by Lucy Lord
‘Hey, I’d better be going,’ said Summer, getting to her feet. ‘It was nice to see you again, Jack.’
‘Yeah, you fuck off to wherever you came from, and leave my fiancé alone!’
With these words, Tamara grabbed the bottle of Absolut from the low white stone table and poured it into an empty glass, nearly filling it to the brim. She drank about half the neat liquor in one gulp, and Jack jumped up.
‘Tammy? What the hell are you doing?’
‘What am I doing? I’m having fun for once in my life, you impotent asshole.’ She started to laugh again, and Jack winced at all the people around hearing the word impotent, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth.
‘Honey . . .’ He put a restraining hand on her arm, and she pushed him away.
‘Fuck off, Jack.’
He watched in horror as she shoved her way through the throngs of people to the other side of the room, scrambled up on top of the white stone bar, via a white stone barstool, and started to dance. The dancing, though drunken and shambolic, was sexy – he had to give her that. Tamara knew how to move well. But . . .
Oh Jesus Christ, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. And she was drawing quite a crowd of men, nudging each other as they looked up her skirt. Taking a deep breath, Jack pushed his way through them, clambered up onto the bar himself and tried to tug her skirt down.
‘Stop it, Tamara, you’re making a complete exhibition of yourself.’
‘Stop it, Tamara, you’re making a complete exhibition of yourself!’ she mimicked, pushing him away. ‘Don’t be such a fucking killjoy, Jack. These guys are all enjoying the show. You’re enjoying the show, aren’t you, guys?’ She blew a kiss to her audience, and a few voices cheered.
‘Dad?’ Jack yelled. ‘Help me, will ya?’
Now it was Filthy’s turn to push his way through the crowds.
‘Outta my way, you goddamn losers. You oughta be ashamed of yourselves.’
And between them, Filthy and Jack dragged Tamara’s writhing, cursing form down from the bar.
*
‘That was your doing, wasn’t it?’ Summer stared at Jorge, who had reappeared in time to witness the floorshow. The music throbbed around them in the strobe-punctuated near darkness. ‘You gave her drugs.’
Jorge shrugged nonchalantly. ‘¿Que es Pacha sin drogas?’
‘My God. I knew you were bad, but I thought you were better than that. Don’t you know the girl’s a recovering addict?’
‘She’ll be OK. Small hangover maybe. Anyway, I was doing you a favour.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The blood rose in Summer’s cheeks and she was glad of the cover of darkness.
‘Come on – Summer, Jack; Jack, Summer.’ Jorge smiled provocatively. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘All I know is that you have never grown up.’ Summer’s heart was galloping in her chest. She had to deflect attention. ‘What’s your fucking problem, Jorge?’
As Summer turned on her heel, not waiting for an answer, Jorge considered her words. What was his fucking problem? He wasn’t terribly intelligent, but, asked so directly, he realized that it was probably that he’d never really got over Summer.
Chapter 16
Lars’s latest addition to his growing portfolio of eco resorts was situated on a long stretch of perfect white beach backed by gently swaying palms on Mexico’s Caribbean coast – sometimes referred to as the Mayan Riviera. He’d flown back from the South of France the previous day, but was so exhilarated by how well the project was coming along that he hardly felt any jet lag. His holiday had been fun, but all things considered he was extremely glad to be back at work. St Tropez’s showy, glittery displays of conspicuous consumption could induce nausea that was almost physical, after a while. Although . . . for a moment his mind drifted back to Tamara Gold, her face free of make-up, acting so sweet and charming with the film director at Club 55.
He stood on the little wooden balcony of his cabaña and looked out to sea. The waves crashing against the snowy shore were an aquamarine rarely seen outside digitally retouched travel brochures. The sun was rising on the horizon, a lone kite surfer the only other human being for miles around. There would be plenty more people up and about later, but at this hour most of them were still sleeping off their tequila hangovers.
