by Lucy Lord
‘Daddy,’ said Daisy, her face lighting up.
‘You three are so cute,’ said Summer, smiling wistfully.
‘We have our moments. Anyway, Summer, I’ve had a thought.’ Bella swiftly changed the subject. ‘You said you hadn’t seen daylight for days. So what’s been happening with Britta’s crèche?’ Bella hadn’t been to any yoga classes since her house guests had arrived; that was one more thing she was missing.
‘Ah – well, you see . . .’ Summer looked embarrassed. ‘That’s another of the reasons I haven’t been out. If I’d had something to get up for, I’d have done it, however miserable I was feeling. But several of the yummy mummies’ – the bitterness in her voice was palpable – ‘told Mom that they’d be taking their business elsewhere if I was still in charge of the creche.’
‘What?!’
‘Yeah, they didn’t want their precious babies being looked after by some nymphomaniac home-wrecker – that’s me, in case you hadn’t realized.’
‘Oh, the stupid fucking stuck-up bitches!’ She covered Daisy’s ears again, looking guilty.
‘That’s what I said to the first one who called,’ said Britta, coming outside with her serving dish of organic raw-food lasagne. ‘How dare they talk about my daughter like that? But then Summer made me realize that we can’t afford to be losing customers.’
‘So what are you doing instead?’
‘For the time being, I’ve hired a girl from an agency, but she’s expensive, and not very nice with the kids.’
‘Why don’t I do it?’ Bella said suddenly.
Two blonde heads swivelled in her direction.
‘You?’
‘Yeah, why not? Only until all this rubbish blows over and Summer is back in favour again.’
‘I don’t see that happening soon,’ said Summer morosely.
‘You wait. People have short memories.’ Bella smiled.
‘You’d do that for me?’ asked Britta.
‘I’d love to.’
‘I’ll pay you, of course. And you won’t have to miss out on your own yoga as I’ll be happy to give you private sessions after you’ve done the crèche.’
‘Well, it looks like I’m onto a winner then.’ Bella held out her hand. ‘Let’s shake on it. It’s a deal.’
‘Sa dil,’ repeated Daisy, grinning.
*
Tamara was also grinning as she drove along the Californian coastal road in her white convertible Mercedes, the sound of the enormous Pacific waves pounding the shore just audible over the smooth purr of the engine. The meeting with her agent had gone better than she could have imagined – well, it was about time the bastard earned his 15 per cent.
The campaign they’d concocted between them was comprehensive enough to blacken Jack’s name for good. For a minute she felt a pang of guilt, then hardened her heart as she recalled the absolute humiliation she’d felt when she’d seen him looking so cosy in the corner of Pacha’s VIP lounge with that blonde bitch Summer. That was what had tipped her over the edge, what had caused her to flash herself at a roomful of strangers. Wincing as the memories hit her, she denied responsibility for her own actions like the addict she was.
‘California Girls’ by the Beach Boys came on the radio. Tamara smiled again and, turning it up, started to sing along at the top of her voice.
*
‘Oh God, that’s good,’ panted Tiffany in a throaty voice as Jamie rammed his cock inside her, right up to the hilt.
‘You love that, don’t you?’ Roughly, he pulled her long dyed red hair, jerking her head back. ‘Tell me how much you love it.’
‘Fill me up, fuck me harder. Deeper, harder. Oh God, oh yeah, oh, Jamie, oh, fuck me, deeper, deeper, harder, faster. Your cock’s so big and hard. Oh God, yeah.’
‘You’ve been a very naughty girl.’ Jamie felt Tiff stiffen beneath him and his cock got even harder. ‘And what happens to naughty girls?’
‘They get punished. I’ve been a very naughty girl,’ Tiffany parroted. ‘Please teach me a lesson.’
Jamie gave her peachy arse an almighty thwack with the length of bamboo cane he was holding in his right hand. Tiff winced.
Bloody hell, that was painful, even by his standards. She had to make him come more quickly.
‘You know what your little Tiffany’s missing, Jamie?’
‘What’s that, baby?’
‘She wants it up the special place, where only you can go . . .’
