The Tides of Change

by Joanna Rees

  It wasn’t long before Frankie lost sight of Pushkin as Jeff negotiated the RIB around the other boats. Only when they entered the channel that led to the nearest part of the dock did Frankie catch a final glimpse of Pushkin. Now that she was approaching the shore, it looked like a model. A toy. Something pretend and not real at all. Frankie felt her stomach lurch, feeling suddenly small and insignificant herself. Her old doubts assailed her once more. Was that what this had been right from the start? Nothing but pretend and make-believe?

  No. She pushed the thought from her mind. She had to concentrate on what was real. What she knew in her heart.

  Why were they all treating her like this? Was it really such a crime to fall in love with the boss?

  ‘Eugene? What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Eugene ignored her question and refused to look at her as they sped towards the dock, whizzing through the water at breakneck speed. It was as if they couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  ‘Guys, come on,’ Frankie said, as the boat neared the docks. ‘At least drop me in town. It would make no difference. Surely?’ And besides, she felt like adding, it wouldn’t be long before they were coming back to fetch her. And then how stupid would they feel?

  The speedboat slowed, pulled around and idled next to the steps up to the harbour. Frankie couldn’t believe it. They were dropping her off miles away from anywhere.

  She looked up at the metal steps up to the rough concrete. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Eugene? This is crazy.’

  ‘You must go,’ he said, gruffly.

  Frankie sighed. ‘OK, OK.’ She put out her hand for her bag, but Eugene refused to let it go.

  ‘You can’t take that. It’s got my passport . . .’ Frankie stared at him, angry tears rising up in her. It had all her clothes from Marrakech. All the presents Alex had given her, not to mention her make-up, money and camera . . . ‘Give it back, Eugene. Please. It’s got everything—’

  ‘Boss’s orders,’ Eugene said. ‘You’re to leave with nothing.’

  Fear gripped Frankie. There it was again. Boss’s orders.

  Surely it couldn’t be true. It was impossible.

  Unthinkable.

  She felt her eyes prickle with tears, but rubbed at them furiously, still determined not to let the others witness her dismay.

  If Jeff was sorry, he didn’t show it. He watched as Eugene talked briefly into the microphone on the lapel of his black suit jacket. Then he revved the engine.

  Frankie tried one last time, lunging for her bag. It had the camera in it. Proof. Pictures of her and Alex. Precious memories. ‘Give it to me!’ she snapped.

  ‘Get off,’ Eugene shouted, pushing her backwards so that she stumbled on to the edge of the boat.

  ‘My bag!’

  But Eugene wasn’t listening. In a second Jeff had revved the engine and Frankie had toppled into the water, landing with a huge splash in the dirty cold sea.

  Frankie surfaced to watch the boat swooping around, an arc of water cascading towards her, pushing her over towards the harbour wall. Treading water furiously, she reached out, coughing and choking, desperately clamping hold of the metal ladder rungs in the wall and clinging on. She watched the boat tear away back towards Pushkin. She saw Eugene throw her bag out. She watched it land in the water and sink.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said, tears catching in her throat. She slapped the water hard. ‘Fuck!’ she screamed.

  What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  Frankie hugged her arms around her wet T-shirt. The thin fabric of her skirt was clinging unpleasantly around her thighs as she walked with difficulty along the quayside. She’d lost one of her leather flip-flops in the water and she was hobbling, the rough tarmac hurting her feet.

  Goddamnit! How had this happened? Roz and Richard’s faces loomed large in her mind. Not to mention that jerk-off Jeff and Eugene too. Boss’s orders. You’re to leave with nothing.

  She shook her head, refusing to believe it. It had to be some kind of terrible mix-up, a disastrous mistake. Alex loved her. He’d told her so on the phone only this morning.

  Richard must have got the wrong end of the stick and was just flexing his muscles, wanting her gone so that he didn’t have to deal with the others’ jealousy. As for Eugene getting so heavy . . . well, he must have been misinformed too. Alex would be furious when he found out how she’d been treated. And how she’d lost all her stuff. Her photos . . . the necklace Alex had given her . . . all her money . . .

