by Lucy Lord
‘I need to talk to Summer.’ Jorge tried to grasp Bella’s hand, but she pulled away. ‘She won’t answer my calls . . .’
‘I don’t think she has anything to say to you.’
‘Please, Bella. I know she thinks that I went to the newspapers, but I didn’t. I promise.’
‘Why should Summer believe anything that comes out of your mouth?’ Bella snapped, when a little girl ran up to her in tears, and started tugging at her skirt. ‘Oh, darling, what’s the matter?’ She crouched down and stroked the little girl’s head, glancing up to say, ‘Listen Jorge, if it’s that important, you can meet me outside in forty-five minutes’ time. Now isn’t convenient.’
‘You’ll hear me out?’ Jorge smiled his handsome smile, looking relieved, and Bella felt herself wavering slightly. ‘Thank you, Bella, merci, gracias. You won’t regret it, I promise you. And neither will Summer.’
*
Bella waited until the last yummy mummy had finally gone before rushing out onto the beach with Daisy in her arms.
‘Summer’s not here yet, is she?’ she asked Britta.
‘No, not yet – why?’
‘Jorge’s out front. He’s got something he wants to tell me. He says it’s important. Something to do with Summer. Could you please take Daisy and – I dunno – tell Summer I’m in the loo or I’ve nipped out for a minute?’
Britta looked doubtful.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘He seemed genuine. I think I should at least see what he has to say.’
‘OK then. I trust your judgement. Hello, Daisy,’ Britta added as she took her from Bella. ‘Aren’t you looking pretty today?’
‘Yes,’ said Daisy, and Bella and Britta both laughed.
Jorge was leaning against the whitewashed wall at the front of the Art Resort, hands in his jeans pockets. When he saw Bella, he straightened up.
‘OK, fire away,’ said Bella, hands on her hips.
‘I guess Summer’s told you about our past?’ Jorge looked rueful.
‘She has indeed.’ Bella raised her eyebrows.
‘We were young, Bella. I had too many opportunities. But I have remained very fond of her ever since.’
‘I’m not sure what this has to do with anything. Come on, Jorge, cut to the chase.’
Jorge drew something out of his pocket and handed it to Bella. It was a slightly crumpled newspaper cutting, dated a few days previously, about Jack Meadows’s career being on the rocks.
‘Poor bugger,’ said Bella. ‘It doesn’t seem fair that he and Summer should have taken so much flak . . .’
‘Mais exactement!’ Jorge practically shouted, banging his hand on the wall. ‘And that is why—’
‘Bella? Jorge? What’s going on?’
Summer was standing at the entrance to the Art Resort, her eyes large and hurt, more forlorn-looking than ever.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ she added accusingly to Bella.
‘Oh, sweetheart, I am.’ Bella took her hand. ‘I’m not sure what Jorge’s trying to tell us, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think he sold those pictures to the Press.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Summer snorted.
‘I didn’t, carita. I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you.’
Britta appeared behind Summer in the doorway.
‘Why don’t you come to the café and talk about this over some camomile tea?
*
‘You did what?’ Summer looked at Jorge incredulously.
‘Si si, I know, I am not proud of it. But it was her idea, truly. She told me that she and Jack had an “open relationship”, and it definitely wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that.’
‘And the little bitch has been going on all these chat shows, taking the moral fucking high ground?’ Britta didn’t usually swear, but now she was a lioness, enraged on behalf of her cub.
‘Exactement. So you see, I couldn’t have sold those photographs. Whatever you think of me, Summer, I couldn’t have done that to you – and I couldn’t have done it to her, either, not after we’d just made love.’
‘If that’s what you call it!’ But Summer was starting to look less hostile.
‘Whatever.’ Jorge shrugged. ‘I am not that low.’
‘You gave her drugs, knowing she’s an addict,’ Britta pointed out.
Jorge shrugged again. ‘Drogas – Ibiza – I thought I was doing her a favour.’
At that moment, all three women realized that whatever screwed morality Jorge had, his years as a dealer meant that it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that he’d been doing anything wrong.
