by Lucy Lord
He had no idea how long he’d been swimming, and when he finally turned back to face the shore, the cluster of cabañas was barely visible. But at least he was thinking straight again.
*
Tamara’s hair extensions took four hours to apply, but the end result was worth it. Her gay personal hairdresser, Anton, was of Hispanic origin and spoke with a pronounced lisp. Tamara liked him but today he was getting ever so slightly on her tits.
‘Babychile, you have played the Preth perfectly. Perfectly!’ He grinned as he attached another silky dark brown lock to her own dyed mop. ‘Jack’s name is mud in thith town, I tell you – mud!’
‘Yeah – whatever.’
The reason Tamara sounded so sulky was that she was starting to feel guilty that her campaign to blacken Jack’s name was going so well. Given the fact that she had been screwing around on him for the duration of their relationship, it didn’t seem fair that, on account of one solitary indiscretion, nobody in Hollywood would now touch him with a bargepole. The news that his ’Nam project had collapsed had spread through town like wildfire, and Tamara knew how excited he had been about it. She had loved him once, and couldn’t bear to think of his hurt pride and professional despair.
On top of feeling guilty, she was absolutely terrified that word of her indiscretions would come out. After all, she hadn’t exactly been discreet about them (which was probably why they were called indiscretions, she thought, laughing hollowly to herself). She cringed as she remembered the student jock at Coachella, the Eurotrash stud in St Tropez, the handsome Jorge in Ibiza. Not to mention her blatant come-ons to Ben Jones.
And on top of the guilt and the terror, there was a third unwelcome emotion in Tamara Gold’s world: loneliness. She had grown used to hanging around in a gang with Jack, Poppy, Damian, Ben and Natalia, and she missed them all – even that stuck-up cow Natalia, she realized. They were an intelligent, close-knit group of friends, and she found her old crowd of hangers-on exceptionally vapid by comparison. She let out a sigh.
‘Wathammatter, thweetcheeks? Don’ look tho low. You have the world at your pretty little feet right now.’
‘Yeah . . . I guess.’ Tamara forced a smile and was rewarded by the sight of her perfect veneers in the mirror. ‘Hey, Anton. Fancy hitting the town tonight?’
*
It was one of those beautiful, slightly hazy late summer LA evenings where the jasmine-scented air hung heavy with promise. Tamara smiled to herself as she pulled up outside The Ivy in her white convertible Mercedes. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. She was dressed casually in a pretty pale pink sundress, flat leather sandals and enormous Gucci shades, her new glossy hair extensions flowing freely over her shoulders.
She got out of the car and pushed open the white picket fence that surrounded the restaurant’s terrace. Ivy (what else?) clambered up the walls, and fresh flowers of every conceivable hue on every white linen-clad table gave an impossibly pretty country garden ambience to the place. Each table was shaded with a pristine white parasol, under which Hollywood’s movers and shakers schmoozed, clinched deals and pushed salads around their plates.
Tamara spotted Jennifer Aniston, in her usual casual attire of slim-fitting jeans and strappy vest, chatting over what looked like Bellinis with her old friend Courteney Cox. Kim Kardashian and Kanye were suitably bling-tastic at a very prominent table . . . ah! There he was! Tamara waved as she caught sight of Anton, who was channelling his inner hipster in the West Hollywood uniform of jeans, T-shirt and blazer, topped off with a black fedora.
People pretended not to notice – heads left studiously unswivelled – as Tamara sauntered through the tables, but she could tell by the way the buzz of conversation had suddenly increased by several decibels that her entrance had caused a stir.
‘Thweetcheeks.’ Anton rose to his full five foot six to kiss Tamara on both cheeks. ‘You look wavithing.’ He had recently been cultivating a pencil moustache that, combined with the fedora, made him resemble a diminutive 1930s gangster.
‘Thanks, Anton.’ Tamara smiled as she sat down. Within seconds, a waiter had appeared, brandishing menus and taking drinks orders. Anton ordered a Gimlet, Tamara a Virgin Mary.
