Marbella Nights

by Camille Oster

  “You did not sleep with Quentin Cartright?” Alexi’s eyes pierced her like he was trying to spot her lies.

  “I helped him to bed when he was too drunk to walk. He actually had his girlfriend with him, as you might recall. I never even went into his cabin.”

  Alexi didn’t say anything, but his expression was harsh. “That is not what I hear.”

  “Maybe what you hear might have an agenda.”

  “You think the source has an agenda?”

  “The source, and I’m positive I know where this is coming from, may be deflecting from her own behaviour.” There, she’d said it. Instantly she felt a weight come off her. She might be fired for indiscretion, but she was about to be fired anyway, from that bitch’s lies. If she was going to go down, she was taking that cow with her.

  “Get my drink,” Alexi ordered, his voice not more than a growl. He wasn’t happy. More than likely, Captain Borge would give her marching orders when they got back to town. Who was Alexi going to believe, his girlfriend or some random staff member?

  Adelaide rushed inside to the bar to fulfil the order, tears stinging the back of her eyes. It was so unfair. She was going to lose her job over this; she couldn’t afford to lose her job. A whole stretch of uncertainty unfolded before her. She’d have no place to live and too little money to live on. Crap. At least she could crash at the girls’ house.

  She returned with the drink in a tall, straight glass, filled with ice and a slice of lemon, putting a coaster down before silently placing the drink. He didn’t look up, instead absorbed by the papers he was reading.

  Adelaide withdrew inside, but stayed in sight in case he needed anything else, but he didn’t ask for anything until his lunch came up, which she served.

  The whole excitement of going out of port had turned to dread. This was probably her last ride out.

  It was still mid-afternoon when they returned to port. Alexi was talking on the phone, in harsh Russian tones. He’d said nothing further and the dread and anticipation was getting to Adelaide, her hands were shaking when she wasn’t fisting them at her side. She’d never really been fired before, like ‘pack your shit, you’re gone’.

  As usual, she helped when they slowly drifted into their berth, the engines firing to slow their momentum down. The port always had a slightly fishy smell to it, mixed with marine diesel. Absurdly, it smelled like home, but it might not be for much longer.

  Standing back with the others, Alexi walked down the gangway and kept going.

  “Time to wash up,” Jens said. “Did you tell him?”

  “Kind of.” She really didn’t want to go into it. Jens hadn’t been privy to the conversation so didn’t know of the underhanded landmine Cheyenne had left for her. The dramatic firing scenario she’d imagined didn’t eventuate. Maybe Alexi left such things to his HR people. A phone call later in the evening, giving an impromptu performance report with a “Mr. Sumneroff feels that this is no longer a productive working relationship and seeks to terminate this contract at the earliest opportunity.” HR people always tried to make things sound so normal. Adelaide would probably prefer the more dramatic yelling, to the “he thanks you so much for your service and wish you the best of luck for your future endeavours.”

  Crap, crap, crap. There was nothing for it but to sit and wait. For now, they were all going to have a drink downstairs, which they always did after seeing the guests or the boss off. Normally this was a lovely finish to a trip, a well-deserved feet up moment after a job well done. Placing her phone on the table, she waited for the phone call to ruin it all, but it didn’t come.

  Chapter 26

  Cory flicked a tennis ball in the air, putting a sharp spin on it before catching it again. There were kids in the pool, splashing and yelling. They had fun while their mothers sat with cocktails gossiping about the latest news. Alice Cavendish’s marriage was on the cards and Cory felt sorry for the woman whose world was imploding. Apparently he didn’t need to because Alice, according to these ladies, had no pre-nup, and she should be laughing all the way to the bank.

  “My pre-nup is more generous to the kids than it is to me, and I’m the one who has to put up with him,” the blond with glossy hair and huge sunglasses said. She absently stroked her hand down her hair, making sure every strand was in place. “I don’t know how Alice managed to wangle her way out of a pre-nup.”