‘So what happens now?’ asked Bella.
‘What happens now is that I set the record straight,’ said Jorge. ‘I want to make up for hurting you all those years ago, Summer.’
And for the first time in weeks, Summer smiled.
*
Jack poured himself another large slug of JD and staggered over to the desk drawer where he kept the yellowing newspaper cuttings – the newspaper cuttings in which that cunt David Abrahams had kissed and told about Summer.
He spread them out over his coffee table and started to re-read, bitterly. There was no doubting the man was telling the truth: he recognized every graphic description of Summer’s sexual preferences; every snide innuendo rang true. How could he have been so stupid as to think that she would only have responded like that to him?
Even worse than the descriptions were the photos. Summer’s lovely smiling face as she sat up naked in bed, her breasts pixelated out; Summer blowing a sultry kiss to the camera, presumably naked again, given her bare shoulders; Summer writing on her balcony, wearing only a bikini.
He hadn’t been out of the house for four days now, existing on a diet of JD and tortilla chips. He alternated between listening to loud classical music, torturing himself with thoughts of Summer, and – when he couldn’t bear it any longer – watching hours of bad TV.
He was pouring himself the third finger of whisky in half an hour when the door burst open and Ben marched in, straight over to Jack’s state-of-the-art sound system. He switched off Rachmaninov, which was blaring out at full blast.
‘Hi, buddy.’ Jack didn’t look up from the cuttings. Ben had a key and the password for the electronic gates at the front of his house, so he wasn’t particularly surprised to see him.
‘Jack, you’ve got to stop this,’ said Ben bluntly, taking in his friend’s dishevelled, unshaven appearance. He was wearing baggy grey track pants that hung off his lean hips and a grubby Princeton T-shirt that smelt as if he’d slept in it.
‘Why? Look at me. Washed-up loser. No career, no prospects, no—’
‘No Summer?’
‘I don’t want Summer! She lied to me . . .’
Realizing that there was no getting through to him about Summer, Ben sat down next to his friend and put an arm around his broad shoulder.
‘This blip in your career is just that – a blip,’ he said, more gently this time. ‘Something will come up soon, I know it will.’
Jack snorted derisively. ‘Yeah, like what?’
Chapter 20
More nervous than he’d ever felt in his life, Jorge took a sip of water in the Green Room. Having discussed it at length with his father, he had decided that the best place for setting the record straight would not be the Ibiza Sun, but one of the many MTV-like Spanish satellite channels, all of whose offices and studios were in Madrid. The very first one he’d rung had been so keen, and offered him so much money, that he’d almost been tempted to take it, but his father had steered him away from that direction.
‘You are not selling your story, you are setting the record straight. You must remember the difference,’ he had said.
So the two of them had flown to Madrid that morning (at the TV channel’s expense – Henri had decreed that expenses were allowed), and here he was, trying not to sweat through the heavy foundation the flirtatious make-up girl had plastered all over his
face.
He looked at his watch. Still fifteen minutes to go. Fifteen minutes before he would be on air, live, in front of millions of people.
On an impulse he picked up his phone and pressed the screen.
‘Jorge?’ asked Summer. ‘Is everything OK? Aren’t you about to do your interview?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Jorge said nervously. ‘I am in the Green Room now.’
‘Then why are you calling me?’ asked Summer incredulously. ‘You should be – I don’t know – preparing, resting your voice, or something!’
‘I want to tell you what made me do this, carita . . .’
‘I thought you wanted to do the right thing?’ Summer was instantly on guard, her voice accusing. ‘Please don’t tell me that even in this you have an ulterior motive? Jorge . . .’
‘No, no, I do want to do the right thing. But the reason . . . I saw you, Summer.’
‘You saw me?’
‘On the edge of the cliff. You looked so sad. I . . . I could not bear to think of your pain, carita.’
‘Oh, Jorge.’ Summer’s voice was much softer now. ‘In that case, all I can say is thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and good luck. But you must get off the phone! Get ready to face your public! Go now! Go!’
‘OK, boss,’ said Jorge, instantly feeling much happier. Talking to Summer had always had that effect on him.
