by Lucy Lord
Bella looks beautiful, Poppy was thinking, taking in the sun-streaked long brown hair, happy tanned face and air of maternal contentment. OK, so she was covered in splats of white paint, but that was Bella for you.
‘Hi, Bella,’ said Damian, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘It’s so great to be here at last. You’re looking fabulous. Hello, Daisy!’ He waved at the little girl sitting on Poppy’s lap.
‘Right, do you want a drink here, or shall we get going? I’ve nearly finished this.’ Bella indicated her beer.
‘Oh, let’s get going,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m dying to see your house. And I bet you’ve got a fridge-full of booze, right?’ She winked.
‘I did stock up, knowing you two were coming, yes,’ said Bella primly and Poppy and Damian laughed. ‘OK, let’s go.’ She downed her beer, plonked some cash on the table, took Daisy from Poppy and put her back in her buggy. Poppy watched in amazement. She looked so . . . capable.
‘Adios – gracias!’ She called over her shoulder. ‘Hasta Sabado!’
‘Hasta Sabado!’ called back Pilar, the charming waitress she’d invited to the party.
Bella drove the jeep along winding roads, through silvery olive groves, and finally the rubbly white dirt track that led to Ca’n Pedro, chatting excitedly all the way. The sun was high in the sky, but the wind in their hair kept them cool.
‘I still can’t get over you driving,’ said Poppy.
‘I know – weird isn’t it? Driving, having a baby, giving up smoking . . . I might, just maybe, have grown up.’
‘Naah – that’s going a bit too far,’ Poppy laughed. ‘Anyway, you didn’t answer my question – where’s Andy?’
Bella made a face. ‘Santa Eulalia. Our Wi-Fi’s down again – one of the disadvantages of living in the sticks – and he’s got “urgent business”’ – she took one hand briefly from the steering wheel to make air quotes – ‘to attend to.’
‘Surely he can email on his phone?’ said Damian.
‘Not reams and reams of impenetrable historical prose, no.’
‘Oh well, fair enough,’ said Poppy. ‘Looking forward to seeing him later, though.’
‘How was St Tropez?’
‘Fun, and weird – so much to tell you. We bumped into Lars!’
‘Oh, that’s fab! How was he?’
‘He . . .’ Poppy finally shut up as the jeep turned a corner and Ca’n Pedro came into view. ‘Is this your house?’
Bella nodded, unable to stop the big smile creeping across her face.
‘Oh my God, Belles. It’s abso-fucking-lutely beautiful!’
*
Later that evening, they were sitting out under the stars. They’d moved the table out from under the balcony so that they could look up at the sky as they dined by candlelight, and were all feeling very happy with life.
‘This is truly wonderful,’ said Damian sincerely. ‘You two have got it made here.’
‘It’s been bloody hard work,’ said Bella.
‘Well, you’ve done a great job. Really.’
‘I can’t get over our room,’ chimed in Poppy. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lovelier spare room!’ She knew the way to Bella’s heart.
‘Thanks, Pops.’ Bella smiled happily. ‘OK, so fill me in again on the complicated lives of our Hollywood stars?’
‘You do it. Go on – prove you’ve been listening,’ said Poppy.
Bella took a swig of her wine. ‘OK, so . . . Jack’s lovely, Tamara’s a nightmare, though she can be lovely too, Tamara’s been coming on to Ben, but he’s keeping schtum for the sake of harmony all round, but especially where Natalia’s concerned, because she loathes Tamara . . .’
‘Ten out of ten so far,’ said Damian.
‘Jack and Tamara had a spectacular row, so Jack’s come to Ibiza without her,’ said Andy, picking up the baton, and they all looked at him in surprise. ‘I’m not immune to a bit of gossip, you know.’ He laughed. ‘And we’re meeting Ben, Natalia and Jack for lunch at Benirrás tomorrow.’
‘I can’t wait to meet Jack,’ said Bella.
‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Poppy.
