by Lucy Lord
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling up at him through sooty lashes. ‘I’m Karolina.’
Down boy, down boy, think of Sam. Mark willed his cock not to stiffen.
‘Hi, Karolina. I’m Mark.’
‘And I’m Justin.’ Justin eagerly thrust his hand out. ‘Great dress, babe.’
Stefan roared with laughter at their reactions.
‘See? All my girls are HOT. Catcha later? Fun and games you won’t regret.’ He winked again and slimed off, dragging both girls with him.
‘Fuck me,’ said Mark. ‘Did you see that girl?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Both men were still gazing after the threesome.
‘Who’s the geezer then?’ asked Mark, when they’d managed to drag their gaze away and were once more sitting nursing their cognacs.
‘Stefan Rafael, the porn king. Not his real name, of course. He is bad news.’ Justin laughed. ‘But if those two chicks are anything to go by, his party might be worth a look.’
‘Better count me out,’ said Mark with regret. ‘I’m practically married these days.’ He did love Sam, and for the first time in his life had been faithful the entire time they’d been together. Her sweet nature and phenomenal body brought out his manly, protective instincts. But he wasn’t sure he could trust himself at a porn party full of babes like Karolina. He took out his phone and looked at his screensaver: a photo of Sam’s smiling young face. It was more to strengthen his resolve than anything else.
Justin laughed again and slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’
Natalia, who had witnessed the entire encounter from the safe distance of the bar, rolled her eyes and shuddered.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit … tight?’ Sam looked doubtfully at her reflection in Sienna’s age-spotted antique mirror. Sienna had somehow managed to imbue her student digs with a bohemian charm that, while beguiling, was not so over-the-top as to feel completely out of place in halls of residence. Unlike the clothes she chose to wear.
‘Darling, you look gorgeous. Besides, it’s the biggest T-shirt I’ve got.’ In purple skinnies that clung to her long legs like a second skin, and braless in a black American Apparel vest, Sienna was practically unrecognizable from the ethereal waif in floor-length lace Sam had known earlier. She’d teased her long blonde hair so it stood out madly around her face, piled on the black eyeliner and thrown several crucifixes and skull pendants around her slender white neck.
Sam was wearing a red-and-black-tartan mini-kilt over black opaques and biker boots, but Sienna had deemed the black polo-neck jumper she had wanted to wear with it ‘boooorring’ and insisted she borrow something from her own wardrobe to ‘rock things up’. Hence, the NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS T-shirt that strained manfully over Sam’s boobs. As Sam didn’t wear much make-up when she wasn’t working, Sienna had insisted on making up her eyes with as much kohl as she had made up her own. After much deliberation, head tilted to one side as she considered, she’d tied Sam’s hair into jaunty pigtails.
Now, as, side by side, they looked in the mirror, Sam had to admit they looked quite cool together. She’d always played it pretty safe with her sartorial choices, but was starting to realize that dressing up, messing around with your image like this, could actually be fun. It was completely different to trying to make yourself look as sexy as possible for the ‘readers’ of men’s magazines.
‘You look brilliant, Sam,’ said Sienna again. ‘The boys won’t know what’s hit ’em.’
‘Boys?’ After the last two days’ experiences with evil Josh, the last thing Sam wanted was to be meeting new boys. She’d thought this evening was about a night out with her new best friend. Sienna laughed.
‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re perfectly harmless. Four sweet chaps from up north somewhere. They think of me as a kind of mascot for their band …’
It was a typical London summer evening: cold, rainy and miserable.
‘What are we doing in this godforsaken hellhole of a country?’ said Sienna as they shivered at the bus stop on Euston Road. Sam wished she’d been allowed to keep her polo-necked sweater on (Sienna had shrugged on a beaten-up leather jacket just before they left halls). ‘We should be soaking up the rays in Saint-Tropez right now.’
‘My boyfriend’s in Saint-Tropez at the moment,’ said Sam shyly.
‘Really?’ Sienna looked at her with surprise, which she quickly tried to hide. ‘Lucky him. What does he do? Not a lowly student like us, I take it?’
‘He used to be the art director on Stadium – you know, the men’s magazine, before it folded. Now he freelances. They’ve been shooting for GQ – that’s why he’s in the South of France, you see.’