  “Because she brought just as much money into the marriage as he did when they started.”

  “It’s so much simpler when everyone is equal in these things.”

  “You still need a pre-nup, and a good lawyer who can find all those little Cayman bank accounts he tries to squirrel away. How stupid do they think we are? My first husband tried to hide away all these properties in London into a company which he argued I had no contribution to. No contribution? I had to put up with his limp contribution for ten years. If that’s not work, I don’t know what is. Have you got some more champagne, sweets? Ta. But Roger is darling. I have never been happier.”

  “There’s nothing worse than being stuck in a horrid marriage.”

  “Alice will discover she’s so much happier on the other side. But still, it hurts to fail. No matter how atrocious the marriage, it still hurts when it fails. You just have to move on.”

  “Fish in the sea and all that. Then again, Alice a bit of a dolt. No doubt history will repeat itself with the next one.”

  “I love that bracelet.”

  “I got it in New York, this gorgeous little store in Soho. Obviously not real.”

  “Still, inspired design.”

  “I do try to support the design students, who live on next to nothing, striving to create these beautiful creations. They really are the artists of this century.”

  “Art has always been under-appreciated.”

  “The masters are hardly under-appreciated.”

  “I would argue that. First of all, that’s art of centuries past, but I swear, no one who has a Renoir these days has it for the artistic value. They’re financial vehicles, while living artists starve.”

  “It’s always been that way.”

  Cory walked over to the bar, leaning his back on it with his arms along the bar surface. The kids were happily playing, turning around in inner tubes. Somewhere along the way, these sweet kids, playing so innocently, will turn into these vacant and self-absorbed people.

  “The women are on form today. What are they gossiping about now?” Pablo asked, wiping down the marble surface of the bar.

  “Alice Cavendish.” She was the momentary star in this society’s endless search for titillation and novelty. She would be old news tomorrow.

  “Apparently, her husband left her to take a taxi home from the Sumneroff bash,” Pablo said, refilling the ice.

  Cory frowned. He felt a sense of loyalty to her and was offended when she was belittled and mistreated by that shit of a husband. It was unusual that he form an attachment to one of those women, maybe because she was so under the firing line and completely incapable of dealing with it.

  He hadn’t seen her at the party, then again, he’d spent most of it admiring Trish’s legs.

  One thing he’d learnt working here was that the end of a marriage was a brutal affair, and not just the implosion of the relationship itself, but the morbid curiosity in this fishbowl probably did more damage.

  A group walked in, younger and here to sun tan. He heard Aggie’s laugh before he saw her, and his gut constricted with both hope and dread. A soft and transparent beach wrap floated around her, covering her matching bikini, and a large white bag hung off her shoulders. She moved away from the girls and came towards him. “Funny seeing you here,” she said, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. “Pablo, can we have a round of martinis please? Come join us for a while,” she said, turning to Cory.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll take over watching the kids. Will do me good to get a few minutes of sun,” Pablo offered.

  Spending time with the
girls was something Cory wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to do right that minute, but now he’d pretty much been trapped and it would be pointedly rude to say no. “Course.” The whole Trish thing left an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and he knew he invited trouble playing them both at the same time. He’d moved on from Trish, but at the Shine party that had gone really awry, ending up with him tapping Trish in a backroom. She’d just looked so sexy dancing up there; he’d kind of lost rational thought other the semi in his pants. And now there was Aggie, and they kind of had a thing—or maybe not, who knew with these girls.

  “There was something I wanted to ask you,” Aggie said, holding two martinis in her hands as they walked towards the group of claimed sun-loungers on the other side of the pool from the gossiping mothers. Cory carried another couple of glasses.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “We’re having this weekend in Morocco coming up. I thought you’d like to come, as my date.” She bit her lip playfully, looking over at him. He liked how forward Aggie could be when she wanted something. She made no bones about it.