Chapter 11
Tamara tilted her head to one side as she considered her reflection in the ornate gilt-framed mirror hanging in her suite at the Byblos hotel. She was meeting Miles Dawson for lunch at Club 55, and needed to look the part. Of all the things you could accuse Tamara of, stupidity wasn’t one of them, and she realized that her usual in-your-face glamour probably wasn’t what the indie director was looking for. Her agent had told her that the film was going to be set in the dust storms of the Mid West in the Depression of the 1930s. So Tamara had gone easy on the make-up for once, smudging just the tiniest amount of black kohl around her eyes, which were today a subtle pale green, and so thickly lashed that mascara was unnecessary. Pink blusher on her lightly fake-tanned face, and a light slick of pale pink lip gloss kept her façade young, vulnerable and incredibly pretty. She’d pinned some of her dark hair back, but allowed the rest to tumble loose and wavy (with the obligatory wispy tendrils framing her face), and was wearing a simple short white kaftan that showed off her slender brown legs.
Young, innocent, ethereal. It was good, she thought, giving herself a wink, thumbs up and a wicked grin.
After their row at Senequier the other night, Jack had remained cold and distant with her, choosing to hang out on Natalia’s yacht with the others until it was time to leave for Ibiza. Tamara was more hurt by this than she was willing to admit to anybody, least of all herself, but her excitement about meeting Miles Dawson had helped to mask the hurt. It was also quite a relief, after her dreadfully mis-judged faux pas with Ben, to have a bit of space from the others. She just had to keep her fingers crossed that Ben wouldn’t stitch her up.
Her Swarovski crystal-embossed iPhone beeped inside the buttery-soft Marc Jacobs tan leather handbag she’d elected to take to today’s lunch meeting. She smiled as she read the message.
Good luck today, Tammy. I’m thinking of you. Let me know how it goes. Jack xxx
Miles Dawson sat at an unobtrusive corner table under a tamarind tree at Club 55. Everything at this legendary St Tropez watering hole was chic and beautifully thought out, all faded blues, cream linen and sun-bleached wood. He was slightly apprehensive at the prospect of meeting Tamara Gold; her reputation certainly preceded her, and after several days of difficult negotiations with money men in Cannes, he wasn’t sure he felt up to any prima-donna shenanigans.
He thought he saw vulnerability beneath the brash exterior – she had tugged at the heart strings in Antony & Cleopatra – but he could be wrong. He also remembered, from her childhood roles, that she had natural comic timing, which was going to be essential for anyone playing the female lead in Dust Bowl. Using one of the bleakest periods of American misery as the backdrop for a black comedy was risky (especially during the current recession), and the casting of Amy, the plucky oldest daughter in a motherless family of seven, was to be pivotal to the movie’s success.
‘Mr Dawson?’ a shy voice enquired. Miles looked up from his menu to see Tamara, looking pretty and virginal as a snowdrop, smiling and holding out her hand.
‘Please, call me Miles.’ He jumped to his feet and shook the outstretched hand, which was small, dry and firm. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity for the world.’ Tamara gave him what looked like a genuinely warm smile and he felt his doubts starting to fade. They both sat down and Miles picked up the bottle of sparkling mineral water that was sitting in an ice-bucket on the sky-blue linen tablecloth.
‘Water?’
‘Thank you.’
Tamara considered the geeky-looking chap sitting opposite her. With his round, wire-rimmed glasses, goatee beard, scruffy light-brown hair and unprepossessing outfit of knee-length combat shorts and a baggy T-shirt, he could have been straight out of UCLA. None of their fellow diners would suspect that this was one of the most influent
ial young film directors of his generation.
Half an hour later, Miles Dawson was completely smitten. Tamara had had him in stitches as she recounted life on the set of Antony & Cleopatra, complete with well-timed one-liners and wicked impressions of her co-stars (including Jack). She had also done her research in the few days since her agent had briefed her on Dust Bowl, downloading several Steinbeck novels onto her kindle and familiarizing herself with the period.
Lars, who was having a jolly lunch with his old Merrill Lynch pals at the next table, was trying to pretend that he hadn’t noticed Tamara. She certainly hadn’t clocked him, all her attention was focused on the clever director, and having heard snippets of their conversation, Lars was reluctantly impressed. Could this demure, charismatic, witty young beauty, so far removed from the arrogant, petulant glamour girl of his first encounter, be the real Tamara, the sweet young woman beneath the brittle façade?