*
‘And now we have a WORLD EXCLUSIVE!’ Paloma, the exquisite presenter, was almost beside herself with excitement. This was going to be the scoop of her career. They had somehow managed to keep what was about to happen a secret, and she knew that the reaction would be explosive.
‘Do you remember, ladies and gentlemen, the big scandal that happened on La Isla Blanca, our very own Ibiza, this summer? Jack Meadows, the blonde vixen, poor, poor Tamara Gold?’
There were boos and cheers and shouts of ‘La pobre!’
‘Well, we have it on good authority that not everything is as it seems . . .’ Paloma paused for a few seconds to allow her words to sink in. Sure enough, the audience gasped as one. ‘And here, to set the record straight, is one of us, a local boy. Please welcome, ladies and gentlemen – Jorge Dupont!’
There was a round of applause and Jorge walked onto the stage, looking extremely handsome in a black suit and open-necked white shirt, yet boyishly, endearingly, nervous.
‘Hola, Jorge.’ Paloma got up to shake his hand.
‘Hola, Paloma.’ Jorge flashed her a charming grin and they both sat down.
‘Before we start,’ said Paloma. ‘I think we should make it clear to the ladies and gentlemen that you have not accepted any money for this interview, that you are not selling your story.’
Jorge shook his head adamantly. ‘No, no, I could not do that. In fact, I feel uncomfortable enough telling my story . . .’ There was a ripple of laughter through the crowd. ‘But it is something I must do.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Paloma.
‘Because I hate injustice.’
Aaaaah.
Already he had the crowd, which was mainly made up of women of a certain age, eating out of his hand.
‘So Jorge, where do you want to start?’
‘Maybe at the party where Jack Meadows met my friend, Summer Larsson?’
‘Sure. So why was Jack Meadows at a party with non-celebrity people?’
Jorge shrugged. ‘Es Ibiza!’ Another ripple of amusement. ‘The hostess of the party, Bella, is a neighbour and good friend of mine. She has the most beautiful baby. Hola, Daisy!’ He waved at the camera, and there was another ‘aaaah’ from the audience. ‘She is old friends with Ben Jones, who brought Jack Meadows to the party. Tamara was not there. Summer met Jack that day, and I think they liked each other . . .’
‘And how do you know Summer?’ asked Paloma gently.
‘We are old friends. Oh, OK, we were childhood sweethearts.’ Another gasp from the audience. ‘But that is why I feel I must speak up. It is not fair for Summer to take all the blame for what I fully admit is a fairly sordid situation.’
‘Okaaay,’ said Paloma, enjoying herself thoroughly. ‘So let’s fast-forward a few days. Can you tell us what happened that night at Pacha, please, Jorge?’
Jorge took a sip of his water. ‘Before I start this bit, I want you to know that I am not proud of my part in it. But I feel I have no alternative but to speak out.’
‘It’s OK, Jorge,’ said Paloma sympathetically, putting a hand on his knee. She wondered if he’d be up for a drink later. ‘We understand.’
‘OK, so there I am, in the VIP lounge, when who should I see but my old friend Summer, with all the Hollywood people I met at Bella’s party.’
‘Small world,’ smiled Paloma.
‘Es Ibiza,’ said Jorge again, shrugging and striking gold for the Ibiza tourist board. ‘So I join them, and then I see her. Tamara Gold. She is beautiful, such a beautiful girl in the flesh.’
‘Even better than the pictures?’
‘Much better than the pictures.’ Jorge nodded emphatically. ‘So we get talking, and then we both go upstairs for a cigarette, and then I notice . . .’
‘What did you notice, Jorge?’
‘I noticed that she was flirting with me!’ Another gasp from the audience.
‘And what form did this – uh – flirting take?’
‘She told me that she and Jack Meadows had an open relationship.’
The excitement in the studio was now at an all-time high. People were gasping, chattering excitedly, texting their friends this momentous piece of news.
‘Shhh shhh, quiet in the studio please!’ shouted Paloma, in the manner of a judge shouting ‘order, order!’ in a courtroom. She didn’t think she’d ever had so much fun in her life. She turned her attention back to Jorge.