‘Back off the thauthe, huh?’ He raised his perfectly threaded eyebrows.
‘Can’t risk it.’ Tamara grimaced. ‘That – uh – episode in Ibiza showed me how dangerous it is for me. Once an addict, always an addict.’
‘Tough, huh?’ Anton tried to look sympathetic as he took a swig of his Gimlet.
‘Not really. It’s easier than the alternative.’ Tamara shuddered as she remembered how she’d felt that morning in Ibiza, the memory of flashing her crotch to a load of strangers slowly coming back to her in painful – no, agonizing – detail.
‘Tho tell me again when filming thtarts?’
Tamara had been pretty monosyllabic during the four hours it had taken for Anton to create her (though he did say so himself) stupendous new head of hair, and he hoped she’d prove better company this evening. Not that he would ever have entertained turning her invitation down – being seen with her always did wonders for business.
‘Only a couple weeks now!’ Tamara grinned, visibly excited at the prospect. ‘I can’t wait! I’ve learned all my script and everything!’
Anton smiled. She was quite sweet when she was enthusiastic about stuff – although she could be a complete pain in the butt when she wasn’t.
The hubbub of conversation suddenly reached new heights. Tamara and Anton turned their gaze towards the entrance, to be confronted by the sight of Ben, Natalia, Poppy, Damian and – oh Jesus Christ – Jack, approaching one of the best tables on the terrace. Such a blatant display of loyalty towards Jack from her former friends was painful for Tamara to witness – though she couldn’t blame them, she supposed.
‘Sheeet,’ said Anton.
‘Sheet indeed.’
The waiter arrived to take their order.
‘I’ll have the Maryland soft-shell crab,’ she said quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
‘Just a Caethar thalad – hold the drething – for me,’ said Anton.
‘You sure you don’t want more?’ Tamara looked at him quizzically.
‘Darling, I’m developing a paunch.’
Tamara laughed. Anton was tiny.
‘Theriously. You wouldn’t want to thee me naked.’ He winked and she laughed again.
At the large round table in the middle of the terrace, the conversation was low-pitched and furious.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, they could have let us know,’ said Poppy. This night out, this public display of solidarity, had been planned for nearly a week, and now Tamara was here to ruin it?
‘She probably only booked at the last minute,’ said Jack. ‘Look at her – sitting in that shitty corner table, with her hairdresser, for chrissakes.’ Despite everything, he felt slightly touched by how young, lonely and vulnerable she looked. Poor Tamara. It wasn’t her fault that he’d been bewitched by Summer, after all. ‘Maybe we should ask her to join us.’
The look of incredulity on the four faces that immediately turned in his direction was priceless.
‘What?!!!’
‘Listen, mate,’ said Ben, laying a steadying hand on his friend’s arm. ‘There’s being a good guy, and there’s being a complete fucking sap. She’s been trying to ruin you. In fact, she’s ruining all of us.’ He was starting to get angry now. ‘If it wasn’t for her, Saigon Summer would still be a viable project.’
‘Exactly!’ said Natalia, furious. ‘And I am going to tell her so.’
She marched across the terrace to the corner table – a terrifying, vengeful Slavic goddess in her white Lanvin minidress and four-inch silver Jimmy Choos.
‘Hey, Nat.’ Tamara tried to sound casual, friendly even.
‘Don’t you “Hey, Nat” me.’ Natalia deliberately spoke loudly so the other diners could hear. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. What you have been doing is d
espicable.’
‘What?’ said Tamara, angry herself now. ‘Jack cheated on me!’
‘Oh, quit the Little Miss Innocent act. Like you didn’t send Ben photos of your stupid fake breasts?!’
The restaurant went suddenly silent. In an instant Ben was at Natalia’s side. ‘Nat, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and enjoy our dinner.’
As they walked back, a ripple of applause went through the assembled diners. The movie-going public may have been taken in by Tamara, but Jack Meadows was popular in Hollywood, and most movie-industry insiders had been horrified to see his star fall so rapidly.
Tamara gave a sob (this time a real one) and leapt up from the table.