Surprised and slightly alarmed by how happy the thought made him feel – she was so out of his reach it was laughable – he redirected his attention to his pastel-coloured polo-shirt-wearing buddies.
*
Tamara, sitting in the back of her air-conditioned limo, stuck in the atrocious traffic that brought the road to St Tropez pretty much to a standstill for most of June to September, was twitchy with excitement. Miles had all but offered her the part! Well, he wanted her to accompany him to Cannes to meet the money men – they wanted way too much say in the artistic side of things, as far as he was concerned – but he assured her that that was a mere formality, that she’d knock their socks off. She’d also have to do a read-through with her leading co-stars when she was back in LA in a couple weeks’ time. But again, Miles had given her his word that this was a mere formality, that he had nobody else in mind, and the part was hers for the taking.
Tamara gleefully reached into her handbag for her phone, and touched Jack’s name on the screen. It rang for at least thirty seconds before giving up the ghost. Irritated, she tried again. This time he picked it up on the third ring.
‘Tamara? Hey, how’d it go?’
‘Why didn’t you pick up before?’
‘I didn’t hear it. We’re having lunch on the beach, and reception’s awful.’ Tamara felt irrationally annoyed and tried not to let it show in her voice. After all, hadn’t she just been having lunch on the beach? ‘So how’d it go? What was he like?’
‘Geeky, nerdy, insanely talented. And he loved me!’ Tamara was grinning with glee again. ‘The part’s mine, Jack – save for formalities.’
‘That’s wonderful! Hey, guys, Tammy got the part! Isn’t that great?’ Tamara could hear murmurs of congratulation in the background and smiled to herself. ‘So does that mean you can come join us now? You’ll love it here – it’s way cooler than St Tropez – and Bella’s giving a big party tomorrow—’
‘Um . . . no? I told you there are some formalities. I have to go to Cannes to meet the money guys.’ Tamara loved saying this. Cannes had kudos.
But Jack didn’t seem to see it that way, sounding genuinely disappointed as he said, ‘Shame. The party should be a blast. But, hey – the film’s more important, right? Listen, honey, you’re cracking up on me – reception’s crap here. I gotta go. But I’ll call you this evening, huh? Congratulations again. I’m so proud of you. And I love you.’
‘Love you too,’ said Tamara in a small voice, before hanging up, deflated. Why couldn’t Jack get what a big deal this was for her? And who cared about some crappy party, given by somebody she didn’t know? She and Jack spent their entire lives at parties. She wanted to call someone else, but couldn’t think who. She’d already left a message with her agent, who’d been in a breakfast meeting. Her money-grabbing parents were out of the question. She realized she’d spent so much time hanging out with Jack and his buddies that she didn’t have any real friends her own age left – and anyway, the heiresses and Hollywood princesses she’d grown up with had soon gotten tired of her after she got clean. There was the usual gang of sycophants that hung around her like flies around a steaming pile of shit, but none of them would realize how much this meant to her – and it was way too early for any of them to be up in LA, even if they did.
Tamara played with the beautiful diamond-and-emerald engagement ring that Jack had given her, all of a sudden acutely aware of how lonely she was. She lit a cigarette with her gold Cartier lighter and took a few grateful puffs. She was meant to have given up, but fuck it. After a few more puffs, she opened the car window and chucked the fag out, then opened Twitter on her phone. She had hundreds of thousands of followers – at least they’d be interested in her news. Cheering up a bit, she took a photo of herself in the back of the limo, then started to compose a new Tweet.
*
‘Hey, buddy, am I hallucinating or can I like actually see Shangri-La?’
One of Lars’s less couth old friends from Merrill Lynch was pointing up the skirt of one of three nubile young lovelies dancing on a glittery podium next to their bottle-rammed table. It had cost the all-male party €10,000 to book the table at Les Caves du Roy, St Trop’s absurdly jet-set nightclub, which was located in the basement of the Byblos, and another €1,000 for every subsequent bottle of champagne (the initial fee was supposed to cover the first). It was impossible to get past the enormous bouncers unless you were famous, incredibly rich or ridiculously beautiful – preferably all three.