The collection of simple wooden huts with hammocks hanging from palm trees over their outdoor decks had been about to go into receivership, but Lars had seen a fantastic business opportunity and bought out the owner, a local entrepreneur who’d been more than happy to sell. The cabañas were basic, but their location was unsurpassed, and Lars’s company had nearly finished renovating them to the highest standards of eco luxury. While not changing the simple, back-to-nature vibe of the resort, every element was to be luxurious: the highest thread count Egyptian cotton on the beds, the fluffiest white towels, the chic-est, most energy-efficient outdoor showers.
The beach bar was to have a relaxed, bohemian vibe, the restaurant would showcase simply spiced seafood cooked over coal, and the spa would feature all the latest therapies, with skilled masseurs and eco-friendly unguents. It was all planned with meticulous attention to the tiniest detail, from the jewelled lanterns that lit up the sandy walkways at night, to the vintage lamps and colourful, Aztec-patterned cushions in the sunken seating areas dotted around the bar.
Lars walked down the wooden steps leading from the deck outside his hut straight onto the powdery beach, and headed for the sea. The clear water was refreshing, and as he looked back to the little cluster of huts and palm trees on the shore, he felt a sense of deep satisfaction that he had never had in all his years of banking. Being made redundant had seemed like the end of the world at the time, but now, with hindsight, he realized it was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him.
*
‘Come along darling, Mummy’s got you. Yes, that’s right, my angel. Look, Andy, she’s swimming!’
Andy, en route to his study and carrying a large mug of coffee, stopped to watch the two of them with indulgent pride.
‘Clever girl, Daisy,’ he said, smiling.
Daisy, loving the water, giggled with delight, and suddenly shook off Bella’s hands, her little plump legs kicking away madly as she headed under like a tadpole.
‘Yay!’ said Bella, watching her daughter come up for breath. ‘Chip off the old block. No question of her maternity then.’
Andy laughed. ‘You look like you’re feeling a bit better.’
‘Yeah, the water’s helping.’
Her hangover was subsiding at last, thank God – even though she’d left Pacha early, she was starting to realize that, as far as she was concerned at least, motherhood and clubbing were, absolutely, mutually incompatible. Poppy and Damian, who had woken both her and Daisy as they’d stumbled in at half past five that morning, were still out for the count.
‘Glad you came home when you did?’ Andy teased her. He’d been happily surprised to be woken by Bella crawling into bed beside him shortly before 3 a.m. – he hadn’t expected her back for several more hours.
‘Yes, and I’ve learned my lesson,’ said Bella, scooping Daisy out of the water and planting a kiss on top of her wet head as she cuddled her. ‘What we have here is more wonderful than any amount of glamorous nightlife could ever be.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Andy, and Bella half-walked, half-swam across the pool towards him, Daisy still in her arms, to give him a kiss. ‘Right, I’d better get on. See you in a bit.’
He carried on across the garden towards his study, and Bella and Daisy continued to play in the water, both of them giggling with pure pleasure.
‘Hey! Bella!’ shouted a voice at the back gate.
‘Hey, Filthy!’ Bella waved at him from the pool, wondering what he was doing there. ‘The gate’s open, come in.’
‘Cool pad you’ve got here,’ said Filthy and Bella grinned. Filthy Meadows thought her house was cool! ‘Justin said I should come over,
hang out for the day. Hope that’s OK?’
‘Yeah, of course it’s OK.’ Naturally her father hadn’t consulted her about this, but really, how could she object if Filthy Meadows wanted to come and hang around her finca, bestowing upon it his own particular brand of rock’n’roll coolness?
‘Filth!’ cried Justin, emerging from the house holding a bottle of Fundador by the neck, looking extremely rough. Grey stubble covered his face, which was half-hidden behind a pair of blackout shades, and his long pewter hair was sticking out in all directions. ‘Great to see you mate. Hair of the dog?’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Filthy with a crooked grin.
‘Hola, Bella!’ called another voice and Bella turned back to the gate.
‘Gabriella! How lovely to see you. But . . .’
‘Don’t worry, this is only a passing visit. I’m meeting some friends in San Carlos, so I thought I’d pop in and say hello, and give you these.’ Gabriella, elegant and casual in rolled-up jeans and a man’s crisp cotton white shirt, its oversized cuffs turned back at her elbows, held up a basket of eggs. ‘Freshly laid this morning.’