‘Sorry, Anton,’ she said. ‘I gotta go.’ She took her plati-num Amex out of her purse and handed it to him. ‘Have dinner on me. And invite anyone you want to.’ She ran out of the restaurant.
After driving at breakneck speed all the way back to her old Beverly Hills mansion, the first thing that Tamara did was crack open a bottle of vodka.
Chapter 19
Summer shut her laptop with a sigh, her heart like lead. Still no responses to any of her exploratory job-seeking emails. On an island as small as Ibiza, there weren’t an enormous number of openings for food and drink writers, and she was starting to realize what a privileged position she had been in before, with her job on Island Life.
She could freelance, of course – she had a good enough portfolio of work to start sending it out to publications on the mainland, or even in different countries, but it would be a long time before she managed to put together sufficient regular gigs to support herself financially, and she couldn’t live off her parents for ever.
Just as the yummy mummies on the beach had not wanted their precious offspring to be looked after by a homewrecker, so the wives of the rich men who had previously paid her to cook for their glamorous parties had put their feet down. The husbands were keener than ever to see her again, of course, but in such matters it was still the women who ruled the roost.
The only way she had been able to pay this month’s rent was by subletting her apartment to an old friend from Barcelona who was staying in Ibiza for the summer. She was glad to stay at her parents’ home for the time being – the flat held far too many painful memories of Jack – but the summer would soon be over, and besides, subletting was strictly against the terms of her contract.
She supposed she could get a job in a bar, but she couldn’t bear the idea of people sniggering at her behind her back: the ridiculous slapper who had been stupid enough to fuck a famously engaged movie star; the once successful journalist and cook who was now reduced to this, in order to support herself.
She put her head in her hands in despair. What on earth was she going to do?
*
Andy sat in the morning sun outside Café Madagascar, perusing the papers the café provided over a pot of delicious black coffee. After giving Bella a lift to the crèche at the Art Resort, he had decided to make the most of his early start to drive into Ibiza Town – there were certain boring but essential things to do with revenue and Spanish law that could only be dealt with in the island’s capital.
And now he found he still had nearly an hour to kill before any of the official departments opened. Not such a hardship, he thought, smiling to himself as he closed the International Herald Tribune and opened the Ibiza Sun, flicking through its tawdry pages until something in the gossip column caught his eye.
He had never been one for celebrity gossip, but having been exposed to so much of it this summer was willing to give the luridly illustrated piece more than a cursory glance. It was a particularly juicy story, about a barely legal American popstrel disgracing herself at one of the clubbing after-parties with a still-handsome matinee idol nearly forty years her senior. He was wondering where these hacks got their information when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
‘Andy, mate!’
Andy looked up to see the tall, panama-hatted figure of Shane Connelly silhouetted against the morning sun.
‘Shane.’ He stood up to shake his hand.
‘OK if I join you?’
‘Of course, go ahead.’ They both sat down.
‘Bonza morning, eh?’
‘Yes, it’s absolutely beautiful,’ Andy agreed, gesturing to the waitress for more coffee and wondering what was coming next. Shane seemed strangely uneasy, as though something was bothering him.
‘Er – I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t help noticing what you’re reading there.’
‘Ah.’ Andy laughed, slightly embarrassed to be caught looking at such trash. ‘Not my usual choice of reading matter, but—’
‘Don’t worry about that, mate!’ Shane grinned, but Andy could see the anxiety etched on his face. ‘I . . . Oh God . . . Is it OK if I share something with you?’
‘Go ahead.’ Andy looked the other man right in the eye, even though this situation was so far out of his comfort zone as to be laughable.
‘That story . . . well . . . those two were in Aqua last night, and . . .’
‘The story’s not about Aqua though, is it?’ Andy took another quick look at the paper to be sure.
