by Miles Hadley
‘Aw, Crystal, look at that,’ Gary commented. ‘We’ve got ourselves two little lovebirds.’
Crystal and Jamal cackled before passing each other a toke.
Gary told Jamal to put the Xbox on and they started playing a fighting game. At first, Jamal had the upper hand, but Gary beat him.
‘Gutted,’ Gary laughed and grinned as Crystal slipped an arm around him and gave him a peck on the cheek.
There was a commotion from outside the bedroom door. A piercing scream could be heard. Jamal immediately shot up and opened the door.
Diane was clutching her head and crouched on the floor, talking incoherently to herself.
‘Mum. Are you all right?’ Jamal asked.
Gary watched as she briefly stopped and carried on.
‘Mum. Have you been taking your medication?’ said Jamal.
There was no answer. She continued muttering to herself.
‘Mum?’ Jamal yelled at her. ‘Calm the fuck down.’
The incoherent sentences dropped to a whisper and Diane finally looked up at her son, lowering her hands from her head.
‘I’ve just been mugged… out in the street.’
‘What do you mean you’ve just been mugged?’ Jamal asked. He repeated the question angrily. ‘What do you mean, you’ve just been mugged, Mum? Where’s your purse? Mum? Where’s your handbag?’
The group stood around Diane in shock. Jamal helped her to get up.
‘Can I do anything?’ Crystal asked Jamal.
‘You wouldn’t mind making a cup of tea for Mum, would you?’ Jamal asked sadly, before leading his mum to the couch and putting his arm around her. She was now shaking and crying.
‘I’ve just been mugged. I’ve just been mugged,’ she repeated. Jamal held her close and stroked her hair.
‘No prizes for guessing who it was,’ Deano commented.
Gary glared at him and told him to shut it.
Crystal and Michelle came in from the kitchen and gave Jamal’s mum a cup of tea. They crouched down and gently tried to support her, stroking her arm.
‘I’ve just been mugged…’ Jamal’s mum kept repeating.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Jamal said calmly. ‘We’re here.’
‘Fuckers,’ Gary muttered angrily to himself.
13
Ah, the Riviera, playground of the elite. Another home away from home. Sun, sea, glamour and a rollicking good relax. That’s what the Masters needed. That’s what they craved. Health and wealth. They oozed it in bucketloads, like the lotion upon their glistening tanned skin…
The Manoir de Parvenu was the Raynards’ Riviera residence. There was some discussion as to whether Archie could make it due to the fact he had one or two photography shoots booked with Silvio. One was in Madrid, where he had to take photos of a famous Countessa for a society magazine. She was fending off a potential tax scandal. Archie had thought the Countessa was lovely. She was in her sixties and owned three castles. He decided to photograph her leaning out from a balcony of one of them, in an effort to imitate the infamous Beaton photograph of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor post abdication.
The other job was far more mundane. It was for an advertisement for a high-end sofa company that would be appearing in a London-based interior design magazine. They had got the job via Izzy, Polly’s friend. Archie thought the model had been an incredibly dull type. Perhaps he had now become accustomed to comparing them all to Polly.
Archie longed for a proper holiday and, more importantly, he longed for his Poll. He arrived a couple of hours after her on a flight arranged by Henry. He had tagged along as a ‘minder’ for a wealthy Arab Prince’s son on a hired private jet to Nice. On the flight, he took the opportunity to read one of Cecil Beaton’s diaries. It was his pre-war years, the part of his life that Archie enjoyed the most. It was when Beaton was just starting out as a serious photographer. Something that people overlooked, Archie realised, was that Beaton had a way with words in the same way that he had with imagery.
The journey had proved useful in that Archie was able to introduce himself to the Prince’s family secretary upon arrival at the airport. On the Prince’s behalf, the secretary asked Archie if he would photograph the family sometime soon at the Prince’s palatial, but secluded, villa. Archie gladly accepted.
Once at the Manoir, Archie immediately hugged and kissed Polly. He was introduced to the parents again. He had met them infrequently through his friendship with Razza. Archie had been correct; there certainly was a nose resemblance to Polly’s mother, Lavinia. She was, indeed, beautiful and elegant, but in an older, middle-aged way. The father, Piers, had evidently not weathered his years so well. Archie observed that he was as bald as a coot with crow’s feet eyes. Yet, Archie felt that Piers exuded a jovial charm and warmth that Archie saw very much in Razza. The son in question came out to greet Archie and give him a big hug.