‘And so what happened then?’
‘Well . . .’ Jorge looked down at his feet. ‘This is the bit that I’m not proud of.’ He looked up again. ‘But I have to set the record straight. Tamara and I – she is very beautiful, you must remember, and a famous film star – hard for a simple Spanish boy to say no to – we . . . uh . . . we made love in a store cupboard . . .’
*
‘You were absolutely brilliant,’ said Paloma, pushing her silky long black hair away from her face and looking Jorge straight in the eye. ‘They loved you.’
‘Really?’ Once he’d got over his nervousness, Jorge had found himself hugely excited by the whole showbiz experience.
‘Sure they did. Hey,’ Paloma touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Can I buy you a drink later?’
‘Si – me gusta mucho!’ Jorge smiled back into Paloma’s eyes. ‘Pero – I have to take my dad out to dinner. I owe him for making me refuse the money. Perhaps you’d like to join us . . .?’
‘I’d love that,’ said Paloma, thinking that this boy just got cuter and cuter by the second.
*
‘Well, how cool was that?!’ Bella turned to Andy with a large smile.
‘Cool?’ Andy, who’d been silent for most of the show, sounded incredulous.
‘Yeah . . . cool,’ Bella repeated, a hint of uncertainty entering her voice. ‘Tamara’s going to get her comeuppance, Jack and Summer will be off the hook – I mean, if he and Tamara had an open relationship . . .’
‘But they didn’t,’ said Andy. ‘You know they didn’t.’ He switched the TV off with the remote and started to pace around their lovely airy living room. ‘I can’t believe that you think something so sordid is cool.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop being so bloody pompous.’ Bella was getting angry herself now. ‘Look how miserable Summer’s been since the shit hit the fan – I’d have thought you could agree that anything that might help her would be cool . . . ?’
‘Of course I don’t want Summer to be unhappy’ – Andy’s voice grew softer for a second – ‘but I really don’t think that airing your dirty laundry on TV is the right way to go about it. I mean – shagging in a store cupboard? It’s so
seedy and undignified . . .’
‘Oh, what would you suggest as an alternative? You’ve never liked Jorge, and now you just can’t bear it, knowing he’s done the right thing . . .’
‘DONE THE RIGHT THING? No, I never have liked him, Bella, and for a good reason. He’s a DEALER, remember? An amoral scumbag, who happens to have designs on the mother of my child.’
‘He’s never had designs on me,’ said Bella, impatiently brushing aside the fact that she had almost hoped he had, once.
‘Jorge had designs on you from the moment we first met him, and you loved it,’ Andy shouted, surprising both of them. ‘And that’s why you’re defending him.’
‘I’m defending him because he did the right thing by Summer.’
‘I can’t be bothered to argue about it any more.’ Andy sounded defeated. ‘I’m going to my study. Let me know when dinner’s ready.’
He walked out of the French windows and Bella stared at his tall, retreating frame.
‘You can make your own bloody dinner.’
Chapter 21
High in the sky over the Atlantic, Lars shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Flying, even Business Class (Economy was out of the question for a man of his size) was always an endurance test, but something in his liberal Swedish upbringing wouldn’t let him spend the obscene amounts required to fly First Class. Which was faintly ridiculous, given how much he was now earning, and the number of hours he had to endure in airplanes, but it couldn’t be helped, not when that money could be spent on so many more worthwhile things.
He was glad he had the wherewithal, for example, to have paid for the drug and alcohol rehabilitation of one of the staff in his company’s headquarters in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The New Horizons Clinic had sorted the man out to the extent that he was now back with his wife and able to start repaying Lars – which he didn’t need, but knew was important for his employee’s self-esteem.
Now, though, it wasn’t only the size of the seat that was making Lars uncomfortable. He looked again at the small article that had even made the international version of The Times, about some Spanish boy screwing Tamara Gold in a store cupboard. Jesus, she picked some seedy places. Store cupboards? Toilets? What was wrong with the girl? He shook his big blond head in exasperation.