‘No, but . . . Oh jeez, mate – can you keep a secret?’ Before Andy had a chance to answer, Shane continued, ‘I gave the tip-off that they’d be there, at Aqua . . . My contact must have followed them to the after-party, and—’
‘Wait, wait,’ said Andy, frowning. ‘I don’t understand. Aqua’s not mentioned at all. Why would you tip off the Press if it’s not doing you any good, publicity-wise?’ He was disappointed – he liked Shane and hadn’t thought he would stoop so low. The girl in the story was barely out of nappies.
‘I haven’t been tipping off the Press.’ Shane looked Andy in the eye. ‘Well, not unless the celebs ask me to.’
Andy nodded, thinking of the night Filthy had serenaded Jack and Tamara on the speedboat.
‘I’ve been tipping off somebody else who asked me for a heads-up on any celeb action going down at Aqua. I reckoned it was harmless enough, that he was just a bit of a sad cunt, to be honest, who got off on hanging around famous people.’
‘But now you think he’s been selling stories to the Press?’
Shane nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. Most of the scoops that have been published this summer have originated from Aqua, one way or another. If it gets out, it’ll ruin me. I’ve always prided myself on my discretion.’
Andy’s face was the picture of incredulity. ‘Then why on earth have you been tipping this man off?’
‘Because he’s one of my biggest investors, and I can’t afford not to keep him happy.’
*
Cycling through the woods en route to her special beach was meant to make Summer feel better, but today it had only intensified her longing for Jack. She remembered every moment of their first bike ride together, how he had made her laugh and gasp with shock at his tales of Hollywood life; the look in his candid hazel-green eyes as they’d roamed across her face; the absolute ease she had felt in his company.
‘It’s not fair,’ she shouted up to the sky as she reached the clearing in the woods that led to the hike down to the beach. ‘Why did I ever meet you, Jack? What have I ever done in my life to deserve this?’
She dismounted and walked over to the side of the cliff, with its view down to the beautiful little cove. As she gazed down at the turquoise water gently lapping the white sandy shore, she was overcome by memories so painfully strong that she found her entire body was trembling. She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but not before a single tear had slipped down her cheek.
And all of a sudden it occurred to her: it would be so easy. All it would take would be one step, and all this pain would be over. One step . . .
No!
Utterly horrified that the thought should even have entered her mind, she scrambled up the hillside until she was a safe distance from the edge.
As Summer cycled back the way she
had come, she tried to think positive, of ways to get her life back on track. But the sad reality was that it was only the thought of her parents’ grief that had stopped her from jumping. She didn’t believe she had anything else to live for any more.
‘Merde,’ whispered Jorge, who had been taking a stroll along the cliff path himself, ducking into the undergrowth the moment Summer appeared. It had been one of their favourite walks as kids, and it cut his heart like a knife when he saw how close she had been to jumping. He had been about to leap out to stop her when she came to her senses.
As he turned and walked back towards the main road, Jorge suddenly knew exactly what he had to do.
*
Bella was enjoying filling in for Summer at the crèche, though it hadn’t been so easy getting up at the crack of dawn three times a week when she’d still had house guests. It had been sad saying goodbye to all her friends when they’d finally departed for LA, but getting back to normal had been pretty bloody heavenly. On crèche days, Summer would come down from the little house on the hill to look after Daisy after the class, and Bella would do an hour’s one-on-one yoga with Britta. They’d then all – including Daisy – have a quick dip in the sea, before eating breakfast at the Art Resort.
Try as she might, Bella couldn’t interest Summer in anything else. Convinced that everybody on the island was laughing at her, she refused to go anywhere more public than her parents’ house, although Britta had confided in Bella that she often ventured out on her own to cycle northwards along the white track that led to the secluded cove where she’d spent that blissful day with Jack.
It broke Bella’s heart, remembering how perfect she’d thought Summer’s life was when she’d first met her.
As she was thinking this, a very unwelcome figure walked into the creche.
‘Jorge.’ She looked at him with open hostility, thinking that if he hadn’t spilled the beans to the Press, none of this would have happened; Summer could even, conceivably, be living happily ever after with Jack right now. And she, Bella, wouldn’t be feeling so bloody stupid, having let him flirt with her all summer. ‘What do you want?’