‘Is that how you met him?’ Sienna asked, the penny dropping, and Sam nodded. The bus drew up and both girls flashed their Oyster cards at the driver before making a beeline for the back row of the top deck, oblivious to every male head (and a couple of female ones) swivelling in their direction. They were a couple of incredibly pretty young girls.
‘So what does he look like, this boyfriend of yours?’ asked Sienna. ‘Got any photos?’
‘Course!’ Sam giggled. ‘Who hasn’t got photos of their boyfriend?’
She took out her phone and gave it to Sienna. As she started scrolling through, Sienna’s voice got higher and higher.
‘Sam! He’s bloody gorgeous! He looks like Jason Statham! Oh, woweeeewow!’ She clutched Sam’s shoulder and Sam was reminded that, for all her sophisticated ways, Sienna was still actually only 19, just like her. She smiled at her new best friend with enormous gratitude, so glad to have a proper ally for once.
The vieux port at Saint-Tropez had to be seen to be believed. Mark and Justin had been there many times before, of course, but for the ogling, badly dressed day-trippers (soon about to depart, thank the Lord) it was something akin to Disneyland. This tiny bit of legendary celeb-ville was not much more than a small handful of prettily pastel-coloured nineteenth-century buildings clustered around a waterfront teeming with yachts, super-yachts and mega-yachts. The majority of these buildings now housed obscenely expensive boutiques, bars and restaurants. If you just wanted to people-watch, it was possible to sit at one and drink a coffee for 15 euros, though those in the know, and the students who’d read up on St Trop in the Lonely Planet, realized it was cheaper to get a small pression – or draft lager – for less.
Mark and Justin were beyond the stage of caring. After the fifth cognac at Club 55 (all paid for by GQ), they’d decided to repair to their shared room at the Byblos, where they’d snorted at least a gram to keep them going after the day’s excessive boozing.
‘Hahahahahaaaaa, Justin, mate, I now know where Bella gets it from!’ Mark had chortled.
‘She gets her looks from her mother and her stamina from me,’ Justin had responded. ‘I’m so proud of my little girl.’
‘Yeah, Bella’s great. And she’s all right now with that Andy geezer. Good bloke.’
‘Good bloke,’ Justin had affirmed solemnly as he racked out another couple of chunky ones.
Now though, they were sitting at Bar Sénéquier on the corner where the main drag met the seafront, drinking Pernod and checking out the talent.
‘Check out the tits on that!’ said Justin to Mark, as both their eyes followed a ludicrous-platinum-blonde in a skin-tight sugar-pink catsuit trailing a horrible little dog on a bejewelled lead.
‘Fake.’
‘Course they’re fake. Whose aren’t?’
‘Well, Bella’s for starters …’
‘Don’t you talk about my daughter like that …’ Justin tried to be the stern father, then started giggling again.
‘And my lovely Sam’s. They are au naturel, as they say in these places.’
‘Yeah, you and your lovely Sam. That’s a good thing, mate, that you think of her like that. The only chick I ever felt like that about was Bella’s mum, Olivia.’ Justin looked wistful for a second. Then he snapped himself out of it. ‘But how can anybody exp
ect a hot, red-blooded man to be faithful to one bird for the rest of his life? When there is so much beauty, wherever we look?’
‘My man, my man!’ said sleazeball Stefan, appearing out of nowhere with a trio of identical leggy blondes in Lycra minidresses.
‘See what I mean?’ said Justin to Mark, who laughed.
‘Meet Fifi, Gigi and Mimi,’ said Stefan, indicating the triplets, who simpered.
‘Triplets? For real?’ asked Mark.
‘Why settle for one when you can have three?’ winked Stefan. ‘Anyway, we’re on our way to the party. Join us later? The Li—’
‘Linda Lovelace boat,’ chorused Mark and Justin. They looked at each other and laughed.
‘Wotcha think, mate?’ said Justin.
Buoyed up with Pernod, cognac, cocaine and the balmy night air, Mark could feel his resolve weakening.
‘Oh, fuck it, why not?’
The Hawley Arms was heaving with young people who had taken an awful lot of time to look as if they didn’t care what they looked like.