‘Where’s your new girlfriend?’ Archie asked.
‘Oh, she’s in Moscow at the moment,’ Razza replied beaming.
Archie thought the Manoir was a fascinating place. It had been designed in the 1920s art deco period to fit in with the surrounding landscape. There was something in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright about the place, Archie thought, but he was told that the architect was far less well known. The interiors were extremely light and simple, and allowed carefully selected art pieces to stand out in their own right. There were small statues by Rodin and Degas, as well as pictures by Hockney and other very well-known British artists such as Sutherland.
Archie was told by Piers that he had always admired the French house where Graham Sutherland had lived. It was also an art deco villa. Piers explained that he had discovered the Manoir while it was in a ruinous state. He acquired it and had it renovated extensively.
The art deco design was of particular interest to Archie, because it was around this time that Cecil Beaton would have been starting in his career. Everything from that period intrigued him. Those that did, knew how to do, Archie thought. Certainly, his idol Beaton did – a true genius. Even in Beaton’s portrait of the composer William Walton, he was able to paint a very convincing abstract painting for the background.
This portrait inspired Archie to take a similar profile photograph of Razza in front of one of the Raynards’ abstract paintings. He took a good shot, but felt that, once again, it would never compare to the Walton portrait. Eventually, after a few attempts, and after getting the light correct, Archie was able to at least try and emulate Beaton.
Archie also met two guests from Polly’s parents’ generation. One was Julian Fairclough, a well-known barrister, who also wrote saucy novels under a nom du plume, and his wife Virginia, an artist. Julian had quite an interesting face from a portraitist’s perspective and Archie asked if he could take some shots of him. It was something to do with Julian’s style of glasses and his nose which, although quite ugly, was at the same time quite distinguished. Julian kindly obliged and Archie made him pose in swimming shorts, open shirt and panama hat by the pool. Archie felt that there was something quite Hockney about the setting as a result of the blue of the swimming pool and the architectural simplicity of the house.
There was nothing quite as divine, Archie concluded, as the august Riviera sun beating down upon the infinite pool of the Raynards’ summer residence. After a while, he decided that he and Polly should take one of the spare Peugeots and tour the coast with the intention of finding secluded coves to swim and sunbathe.
They were just about to head off, when Lavinia rushed onto the drive.
‘Darlings!’ she yelled excitedly. ‘The Secretary of Prince Ali has just called to say that they wouldn’t mind if the photo shoot took place today.’
‘Talk about short notice,’ Archie muttered.
Lavinia continued. ‘Apparently, today is one of the rare moments when he and his wives will all be together wit
h the children. They tried to get you on your mobile, but the reception or something... Oh, and Polly… if you’re going too, I might suggest that you pop into something a little more modest. Maybe a scarf on your head or something.’
‘Okay, Mother,’ Polly replied. ‘I haven’t packed any scarves, it being summer. Have you got any?’
‘Yes, darling. You could borrow one of my pashminas. Archie, perhaps while you get your equipment loaded, I’ll see to my darling daughter?’
Archie smiled. ‘Of course, Mrs Raynard.’
‘Do dispense of the formalities, Archie. Call me Lavinia.’
After collecting his special camera and lighting equipment and putting them in the boot, Archie waited in the car for Polly to emerge. When she did, she was attired in a beautiful, light blue pashmina over her head. She also wore a more modest batik sarong.
Archie thought that she looked tantalisingly exotic.
‘Irresistible,’ he commented.
Archie had also quickly changed his attire and was now dressed in linen trousers, dark polo shirt and Tom Ford sunglasses. He checked his hair in the rear view mirror and then they were off down the cypress avenue to Prince Ali’s coastal retreat.
‘So where is Prince Ali from?’ Polly asked.
‘One of the oil kingdoms,’ replied Archie. ‘Some sort of minor oil Prince.’
‘No doubt he also has a place in London and is in bed with the British Government.’
Archie looked at Polly briefly and smiled. ‘You’re getting very cynical, Poll.’
‘It’s true,’ she replied. ‘I can’t believe our Government’s hypocrisy sometimes. Bomb the dictators, but when it’s an oil-rich theocracy with floggings, stoning and executions, it’s fine. Just so long as they give us cheap oil.’
‘Polly…’ Archie said warningly, as if he was speaking to Smidgeon or Bella, his two dogs back at home.
‘Well, it’s true,’ she protested. ‘They treat their women like utter crap, too.’