As soon as she said the words, before he could even take action, Jamie came, pumping his load inside her.
‘Oh God, that was good,’ she sighed, relieved that the ordeal was over, and wondering what her reward would be this time. Last time he’d given her a pair of diamond earrings. She’d immediately had them valued and discovered they were worth over £20,000. Now that had to be worth a bit of a sore bum, in anybody’s money.
‘Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?’ Jamie preened himself. ‘If only everybody appreciated me like you do, Tiff.’ He gave her arse a perfunctory kiss and looked around her flat. It was an exceptionally seedy dive, with a mattress on the floor and one bare light bulb hanging from a wire from the ceiling. He liked the seediness, though. It emphasized the difference in their circumstances and made him even hornier than Tiff herself did.
What he didn’t know was that Tiffany had sold half the jewellery he’d given her and was now living in a far more salubrious apartment in Ibiza Town. She only rented this dive by the night when she knew she was going to see Jamie. She and the landlord had an understanding.
Jamie’s phone beeped.
Get yourself down Aqua tonight if you want in on some celebrity action, he read. Bonza mate.
Jamie smiled to himself as he pressed delete. Aqua it was, then.
Chapter 18
‘It must have been heartbreaking when you found out your fiancé had been cheating on you,’ gushed Kandi. The TV presenter had blonde hair like a helmet and make-up that appeared to have been lacquered on. In fact, thought Tamara, she looked as if somebody had sprayed a can of super-strong hairspray all over her head and her face.
Trying not to giggle, she said, ‘Heartbroken is putting it mildly. But the thing is, Kandi – is it OK if I call you that?’
‘It’s my name!’ Another simpering grin. Tamara simpered back.
‘It wasn’t entirely a surprise.’
‘You mean you had your suspicions?’ The fact that Kandi looked permanently surprised rendered her fake look of surprise redundant. The reason it was fake was that Tamara had already been down exactly the same route on five other chat shows, but the scene had to be played out.
‘Too right I did.’ Tamara leaned in conspiratorially towards the TV presenter. ‘We women know when something’s not right, don’t we, Kandi?’
‘We sure do, honey.’ Kandi put a sympathetic hand on Tamara’s denim-clad knee. She was dressed down today, in skinny jeans, sneakers and a clinging white T-shirt, going for the all-American clean-cut preppie look to distinguish her further from that Swedish blonde slut.
‘And when I saw Jack – my Jack – with that . . . that . . .’ she stammered, as though she could hardly bring herself to speak Summer’s name.
‘It’s OK, honey, we know who you mean. Don’t we?’ Kandi turned to the audience, who booed loudly.
‘Thanks.’ Tamara smiled sweetly. ‘Well, when I saw them together, that night – they were all over each other, Kandi – they didn’t even have the decency to wait until they were alone . . .’
Boooo!
‘. . . well, I guess something snapped inside me. I lost control. I’m not proud of what happened next. Oh Lord Almighty, do I rue the day I ever set foot in that den of iniquity.’ She turned to face the camera. ‘Don’t go to Ibiza, guys. It’s just as bad as they all say.’ She gave a stifled sob, and Kandi handed her a tissue. ‘None of this would have happened if we’d never left America.’
At this, there was a loud cheer from the redneck audience, and the band started playing th
e ‘Star-Spangled Banner’.
*
‘Jesus. Laying it on a bit thick, isn’t she?’ said Ben, taking a swig from his can of Bud. He and Jack were sitting on Jack’s enormous leather sofa, their feet up on his glass coffee table, watching Jack’s vast wall-mounted plasma-screen TV.
‘She’s good,’ said Jack morosely. ‘She’s very good.’
They had taken a break from discussing their latest movie project to watch Tamara on daytime TV, and now they both wished they hadn’t. The movie, a sentimentally macho Vietnam buddy-flick, was a proper jobs-for-the-boys project, with a screenplay written by Damian, and Jack and Ben in the two lead roles.
‘Poor Summer,’ said Ben, glancing at his friend. ‘It’s really not fair for her to be painted in such a harsh light.’
Jack’s expression closed over.
‘Don’t talk to me about Summer.’