‘Two snakebites, please,’ said Sienna to the very cute barman, who gave her and Sam an appreciative once-over. ‘Oh, look, there are the boys.’ She knelt down to muss her hair into an even wilder tangle, then stood back up and waved coolly in the direction of a table in the corner. A couple of lads with brushed-forward fringes waved back.
‘I can only see Mikey and Dan,’ Sienna said to Sam, sotto voce. ‘They’re like the lead singer and lead guitarist. I quite fancy Mikey actually, but don’t let on.’
‘Course not!’ Sam laughed. ‘What’s their band called?’
‘The Flaming Geysers.’
‘Cool.’ Actually, Sam thought the name sounded a bit silly, but she really wanted to fit in somewhere. The glamour world was only a means to an end (although she’d always thank it for introducing her to Mark); college life wasn’t turning out a bit how she’d hoped; if the indie scene was to be where she found her feet, she could do worse than befriending a couple of cool blokes in a band.
Pints in hand, the girls made their way towards the table in the corner.
‘Hey, Scotty,’ said one of them to Sienna.
Seeing Sam’s enquiring look, Sienna said, ‘Short for Mascot. Hey, Dan, hey, Mikey. This is Sam, my best mate from college. She’s like, mega-clever!’
Sam hid a smile at the change in the way Sienna spoke. Maybe she wasn’t quite as confident as first impressions suggested.
‘Mega-clever, eh?’ said the pretty blond one who could easily pass for the lead singer in a manufactured boy band, had his apparel not been trying to shriek ‘alternative’ quite so loudly. His tone was affectionately mocking. ‘Is that, like, cleverer than super-clever?’
‘Cleverer than you, anyway, shit-for-brains,’ said the other boy. ‘Hi. I’m Dan.’ He stood up and held out his hand, which Sam shook, looking up at him. Gosh, he was tall. ‘Clever and pretty. Nice combination.’ He smiled a charming smile and Sam felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. With his black leather jacket, floppy dark hair and high-cheekboned, almost lupine face, he was the stuff young girls’ dreams were made of.
A couple of hours later, Sam had ascertained that Dan, Mikey, Ross (bassist) and Olly (drummer) had all grown up in Manchester. Mikey, Olly and Ross had formed a previous incarnation of the band at school together; Dan had been recruited later, after an impromptu jamming night at a student gig. All in their mid-twenties, they’d been doing the pub circuit for the last couple of years, touring the country in a rackety old Volkswagen van and clocking up a loyal groupie fan-base.
‘But those girls are nothing, y’know?’ Dan said, nonchalantly, sliding one arm along the back of the banquette so it rested atop Sam’s shoulders. ‘Silly little slappers. You and Scottie have a bit more class than that.’ He pronounced it to rhyme with gas.
Sam looked over at Sienna and burst out laughing. Her new friend had had her tongue down Mikey’s throat for at least the last forty-five minutes. One of the straps of her vest top had fallen off a pearly white shoulder and her long, slender, purple-clad thighs were clamped tightly around Mikey’s probing left hand.
Dan followed her gaze and started to laugh too. ‘Well, OK, maybe that’s not the classiest I’ve ever seen Scotty behave, but believe me, you two are leagues above the rest of them.’
Just as Sam was starting to feel as cool as only a girl who’s been told she’s with the band can feel, Dan lunged at her. For a second she let herself succumb to his kiss, then pulled away, reluctantly.
‘Sorry, Dan, I can’t. Really. I mean, I really like you and everything, but I’ve got a boyfriend. And I really love him.’ She looked up at him with enormous imploring eyes, begging him to understand, not to drive her back into social Siberia.
Dan turned away and shrugged, making Sam’s heart sink. Then he turned back and smiled his sexy smile again.
‘OK, cool, no worries. I’m not exactly short of totty anyway. Let’s you and me be friends. I like you, Sam.’
‘I like you too, Dan.’ Sam beamed, feeling great. She’d done the right thing, and made friends with an up-and-coming rock star. She couldn’t wait to tell Marky (though she’d probably leave out the two or three seconds she’d let Dan kiss her).
‘That makes two of us then,’ said Dan, reaching for his Golden Virginia and silver Rizlas. ‘Fancy a smoke outside?’