  He knew full well what she was asking—a weekend away, them in a room, being there together, getting intimate. It was actually a slice of heaven on offer.

  “Not anything serious, just spending a bit of time together, and there’s a group of us going. We’ve rented a house. It will be really low-key and relaxed. It’d be fun.”

  It did sound like fun and something he wanted to do. Aggie was an awesome girl and when would he ever hang with someone like her again? There was Trish, but that was just a sexual thing, a mistake he kept repeating. Okay, he had a solid weakness for Trish shaking her arse, but with Trish there was this underlying expectation he didn’t want to deal with. Aggie was easy. She was fun, and that is exactly what he wanted right now. “I’ll see if I can swing it.”

  “Make sure you do,” Aggie said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling at him. “I’ll text you the details.”

  With a nod, Cory returned to the lifeguard chair, grabbing his sunglasses and whipping them on while the girls stripped off and got comfortable on the sun loungers. Again, this really was the best job in the world. Hot women stripping off to bikinis, frolicking in the water in front of him and he got paid to watch it, not to mention dabble a bit in dark corners. And now a weekend in Morocco. He could manage that. Aggie lay stretched out before him, her tanned, flat stomach and slim legs soaking up sun while she sipped her martini. He knew full well that she was watching him back, building the tension. Shit, it was going to be a hot afternoon. Her being his in the only important respect, teasing him mercilessly while he was unable to run his hands over her soft, exposed skin. At some point he would have to deal with this tension. He smiled at her. He was pretty sure she was game.

  Chapter 27

  The late afternoon breeze was welcome in the heat as Cheyenne sat in one of the cafés, hearing the ice clink in her glass as she gently swirled it around. She wore a white, tight dress and she looked stunning after the salon tan that morning. Alexi looked fresh in his light suit. She wondered if he was going to retire soon, spend most of his time here. Maybe she could plant some seeds in that direction. Moscow was too challenging for an optimal wardrobe of sleeveless, tight dresses and strappy heels. Cheyenne just wasn’t a girl for winter. It was the most useless season of all—completely pointless.

  Cheyenne sighed and smiled as Alexi took another call, again speaking in Russian, ordering someone or other around. He hadn’t said how long he was staying this time around. Looking around, Cheyenne spotted some of the other people in the café. It was right on the waterfront, charging enough for drinks and meals to keep the mere tourists out.

  She saw a few ladies who lunch in their Dolce and Gabbana or Versace designer clothes, chatting over drinks in the late afternoon while the nannies took care of the kids. She would be one of those women one day, the ones without a care in the world. If only Alexi would make an honest woman of her.

  Other people at the café included some retired Brits, the odd dour Scandinavian couple and an American movie producer, sitting with some up and coming actress. Cheyenne wondered if she’d been successful going that route, but it seemed too much work. As much as she wanted Alexi to adore her, she really had no interest in fame, taking much more work and carried too many risks. Obviously she had the looks for it and at times there had been that interest to catch some producer’s eye away from some vying girl, but it was pure competitiveness over any real interest in that industry.

  Alexi finally hung up, placing the phone back in his pocket. Everything he did was so measured and precise. She never really saw him cut lose—other than sex, where he was still perfectly in control. She ran her foot up the inside of his calf. Maybe there was room for an early evening session before dinner.

  Leaning forward, she twisted the swizzle stick in her glass, pulling it out to suck every last drop off it. “So, I suppose you have to find a new serving girl for the boat. Such an inconvenience. I can organise it for you, if you like.”

  “No, it’s okay. No change.”

  Cheyenne blinked repeatedly. Apparently there was a little snag in her plan. “Uhm, I thought you had to get rid of her.” Maybe the little bitch was sucking off Alexi to keep him sweet.

  “She said she didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “I saw her,” Cheyenne said more harshly, watching Alexi intently. Obviously they had spoken. Alexi had confronted her and she had denied the charges. “Of course she would say she didn’t do anything wrong, but I know what I saw. She was practically on her knees unzipping him.” That was a little exaggeration, but it was Cheyenne’s word against hers, and that was only going to play out one way.

