Lars’s.
‘So it’s really taken off, your eco-tourism business?’ Poppy was saying to Lars. ‘That’s so cool! I’m pretty sure that, last I heard, you were only covering the States . . .’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Lars. ‘It seems that many people, even in a global recession, want to travel responsibly, and we do not charge much more – in some cases considerably less – than other travel companies covering the same places.’
‘Where are you expanding to?’ asked Damian, in between mouthfuls of buttery soft steak tartare, sharpened with cornichons and capers.
‘For the moment – Mexico, Ecuador, Venezuela. Not far.’ Lars’s modesty was endearing. ‘But next year, maybe Africa. I am in talks with some responsible safari guys. And of course I have contacts in Sweden. Winter safaris would be cool.’
‘They would indeed,’ smiled Poppy. ‘It suits you. You seem so much happier these days.’
‘I am happier.’ Lars glanced, ever so briefly, in Tamara’s direction. ‘Even if I could have gone back to banking, it never suited me the way this does. I was made to explore the world.’
‘You certainly were,’ laughed Damian. ‘You great big Viking, you.’
‘Hey – enough with the Viking jokes.’ Lars stared at them seriously, a hurt expression on his big square face. ‘You think that living with a heritage of raping and pillaging is easy?’
Poppy and Damian looked gobsmacked.
‘Hahahaha! I got you guys going! This is the Swedish sense of humour!’ Lars was booming with laughter so good-naturedly that it was impossible not to join in. ‘And I am sorry, because I have you guys to thank for my new life. It was chasing you on that crazy road trip that reminded me how much I love to travel.’
‘Oh, how cool!’ beamed Poppy. ‘Isn’t that fab, darling?!’ Damian nodded, smiling.
Poppy continued, brazenly, ‘So, to thank us, I think you should – please, please, please? – take us skiing in the Swedish midnight sun? I’ve always wanted to do that!’
‘She doesn’t change, does she?’ said Damian fondly.
Lars shook his head with an equally affectionate smile.
‘It’ll have to be once we’ve stopped jet-setting around the Med, pretending we’re film stars, of course . . .’
‘Hey, Lars,’ Tamara interrupted, leaning forward across the table so he could get a better view of her breasts, barely concealed in the violet silk minidress.
‘Yes?’ Lars, doing everything he could not to stare at the invitingly packaged cleavage, looked her determinedly in the eye.
‘Do you like the movies?’
Poppy kicked Damian under the table, amused by Tamara’s blatant attempt to bring the conversation around to herself.
‘Uh, sure,’ said Lars, mesmerized by her feline green gaze.
Tamara, feeling her heart starting to beat faster at the lust she was certain she could read in his clear blue eyes, gave him an almost surreptitious, and extremely sexy wink.
‘So what’s your favourite genre? Let me guess – you don’t look like a black-and-white arthouse kinda guy. I’d say something more masculine.’ She emphasized the word, smiling coquettishly. ‘Action, adventure, maybe some comedy? Am I right?’
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong,’ said Lars, desperate to escape her thrall, even though he was as fond of action movies as the next guy. ‘My favourite director is Ingmar Bergman.’ And he turned his back on her to resume his conversation with Damian and Poppy.
Tamara, furious and baffled by the snub, was relieved when her phone started to ring. A genuine smile crept across her pretty, petulant face as she took the call.
‘Omigod!’ she screamed as she hung up.
‘Jesus, what can it be this time?’ said Damian, sotto voce.
‘That was my agent!’ Tamara was brandishing her phone triumphantly, thrilled that at last she had a reason to be centre of attention. ‘Miles Dawson’s here – here, in the South of France – and he knows that I’m here, and he wants to meet me to talk about possibly starring in his next movie! Isn’t that fantastic?’ She looked around, eyes shining, and everybody agreed that it was, indeed, fantastic. Miles Dawson was a highly respected director of indie films – the kind of movies, in fact, that Jack had starred in at the beginning of his career. For Tamara to land a role like that would give her credibility, with or without Jack.
‘That’s wonderful, honey,’ said Jack. ‘When does he want to see you?’
‘A few days’ time, I think. He’s in Cannes at the moment. Isn’t that cool? He’ll be coming from Cannes, to see me!’ She sounded so excited that Lars had a sudden urge to kiss her, despite her horrendous narcissism.