  Tears fogged her vision and she sat down for a moment on an iron mooring post to try and calm down. Angrily, she brushed some glass from the bottom of her foot. If only she had a phone. If only she had some way of contacting Alex. He’d sort all of this out. And she’d make sure he fired Richard and Roz. And Eugene. Immediately. And Jeff too. She’d thought he’d been her friend, but he’d turned against her with the others.

  Those bastards.

  Her instincts about returning alone to Pushkin had been right. She’d known it would be a disaster – but she hadn’t expected anything like that.

  She had to get hold of Alex, whatever it took.

  She started walking again, trying to ignore the pain in her foot. Further along the quayside crammed with boats, she could see the town of Cannes in the distance. It still looked miles away.

  She spotted a luxury yacht mooring just up the jetty and, for a second, she wondered whether she should go and ask if she could borrow their phone.

  But then, miraculously, she heard a car approaching behind her: a sleek black limousine. She felt herself go limp with relief. Thank God, Alex was here! Come to rescue her. She waved at the limo as it drew level with her. The tinted black window in the back slid down and a familiar face peered out through a haze of cigar smoke.

  Only it wasn’t the face she was expecting.

  It wasn’t Alex at all. It was Sonny Wiseman: the movie producer she’d met on Pushkin.

  ‘Well, hey there! If it isn’t my pretty Cape Town friend . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Oh, Mr Wiseman, thank God,’ she said, wanting to cry. She felt absolutely pitiful. She’d been so convinced it was Alex. The disappointment was crushing. But maybe Alex had sent Sonny to fetch her . . .

  ‘It’s Frankie, right? What the hell happened, kiddo?’ he asked. ‘Can I help at all? Can I give you a lift?’

  Frankie nodded, her teeth still chattering. The driver jumped out and opened the limo door for her.

  Inside, Sonny Wiseman shook out a picnic blanket from the back shelf and held it out to her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, wrapping herself in it and sitting on the seat. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’

  ‘If I’m remembering correctly, I owe you a favour. By the looks of you, I guess this would be a good time for you to call it in, eh?’

  ‘Just take me to him,’ Frankie said, wiping her face on the blanket.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alex. He sent you, right? That’s why you’re here?’

  Sonny Wiseman drew his eyebrows together. ‘Sent me? Alex didn’t send me anywhere, honey. What do you mean?’

  Frankie’s heart sank but her mind started racing. ‘Listen, Mr Wiseman, I’ll explain everything, but really all I need is to get hold of Alex. And I need to get some clothes. And . . . and . . . my passport. Those bastards have my passport and all my money and cards and—’ She felt tears threatening to choke her again.

  ‘OK. Slow down. Let’s get you dried out. One thing at a time.’

  Frankie grabbed his arm, desperately. ‘But you’ll help me?’

  ‘Sure I’ll help you. Alex is flying in for the film premiere tonight at the festival. He must have told you about it. Blue Zero: the new Todd Lands picture? It’s one of his best. Might even be in with a shout for a gong. You must come too.’

  Frankie felt an icicle drop into her stomach. Alex hadn’t mentioned the premiere, or that he’d be flying in for it. But, of course, it made sense that was why Pushkin was here.

  S
he’d thought tonight was Alex’s own party. His birthday party. She’d thought she would be with him on the yacht . . .

  But now, it seemed, Alex would be at a film premiere.

  It was all so confusing.

  There must be an explanation, she reasoned. Trust. Alex had told her time and time again it was the most important thing. She had to have faith. And she would.

  In the presidential suite of the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, Frankie emerged from the deep bubble bath, feeling as if she’d woken up in a dream. And to think that only a few hours ago, she’d been walking along that seedy quayside. Here in these luxurious surroundings, the way she’d been treated seemed more outrageous than ever. She could have been killed by the tender, or caught any number of horrible bugs from the dirty water. Or still be abandoned at the side of the road.

  Thank God she felt more back to normal. Alex would be here soon to clear up all this mess. She longed to be in his arms again, to hug him, and to have him tell her that everything was OK.

  As she wrapped herself in a sumptuous thick white robe, she heard a discreet knock.