  Alexi didn’t say anything and Cheyenne grew worried. He hadn’t fired her. Alexi could be too soft around women.

  “She said the fault is with you,” he said after a while, in his typical brusque manner.

  Cheyenne almost coughed out her drink. “She’s a lying little whore who thinks she can get rid of me? Thinks she has a chance at you? Don’t you see that? You’re being manipulated. Whatever lie she told you, whatever she said she saw, it was nothing. We were simply planning your party, perfectly innocent when she barges in accusing me of ridiculous things.” The little bitch had obviously hit back, trying to drop a bomb about Jesus, and Alexi was malleable enough to believe such a cockamamie story.

  Alexi snorted, his mouth drawn tight. “Dealing with an enemy is easy. You give them enough rope, they will hang themselves.”

  “I haven’t hung anything. Anything she said wasn’t true.”

  “She said nothing. You said everything.”

  “No, Alexi,” she said, clasping his hand. “It isn’t true. I haven’t done anything.”

  Alexi stood, shaking her hold off him and getting his wallet out, throwing a couple of hundred euros on the table. “Now you take care of yourself,” he said.

  “Alexi,” she called as he strode away, aware that they were causing quite a scene. With a growl, she sat back and crossed her arms, furious that he would embarrass her like this. He was just reacting and he would calm down. She would have to talk to him then. Stupid man. Couldn’t he tell he was being lied to? He couldn’t be throwing this away on a simple misunderstanding. It was nothing, just an apparent compromising position. It was insane to throw what they had away on something so stupid.

  She wanted to swear and hit something, but people were still watching her. There was blood in the water and the sharks were all circling, looking for a weakness, something to pounce on. Every single person here knew who Alexi was. Admittedly, he was Russian—they were passionate people.

  Grudgingly she took one of the hundred euro notes and folded it discreetly into her pocket. There was no way they’re drinks and nibbles were more than a hundred. Damn it, she didn’t need this right now.

  Getting up, she tucked her clutch under her arm and walked down the road towards her apartment. She should call a cab, but she was too
riled up, feeling the need to move. Her perfect legs, pumped down the street as she briskly walked, getting wolf-whistled from some tourist nobody on the way. Like you remotely have a chance, buddy, she wanted to spit. Obviously this boy didn’t understand how the world worked.

  Much too early in the morning, Cheyenne sat in a make-up chair on a beach in Cyprus. A woman was fussing around her, painting her up to give her the subtle shading that made her face so distinct in pictures. Another was tugging on her hair and Cheyenne wanted to swat them away. Instead, she threw her phone down on the table in front of her, amongst the make-up artist’s things.

  “Up,” the woman said and Cheyenne complied, looking up so the woman could apply make-up along her lower eyelashes.

  Alexi had refused to answer her calls all week. Stupid man. He hadn’t even given her a chance to talk him around, just cut her off like she was a bore he didn’t want to deal with anymore, and this morning, she’d had a call from some woman saying she was the landlady, asking how Cheyenne wanted to pay the rent. Cheyenne didn’t worry about pleb things like paying rent, telling the woman to get hold of her modelling agency, until she changed her mind. She didn’t want the sour cows at the agency to know there had been a change in her glittering life.

  Pursing her lips, she tried to think what to do. He wouldn’t take her calls or return her texts, and he was damned near impossible to get to if he didn’t want to communicate. Scores of assistants had said they would deliver her messages, but still, nothing. Alexi had to come around; she couldn’t bear to think about being single again, having to start over. This was just too annoying. She was Cheyenne for God’s sake, practically a supermodel if that term would be used these days. If she had been in that era, she would definitely have been amongst the Christy Turlington, Linda Evangelista set. Times were different, but her staying power counted for a great deal.