Gabriella’s grand villa on the north-west coast, close to Benirrás beach, had a Petit Trianon-like farmstead attached to it, with chickens, geese and goats; she took great delight in collecting the still-warm eggs herself – on the few occasions she was out of bed in time to beat her gay middle-aged houseman to it.
‘How kind of you,’ smiled Bella, thinking it was probably about time she got out of the pool, before any more uninvited guests pitched up. ‘Come in and I’ll make some coffee . . .’
‘Gaby?’ her father interrupted, running over to and gazing at the Italian woman in awe. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Justin! Madre mia!’ They stood and stared at one another for a couple of seconds, before erupting into gales of laughter and an enormous embrace.
Bella climbed out of the pool, Daisy still in her arms.
‘I’d have let you know Daddy was here before, Gaby, but he only turned up last night.’
Filthy, the other side of the pool, gave her a wink.
‘Hey, girl, let’s leave them to it, huh?’
*
Tamara groaned, trying to get back to sleep in Natalia’s four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. She hadn’t had a hangover for nearly ten years, but the symptoms were still all too familiar. The sheets were drenched with sweat, her head ached, her mouth tasted like somebody had crapped in it and she had a horrible lurking sense of impending doom.
Desperately, she tried to recall the events of the previous night. Aqua. Filthy serenading her and Jack on the boat. Then Pacha. Oh yeah – the handsome Spaniard, Jorge. Screwing in the store room. That had been fun. So everything was cool.
As she lay there, relaxing for a second and wondering why Jack wasn’t with her, more memories started to come back to her, one by one. Snorting coke with Jorge, then downing several drinks in quick succession in one of the bars on the roof terrace. Coming downstairs to find Jack and Summer looking far too cosy for her liking . . .
No. Noooooo. Nonononononoooo.
Suddenly, with horrendous clarity, she remembered dancing on the bar, with all the men staring up her dress.
Tamara moaned and put two pillows over her head. Maybe if she could sleep, it would all go away, for ever.
*
Ben was driving Natalia’s silver Porsche convertible into Jesus, the nearest small town to her spectacular villa. It was Natalia’s normally efficient housekeeper’s day off, and they’d run out of milk. Ben was more than happy to do the errand himself – it was good to get out of the house, and he didn’t particularly want to be around when Tamara woke up.
Jack had confided in him that he couldn’t stand the situation any longer. He was meant to be with Summer, and after Tamara’s behaviour last night, and what Ben had told him about her propositioning him, he didn’t feel that he owed her anything any more. If she was capable of flashing herself at a whole load of strange guys right under his nose, Christ knew what she was capable of when he wasn’t around.
He’d tell Tamara it was over, and they’d issue a dignified joint statement to the Press. Tamara would then fly back to LA (or wherever else in the world she wanted – it was no longer Jack’s business), leaving Jack free to spend as much joyous time with Summer as he pleased.
While Ben sympathized whole-heartedly with his buddy, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be quite as simple as that. He did feel sorry for Tamara – the poor girl had serious issues – but he didn’t see why Jack should be the one to have to deal with those issues. Having witnessed more of her tantrums than he cared to remember, Ben didn’t want to be there to witness this one – no doubt the tantrum to end all tantrums.
As soon as he’d delivered the milk back to the villa, he planned to take Natalia out for a day at the beach. Probably Las Salinas – they could hit the Jockey Club for lunch. Nat loved the Jockey Club, with its relaxed glamour, expensive menu and slightly older clientele, and it would be good for the two of them to have a few hours alone, too. They’d spent far too much time in their friends’ pockets since leaving the States, and it was all starting to get extremely claustrophobic.
He pulled up outside Can Pascual, Jesus’s small supermarket, and got out of the Porsche. The shopkeeper greeted him cheerfully.
‘Hola, Señor Jones!’ The handsome movie star was a popular and familiar figure in these parts – all the locals knew he was involved with the mysterious Russian woman who owned the enormous modern villa at the top of the hill. With his floppy golden hair, perfect Hollywood teeth and tall, broad-shouldered physique, he exuded expensive glamour, yet was always friendly and approachable.