The Linda Lovelace boat was as tacky as you might imagine, multiplied by a hundred. Fur rugs, smoked glass, gold dolphin-shaped taps in the Jacuzzis – it was as if it had been perfectly preserved in a seventies porn time capsule. But the girls … the girls … They pretty much made up for every square inch of tackiness. Within the universally approved parameters of young, slim and gorgeous, the variety was astonishing. Black, white, light brown, dark brown; blonde, brunette, redhead; busty, leggy, short, tall; cute and giggly, sophisticated and sultry; every taste had been catered for here.
And boy, were the guests taking advantage. In every corner, Mark could make out threesomes, foursomes, girl-on-girl action, scenes of bondage and S&M, schoolgirl fantasies. You name it, Stefan had thoughtfully provided it.
But none of it, thought Mark, as he felt his resolve weakening still further, was as downright tug-at-your-bollocks-sexy as Karolina. She’d made a beeline for him as he and Justin had walked onto the boat, still in her white lace dress, her perfect little breasts still tantalizingly visible through the peek-a-boo fabric.
‘Hey, sexy,’ she’d purred, smiling up at him through those absurdly thick black lashes. ‘Come with me for a little … private … party?’
Following her as if in a trance, Mark had found himself in a bedroom equipped with an enormous round waterbed dressed in black satin sheets. He tried to force himself to think of Sam but it was impossible.
Locking the door behind her, Karolina gave him that mocking, mischievous grin again and said, ‘Well, now we are here, what do you think we should do?’
Her voice was heavily accented Eastern European. Czech, probably, Mark thought, though in all honesty he didn’t really give a fuck where she came from.
Karolina turned away from him and bent over the bed, the short lacy skirt riding up to reveal perfect brown buttocks bisected by a virginal-looking white cotton thong. Stifling a groan, Mark took a step forward and put his hands on her hips, but she stood up again and looked over her shoulder, teasing, her streaky light brown hair cascading down her back.
‘Not yet, sexy.’ She took his hand and guided it to one of those amazingly pert breasts. As his fingers brushed her nipple through the white lace, she shuddered.
‘Oh, yesssss, baby …’
It was too much. Mark grabbed the short dress by its hem and yanked it over her head, gasping as he saw her lovely brown body revealed in all its lightly muscled glory. She turned around and laughed at him again, totally secure in her own desirability.
‘No rush. OK?’ She sauntered over to a hideous smoked-glass-and-chrome bedside table and opened up a wrap of coke. Position
ing herself to her best advantage against the black satin sheets, legs slightly akimbo, she scattered about a quarter of the wrap’s contents over both perky breasts.
‘You sniff from here, baby? And then, from here?’ And as Mark watched she dipped her fingers first into the rest of the wrap and then, coated in white powder, into her inviting, glistening pussy.
It was not an offer he could refuse.
Chapter 7
Natalia sat on her yacht in the morning sunshine, surveying the vieux port. Saint-Tropez was quite delightful in the mornings, before the hoi polloi descended. White-aproned restaurateurs were setting up tables and chairs outside their establishments, laying the tables with gingham cloths. Others bartered with fishermen at the water’s edge over their daily haul. Shopkeepers exchanged friendly greetings; a lone dog barked somewhere.
‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ said the florid-faced chap on the neighbouring yacht to Natalia’s, a monstrous gin palace that went by the unfortunate moniker of Lady Garden.
‘Beautiful,’ Natalia said politely, then picked up yesterday’s Financial Times and buried her face in it. Her neighbour, a self-made Brit, had been hitting on her the entire week she’d been there and she was thinking it might be time to move on (she’d heard Cap Ferrat was beautiful). She had nothing against the fact her neighbour was self-made, of course, but he was loud, coarse and persistent, and Natalia liked her privacy when it suited her. Though you wouldn’t think it, given her sartorial choices.
Today she was wearing lilac bikini bottoms held together at the sides with the distinctive gold Chanel double C. Her boat-necked striped matelot top was a Chanel classic, made especially for her by Kaiser Karl in stripes of pink, mauve, aqua and yellow. Her platinum-blonde hair was swept up in its signature high ponytail and gold-and-diamond studs glittered at her ears. Her shades, which also bore the Chanel logo, were black and enormous.