Already that evening, Lars had spotted Claudia Schiffer, Miranda Kerr, Katy Perry and all of the Black-Eyed Peas – he’d even caught a glimpse of that geeky film director that Tamara Gold had been lunching with earlier. A couple of Russian oligarchs were enjoying the company of five beautiful girls several decades younger than them, and the large group of sheikhs paying little heed to the teachings of the Koran at the next table probably owned half the Middle East.
Lars tried to hide his boredom. He didn’t feel he had much in common with his old banker buddies any more. In all fairness, they weren’t that bad, and it had been fun hanging out with them in the daytime at 55 and Nikki Beach, where the sheer beauty of the sunny surroundings made it impossible not to have a good time. Here, it was different. Since Lars had set up his eco-tourism business, he had started to feel more and more claustrophobic when in crowded places, underground or surrounded by meaningless excess. Les Caves du Roy? Not his ideal environment. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said now, apropos the visibility of the girl’s nether regions. ‘She’s probably wearing underwear. Watch my drink, will you, Steve? I’ll be back in five.’ He pushed his way through heaving, thronging, sweaty bodies (you’d think with the obscene amounts they charged for drinks, Les Caves would manage to get the aircon working) to the men’s lavatories. He was taking a piss in one of the opulent cubicles when he heard a female voice panting from the next-door cubicle.
‘Oh God, yeah . . . Oh God, that’s good . . . Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stopppp . . . aaaah.’
Oh well. At least someone was having some fun.
He zipped himself up, exited the cubicle and was washing his hands when the other cubicle door opened, and the couple who had been in there crept out. The girl was saying ‘shhhh’ with her finger to her lips, and giggling.
It was Tamara.
Gone was the demure, sophisticated, professional young actress he had seen on the beach earlier that day. In her place was a mad-eyed little starlet, with scarlet lipstick smeared across her face, hair tangled into a wild bird’s nest and skin glowing with sweat and sex. Her gold sequinned dress was so short and so tight that if you didn’t know she was Hollywood royalty she could easily be mistaken for one of the many expensive hookers that frequented this horrible place.
As soon as she saw Lars, her eyes widened in panic.
‘Shit. You won’t tell, will you?’ she pleaded.
‘Come with me.’ Lars was furious, though whether with her for not living up to the sweet image she’d put in his head that afternoon, or with himself for falling for it, he wasn
’t sure.
‘Hey, who are you – her dad?’ asked the handsome young Lothario who’d just had his wicked way with her.
‘I’m a friend of her fiancé.’ Lars glowered menacingly into the boy’s eye. ‘You ever mention a word of this – you’re dead. Understand?’ The boy looked at the gigantic Swede and nodded, gulping. Lars grabbed Tamara by a small reluctant hand and dragged her out of the gents, along the thickly carpeted corridor and outside, to a dark, quiet area around the back of the pool.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Tamara demanded quietly, more furious than scared now. ‘You’re no friend of Jack’s – you’ve met him once, for chrissakes. Get off me, you great big bully.’
‘I’m doing this for your own good, you stupid girl.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tamara stared at him, her hands on her hips in a show of defiance.
‘I saw you at 55 today, having lunch with that film director. It was very convincing, your Little Miss Innocent act . . .’
‘What? Are you like some crazy stalker, or something?’
‘You’re the crazy one,’ said Lars bluntly. ‘St Tropez is a small place. Did it not occur to you that the film director might come here, tonight? It is, like, the hottest club in town.’ Sarcastically he imitated her intonation.
Now Tamara did look frightened. ‘M-Miles is here?’
‘Uh-huh. He’s sitting with a load of people inside there.’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘How am I supposed to know?’ Lars sounded exasperated. ‘I don’t know the dude. But if I were you, I’d go back to your room – I’m assuming you’ve got a suite here?’ Tamara nodded mutely. ‘And go to bed.’ He was finding it very hard to look at her when she glared at him with that half-angry, half-scared defiance. He was trying not to admit to himself that as well as wanting to protect her, there was a strong element of good old-fashioned jealousy contributing to his anger. Not that he’d want to screw her in a toilet, of course – their first time would be more special than that, but . . .