‘Come on, mate. It’s obvious you’re missing her like crazy. All you have to do is pick up the phone.’
‘She lied to me.’
‘Jesus!’ Ben slammed down his empty beer can in frustration and walked over to the big silver fridge in the corner of the den to get another one. Jack could be infuriatingly pig-headed at times. As Ben snapped the ring-pull on his fresh beer, his phone beeped in his pocket. His heart beating fast in anticipation, he took it out and read the message.
Sorry, Ben. Studio heads adamant. No go if JM on board. Are you gonna tell him or should I? Bx
Shit shit shit. Earlier that day, he’d had a meeting with Belinda, his and Jack’s agent, who had warned him that there had been concern amongst the studio heads about Jack’s involvement in the movie. His reputation was now so tarnished that they feared the puritanical, narrow-minded movie-going public would boycott any project with his name attached to it. The fact that his part was to have been the clean-cut, patriotic all-American hero was the death knell as far as Jack was concerned.
I’ll tell him, he typed back. But you tell them that if they don’t want Jack, they can’t have me.
He looked over at his friend, whose curly dark head was bent over his script. This was going to be tough. Since flying back from Ibiza, Jack had thrown himself into the movie, immersing himself in the music of the period and watching a seemingly never-ending stream of ’Nam flicks. Ben suspected that it was the only thing keeping his mind off both Summer, and his constant vilification in the Press.
Taking another swig of his beer, Ben walked back over to the leather sofa and sat down next to Jack.
‘Mate,’ he said. ‘We need to talk . . .’
*
In the airy wooden cabaña that he was using as an office, Lars switched off the TV and threw down the remote, swearing under his breath. What a hypocritical little bitch. Vividly he recalled Tamara’s dishevelled, scared, defiant, then ultimately mocking appearance after he’d caught her in the men’s toilets at Les Caves du Roy. That seedy liaison had certainly not been a one-off.
OK, so it couldn’t have been nice for her seeing Jack’s infidelity splashed all over the papers, but neither Jack nor his stunning blonde had said anything to the Press, each preferring to maintain a dignified silence. Tamara’s brazen, blatant attempt to destroy him was despicable. Lars didn’t think he’d ever met anybody he disliked more, however alluring he continued to find her – the interview he’d just watched had been enough to reconfirm that.
He swore again. Why the fuck was he letting her get to him like this? He’d only met her twice.
Time to get back to work. He turned to his laptop and stared once more at the pictures his Ibiza contact had emailed him. The location was perfect, on one of the still unspoilt north-western beaches – the sunsets would be phenomenal – and the infrastructure already there. It would need quite a bit of work to turn it into one of the eco retreats in which his company specialized, but it might prove his biggest success to date. The island’s popularity never seemed to wane, and there was a huge market there for his brand of environmentally friendly luxury.
Funny that it was in Ibiza that all the Tamara/Jack shit had happened.
Stop thinking about her, you fool. She’s bad news, poison, a horrible, warped fantasy.
He looked again at the email and made up his mind. Yes, it was definitely worth a recce. And if he was planning to fly to the White Isle in the next month or two, who better to hook up with than his old friend Bella? He checked his watch – it would be nearly 9 p.m. there, not too late to give her a ring.
‘Hello?’
Lars smiled at the sound of her familiar, slightly schoolgirlish tones.
‘Bella? It’s Lars!’
‘Lars! What an unexpected treat!’
‘Is this a good time to talk?’
‘Yes, perfect, we put Daisy to bed about an hour ago and I’m making our dinner. Wait a sec, though – our reception’s crap inside. Darling, could you take over the risotto for a bit? Hold on, Lars, don’t go anywhere, I’m topping up my glass and making my way outside . . . That’s better!’ He could hear her smiling down the phone. ‘So – where are you calling from? From what I gather from Poppy, you could be colonizing the moon right now!’
Lars laughed. ‘We both know how Poppy likes to exaggerate. I’m in Mexico, overseeing the work on my latest project.’
‘Coooool. All eco luxe à la playa, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘It’s going good. So good that I think soon I can leave it in the hands of my team here and move on to my next project.’