  ‘Hair and make-up is here,’ Debbie called.

  Frankie opened the bathroom door. Debbie, one of the many assistants Sonny had magicked up on their arrival at the hotel, slipped into the bathroom and handed Frankie a glass of champagne. She had a large gap between her front teeth and a friendly smile and Frankie had liked her the moment Sonny had introduced her when they’d arrived at the grand suite. Sonny had explained that the film company had hired the suite for its meetings in Cannes. Life-size cardboard cut-outs of Todd Lands were everywhere, as well as posters and promotional flyers for the movie.

  Debbie was carrying a clipboard under her arm and had a walkie-talkie strapped to the belt of her jeans. Her afro hair was bound up in a green silk scarf and bracelets jangled on her arm.

  Frankie smiled. ‘Debbie, honestly, you’re like an angel.’

  ‘Hey, well, you’ve got your bit to do, girl,’ Debbie replied in her sassy American accent, her cheerful face serious for a moment.

  Bit to do? What could Debbie mean? But before Frankie had a chance to ask, Debbie was already chattering away again.

  ‘Sonny wants you to be ready by seven. That doesn’t give us much time. I had some sushi brought up. Don’t eat too much, or else you’ll bloat out and won’t get into your dress. But you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. And, hey, smile. Don’t be nervous. This is going to be fun!’

  Debbie threw open the bathroom door and Frankie’s jaw dropped in amazement. The suite was filled with people scurrying everywhere. In one corner, a whole booth had been set up with a chair in front of a giant mirror, surrounded by lightbulbs. An absurdly trendy guy with a blue Mohican and tight black trousers was plugging in a hairdryer and laying out combs and brushes. Next to him, a girl with magenta-red hair tied up into two knots so that they looked like Minnie-Mouse ears was laying out the contents of a giant plastic case full of make-up.

  In the centre of the room, a white sheet was laid out on the thick carpet. Rising up from it was a mannequin stand housing the most exquisite long ball dress Frankie had ever seen. It was a sheer white sheath covered in rhinestones and crystals. The plunging neckline with its diamanté clasps was stunning. A row of high, strappy, to-die-for shoes were lined up next to it.

  Debbie clapped her hands. ‘Guys! Everyone! This is Frankie.’

  Everyone turned to look at Frankie in the doorway at the exact moment her towel turban fell off her head and she spilt champagne all down her front.

  Everyone laughed and Frankie shrugged. ‘Hi.’

  Someone hit a sound system and the suite was filled with James Brown singing ‘I Feel Good’.

  Debbie escorted Frankie to the mirror in the corner and introduced her to the hair stylist, Marc, the guy with the Mohican, and Vic, the redhead who was going to do her make-up.

  First it was Marc’s turn, smoothing serum into Frankie’s hair before straightening it with a giant barrel brush, then blow drying it with an enormous dryer. Then came clouds of hair spray and more drying, before he rolled up sections of her hair into curlers. Whilst he was doing that, two of Vic’s assistants took a hand each and manicured Frankie’s nails. But in spite of all the work they were doing, the more time that passed, the more they seemed to be getting into a frenzied rush.

  Frankie couldn’t believe what a fuss all this was. Sure, it was lovely of Sonny to lay all of this on so that she’d be ready in time for the premiere, but she was just one of the guests. She couldn’t imagine what absurd levels of pampering the real film stars must be subjected to, the actors and actresses and all the other people who’d actually made the film. If a lowly last-minute invitee like her was getting all this, then what must they be going through?

  She was glad this was just a one-off: she could never live like this for real. It was absurd, and not to mention slightly embarrassing, spending all this time and money just for the sake of looking good.

  ‘You been doing lots of skincare in preparation for the big night? Yes?’ Vic asked in a heavy French accent once Marc was satisfied to leave Frankie in rollers. Vic held Frankie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and inspected her face in the light.

  ‘Well . . . er . . . I did have a facial in Marrakech a few days ago.’

  ‘Oh yes? Where?’

  ‘A friend of mine Sylvie organized it. The beautician was called Coco?’