‘We’re meant to be leaving for Ibiza the day after tomorrow,’ said Jack mildly.
‘Ibiza can go screw itself.’ Everybody laughed weakly, and Tamara raised her voice. ‘I mean it – Ibiza can go screw itself!’
‘Why are you being this way, Tammy?’ Jack’s voice was concerned. She wasn’t drunk, hadn’t been for nearly ten years, but she behaved more like an irrational alcoholic than all the people around the table, most of whom had been drinking all day.
‘Being what way? I finally get a break, and you’re concerned about jetting off to some crappy little island? Are you scared that I’m going to be top dog in this relationship? Is that what it is, Jack? I don’t know why you can’t be more supportive. I’m staying here, whatever happens. You can fuck off to Ibiza on your own.’
‘You know what?’ All of a sudden Jack sounded immensely weary. ‘I might just do that.’
Chapter 10
Bella stood back to inspect her handiwork, exhausted. It had taken five layers of whitewash to obliterate the graffiti on her sitting-room walls, her right arm felt as though it was about to fall off, and she was spattered in paint from head to toe. But it had been worth it.
‘What do you think, darling?’ she asked Daisy, who was sitting up in her chair at the far side of the room (to avoid the paint splatters), watching with interest. She clapped her little hands, grinning.
‘I’d love to pick you up and give you a kiss, my lovebird, but I don’t think I’m going to be picking up anything heavier than a glass of wine for the next couple of hours. Thank God Jorge’s coming to help move the furniture back in.’
It would have been nice if Andy had been around to help move the furniture back in, of course, but his book seemed to take bloody precedence over everything. Yes, she knew it was irritating when the Wi-Fi went off, but he was working to a nine-month deadline, not daily ones, and a bit of appreciation on the daily front wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Jorge had been an absolute godsend, though.
Before she had time to think about it any more deeply, she tried to remember where she’d left her make-up bag. It had been so long since she’d bothered to do her face that it was nearly ten minutes before she found it underneath Daisy’s cot.
‘This is silly,’ she said out loud as she applied a couple of layers of mascara and a tiny bit of blusher, squinting at herself in a grubby old compact, cross-legged on the floor next to Daisy’s high chair. ‘Who on earth do I think I’m trying to impress?’ Then, seeing Daisy gazing at her with her huge, round innocent eyes, she
added, slightly guiltily, ‘It’s not about impressing people though, is it, my honeylove? It’s simply about not letting one’s standards slip.’
*
The finca was very nearly ready for Poppy and Damian’s arrival the following day.
The guest room was immaculate, with a romantic, colonial feel to it. With Jorge’s help, Bella had found an enormous wooden sleigh bed with intricately carved headboard, a couple of Balinese enamel-inlaid bedside tables, with a matching chest (now full of freshly laundered, lavender-scented linen), and two rattan armchairs, which sat either side of the big shuttered windows, with their view over pine and olive groves all the way down to the shimmering navy-blue sea. The bed linen was pure white, offset by a tumble of animal-print cushions (leopard, zebra and cow), and more cushions with vibrant Moroccan silk covers brightened up the rattan chairs. A huge mirror hung above the Balinese chest, and white voile curtains wafted in the breeze created by the large wooden ceiling fan whirring overhead. A jungle of yucca and rubber plants stood next to a dark wooden wardrobe and added to the exotic atmosphere. Bella had put an enormous vase of pink and orange roses and orchids on the chest, along with a pile of new and very fluffy white towels, and a selection of the latest English glossies – Vogue, Elle, GQ and Esquire – which had cost a fortune from the English newsagent in Ibiza Town. In fact, none of this had come cheap, but she still had some money left over from the sale of her Notting Hill flat – London prices had reached ridiculous levels – and never having had a guest room before, she was determined to be the hostess with the mostest.
The bathroom opposite was the one room in which Bella had been able to stick to the original plan of white (ish), and she was thrilled with how the claw-footed Victorian bath looked against the dark wooden floorboards and cream Paris metro tiles. The kitchen units had finally been delivered, she had found (again with Jorge’s help) the perfect rustic wooden kitchen table, and the kitchen now felt like the cosy heart of the family home she had always dreamed of. All that remained was to rearrange all the furniture, which had been shifted outside for the last couple of days, back into the freshly painted sitting room. She’d left the most tedious, arduous task – painting over the graffiti – till last.