‘Such a high flier – literally!’ Lars laughed again. ‘So where will this next project take you? The Seychelles? Maldives? Outer Hebrides?’
‘Aha – that’s why I’m calling you. Bella, do you think Ibiza is ready for yet more eco luxe à la playa?’
‘You’re expanding to Ibiza? Coming here? Oh yayayayayyy! Yup, we’re always ready for more – as long as it’s done tastefully, and sympathetically to the environment, of course,’ she added, with a hint of irony. ‘In fact, I think we’re more popular than ever in groovy eco circles . . .’
Lars smiled to himself at the words ‘our’ and ‘we’ and the pride in Bella’s voice. She sure had re-domiciled quickly.
‘Especially after our great celebrity scandal this summer!’
‘You mean the great scandal that started at your party?’ Lars asked innocently.
‘What other great scandal would I be talking about?’ Bella laughed. ‘Though I wouldn’t have thought celeb gossip was your thing.’
‘Well no, of course it is not, not usually.’ Lars hoped he didn’t sound as flustered as he suddenly felt. ‘But when my old friends are involved, it is impossible not to take some notice. And I did meet Jack and Tamara.’
‘Oh God, yeah! How stupid of me. St Tropez, right, just before they came here? What did you make of them? I have to admit I was completely taken in by Tamara. What a fucking little bitch she’s turned out to be. She’s making poor Summer’s life an absolute nightmare.’
‘Jack’s too, if you believe what you read in the Press. I thought he seemed a good guy . . .’
‘He is.’
‘. . . Tamara, not so much. She . . .’ Lars stopped himself, not wanting to let Bella know about the incident at Les Caves du Roy – though why he should feel any loyalty to Tamara was beyond him.
‘She what?’ Bella asked curiously.
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ He swiftly changed the subject. ‘So what’s she like, your friend – Summer, is it?’
‘Yeah, your compatriot Summer. She’s lovely, even more gorgeous in real life than she is in the photos – I’m assuming you’ve seen the photos, given how avidly you seem to have been following the story?!’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lars felt himself colouring slightly and was glad Bella couldn’t see him.
‘And so kind and sweet and – well, about as far from up herself as you’d expect somebody that beautiful to be.’
‘She sounds great.’ Lars
hadn’t really been listening, his mind still on the entirely vexing matter of Tamara.
‘She is – you’d LOVE her!’ Bella suddenly sounded excited, matchmaking opportunities whirring around her brain. Summer wasn’t over Jack yet, but maybe, given time – Lars was one of the most decent chaps she knew, they were both Swedish, he’d be spending a lot of time in Ibiza, they might be perfect for one another. ‘Oooh, actually . . . I’ll introduce you when you’re here. There isn’t a special woman in your life at the moment, is there?’ The question was almost rhetorical – Lars had been single for as long as Bella had known him. ‘When did you say you’re flying over?’
‘I didn’t, and I don’t need you to set me up with anybody,’ Lars laughed. ‘But it will probably be within the next month or so.’
‘If you need somewhere to stay, well – you know – mi casa es tu casa, as they say here.’ Bella was suddenly dying to show off the finca to someone new, and it would be nice to have some company while Andy finished his bloody book, all memory of her over-staying guests forgotten.
‘Thanks, Bella, but I think I’ll be staying on site.’
‘In that case, we’ll just have to have you round for dinner every night instead! So where is this site? I know the island pretty well now, you know . . .’
After Lars hung up, he walked over to the edge of the cabaña and looked out to sea, feeling his loose T-shirt flapping against his body in the wind. Talking to Bella had fired him up about his Ibizan venture and he was starting to feel the delicious thrill that coursed through him every time he began a new project. But why did angry thoughts about Tamara keep intruding on his excitement? An image of her sexy, taunting face popped into his mind.
‘Do you want me, Lars? Do you want to kiss me?’
Dammit, this was absurd. Without a second thought, he pulled the snowy white T-shirt over his head, revealing his enormous tanned chest and shoulders, and strode down to the water’s edge. It was very blowy at this time of day, the swirling waves crashing against the pristine white shore, and Lars took a deep breath as he plunged into them, his strong front crawl powering him effortlessly out to sea.