  ‘You don’t mean Coco Rochas?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  Vic whistled, impressed. ‘Just as well. You lucky girl. Do you know how long the waiting list for her was? Universal begged her to come over to Cannes, but she stayed in Marrakech.’

  Frankie was astounded at Vic’s reaction. She’d had no idea that Coco was so famous. She’d thought that Sylvie was exaggerating when she’d said that Coco was one of the best beauticians in the world. Frankie felt retrospectively guilty about being so blasé about all those free treatments.

  ‘Now, what do you usually wear?’ Vic asked.

  ‘Nothing. Well, some lip gloss maybe. I—’

  Vic frowned. ‘For these parties, I mean? What you want me to do? Come on, honey, we don’t have much time.’

  Frankie pressed her lips together, feeling at a loss. This all seemed so professional. ‘Er . . . you know, why don’t you do what you think will look best?’

  Vic wobbled her head as if in shock. ‘If only everyone could be like you. I can do anything, yes?’

  ‘Whatever looks good. I’ll leave it up to you.’

  She twirled Frankie round so that she was facing the mirror and leant her head down next to hers. ‘OK. You mind if I pluck your eyebrows a bit?’

  ‘You know, do you mind if I just . . . ?’ Frankie desperately wanted to find Sonny, to find out whether he’d contacted Alex, but Vic scowled at her.

  ‘Zip,’ she said. ‘Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle until I say so.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘OK, you guys,’ Debbie said, her walkie-talkie going crazy. ‘Come on. Step it up. We have to get out of here in half an hour, tops. We cannot miss the slot, OK?’

  Twenty minutes later, Vic had worked her magic and Frankie’s face was made up, her skin glowing with vitality, her eyes outlined, the lids expertly shaded in frosted lilacs and silvers. Her lips had been lined into a generous pout. Her cheekbones shimmered. A stranger looked back at her from the mirror. She wondered what Alex would say when he saw her. He might not even recognize her any more, she thought in dismay.

  Debbie came over and smiled. ‘You look lovely,’ she said. ‘Ready to try on the dress?’

  ‘What about underwear?’

  Debbie shook her head. ‘Valentino sculpted this one inside for support. I suppose you could wear a thong, but I think you’ll find it more comfortable and less risky without. Let’s just hope it fits.’

  Frankie gasped. The dress was an original Valentino? ‘Isn’t there something . . . ?’ she began. ‘I mea
n, it’s lovely . . . but can’t I wear something a little more low key?’ She felt horribly nervous all of a sudden. Now she was up close, she could see that it was just as much a work of art as it was a dress. Not even the beautiful clothes Sylvie had given her could compare with this. What if she spilt something on it? What if it tore? Frankie knew that you needed serious balls to pull off a dress like this. What if she didn’t look good in it? What if she looked as awkward, uncomfortable and out of her depth as she felt?

  Debbie glanced at one of the other dressers. ‘This is Cannes, darling. You can’t wear anything low key!’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Anyway, you wanna give up the chance of wearing couture?’

  ‘But . . . I’ve never worn anything so expensive before.’

  ‘No buts. If I were you and I got to wear one of the most beautiful dresses in the world, then I’d darn-well jump at the chance. Do you have any idea how many girls would bite your hand off just to be near this dress? To be doing what you’re doing?’

  Frankie took a deep breath. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good, because the top designer from Valentino is coming to check out his creation.’

  Whatever misgivings Frankie had been feeling now promptly doubled. ‘The actual designer? Is coming here? To the hotel? But . . .’ Frankie groaned. Could this get any worse?

  ‘Shhh. Now arms up. We got to concentrate to make sure it goes on right.’

  Frankie’s head was reeling as she was escorted down in the lift to the front of the hotel to meet Sonny. She was surrounded by five bodyguards all carrying black sheets, so that she was completely shielded. This was crazy, she thought, beginning to panic. They’d appeared from nowhere as she’d stepped out of the suite and none of them spoke a word of English. None of them could explain what was going on.

  ‘You don’t want to be photographed yet,’ Debbie warned, poking her head through the sheets before disappearing again. Or at least that’s what Frankie thought she said, but she was already being hustled into the lift.

  Photographed? What did she mean? Frankie could hardly think.