‘Hola, Pedro. ¿Que tal?’
‘Muy bien, gracias.’
As Ben walked over to the chill cabinet to get a couple of pints of semi-skimmed milk, he picked up a copy of the Ibiza Sun, the island’s main English-speaking newspaper, from the newsstand that stood next to a stall rammed with straw hats, flip-flops, frisbees, buckets and spades. Not looking at the paper properly, he smiled at the buckets and spades. Did kids still make sandcastles? He recalled the freezing beaches of his happy childhood, a sudden memory of building sandcastles with Damian rushing through his mind. The dark grey sand at Llandudno had continually been pounded by the fairly scary waves of the Irish Sea, but they’d loved the beach. Kids always loved beaches, even if they were cold and miserable.
But as the years rolled on it was very easy for one’s expectations to change.
Another customer was waiting to be served, so he had a quick look at the front page of the paper.
‘Shit!’
The shopkeeper and other customer looked over at him curiously, and he hastily folded the paper, paid for his purchases, and went back outside into the blazing sunshine as quickly as he possibly could. In the relative safety of the Porsche, he unfolded the paper again and started to read:
IBIZA EXCLUSIVE! SENSATIONAL SCANDAL! HOLLYWOOD’S GOLDEN COUPLE ON THE SKIDS!
Jack Meadows pictured in bed with local blonde! Drunken Tamara flashes crowd at Pacha! End of the road for Jamara?
Underneath were two photos.
One looked as if it had been taken on somebody’s phone through a gap in a curtain, of Jack and Summer lying naked in bed together – presumably in Summer’s flat, Ben thought. Even given the poor quality of the picture, it was quite obvious that they were completely besotted with one another – Jack stroking Summer’s face as he gazed into her eyes, her long golden hair fanning out on the pillow. Summer’s slender brown legs were wrapped around his in an elegant display of extreme intimacy.
The other photo – oh Jesus, poor Tamara – had been taken at Pacha, and depicted her drunken dancing on the bar. The photo had been shot from below, her nether regions pixelated.
Ben carried on reading.
Clubbers in Pacha were stunned last night when Tamara Gold treated them to a live show they would never forget. E
schewing decorum, the worse-for-wear starlet, who is famously teetotal, climbed onto the VIP bar and started performing her own version of dirty dancing. When it became apparent that she was not wearing underwear, fiancé Jack, ever the gentleman, leapt to her rescue, helped by his father, rock legend Filthy Meadows.
But Jack is not quite the hero he seems. As you can see from the above picture, he has been getting very friendly with a blonde beauty, thought to be local journalist Summer Larsson. The couple are believed to have met at a pool party hosted by an English couple who live near San Carlos, while Tamara was in St Tropez auditioning for a part in a new movie. Contact us on www.ibizasun.es if you know the identity of the English couple.
What will happen next? Will Jack choose the blonde or the brunette? Has Tamara fallen off the wagon for good? And will Ibiza ever recover from the excitement?
Watch this space, guys!
Ben chucked the paper on the passenger seat, turned the car around and put his foot on the gas. He had to get back to the villa as quickly as he possibly could.
*
Natalia’s infinity pool was one of the most extraordinary that Jack had ever swum in, and he’d swum in some extraordinary pools in his time. The gleaming turquoise body of water stretched around the entire villa, like a moat, via a series of waterfalls at the back, so to get to the villa you had to cross a curved stone bridge. At the front, there was an island with three palm trees on it, and it was around this island that Jack was currently swimming, trying to clear his head and prepare himself for what he had to do.
He had a killer hangover – they’d drunk quite a bit with dinner, and then all that vodka at the club – but it was nothing compared to how Tamara must be feeling. How had she managed to get so drunk so quickly? He supposed that your tolerance went way down when you’d been clean for years. In the few words they’d been able to exchange before he escorted Tamara home, Summer had been very quick to blame that disgusting prick Jorge for giving her drugs – and if it was true, it was unforgivable. Tamara’s history was well documented, but she was a grown woman, and he was sick of making excuses for her.