‘Oh, let’s pop the music on and forget about politics,’ said Archie. ‘We’re here to have fun.’ With that, he noticed Polly go a bit silent for a moment, before linking her phone to the car’s music system and putting on Van Morrison.
Archie eventually found the entrance to Prince Ali’s Riviera residence, which was hard not to miss. There was a very high white perimeter wall with gold-painted wrought iron spikes on top. The entrance itself was a heavily guarded golden gate, with an Arabic inscription above.
One of the guards asked to see their identification. Archie had forgotten to bring any. They were both asked to step from the vehicle and were frisked. Another guard came out with a clipboard and checked the vehicle. He asked what Archie’s camera tripod was for. Archie explained and, after five minutes of waiting in the car, they were allowed to proceed up a grand cypress avenue, with what looked like a polo pitch on one side and, on the other, paddocks containing beautiful sleek-coated horses.
The avenue continued past a helipad until Archie could see a vast, ugly, white building with blacked-out windows. Attached to it he saw a ten-bay garage with what appeared to be a gold-plated Aston Martin being cleaned by another uniformed staff member.
‘Fuck,’ Archie muttered.
‘What?’ said Polly.
‘That is a gold-plated Aston!’
‘Who cares? I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more gold-plated stuff. Don’t they have a thing about bling?’
‘Polly,’ Archie said warningly. ‘I’m sure... they... have... impeccable taste.’
They were both silent for a few seconds before they burst into laughter. Polly gave her endearing snort.
Archie pulled up in front of the steps of the huge, double front door and a man in spotless white robes came rushing down the stairs.
‘Aah! Mr Hodgkin-Smith and Miss Raynard, welcome! The Prince is expecting you! Sorry it was such short notice, but the family are due to fly back to London soon. The Prince is regrettably very busy at the moment. I am his Secretary, Sheikh Ahmad. Welcome, welcome.’
After shaking hands, they followed him through the marble-floored hallway. Archie did his best to suppress a smirk. There was indeed a lot of bling around.
They entered a vast internal courtyard with fountains. Through one of the adjoining rooms was a terrace with views of the secluded private harbour. In the harbour, the Prince’s enormous yacht and a sailing boat were berthed.
Eventually, the Prince arrived, striding briskly into the room, attired in traditional white robes. Archie noticed that he was extremely well spoken, and recalled that he had gone to Sandhurst. The Prince thanked Archie for flying with his son to France and explained that the family would be with them shortly.
There were two wives and four children, including the young son that Archie had minded on the plane. The Prince suggested that he would like to have a family portrait of them all together and that this be done in the ballroom, where there was apparently more light. He explained to Archie that they only had two hours for the shoot before they would be flying back to London. Archie said that he would see what he could do and proceeded to set up his equipment in the huge and opulent marble-floored ballroom.
Archie asked two of the servants to close the purple velvet curtains in front of the French doors so as to provide a background for the family. He set up his lighting equipment and asked the Prince to stand directly in the middle, behind a Napoleonic sofa, with one wife on either side and the four children seated in front on the sofa. At first, it was a job to get everybody to smile as naturally as possible and together, but eventually Archie was satisfied.
He showed them the results on his camera. The Prince seemed especially pleased and patted Archie on the back.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to go back to London, but please feel free to stay here and enjoy the place if you like.’
Archie politely declined the kind offer and he and Polly drove back to the Manoir de Parvenu.
‘Well, they seemed nice,’ Polly commented, taking off her pashmina and shaking her hair loose.
‘Changed your mind about them?’ Archie asked.
‘No. I just said that they were nice, that’s all.’
They remained silent and, once again, listened to the music of Van Morrison.
At the Manoir, Archie was asked by Piers and Razza if he wanted to help them with the barbeque by the pool. He gladly accepted the invitation. Lavinia, who was reclining on a lounger with a Pimm’s, observed her husband.
‘Darling, why is it that men on the whole avoid the kitchen and yet, when it comes to barbeques, they positively go for it?’
‘So sexist!’ Polly yelled.
‘Who?’ Piers and Lavinia asked in unison.
‘Both of you!’ said Polly.
‘Now darling!’ Lavinia said. ‘I was merely defending our sex!’
‘Yes, but the assumption is that all men are crap with cooking and avoid the kitchen! What about Jamie Oliver, mother? What about twenty-first-century men?’
‘Oh Polly, darling. I’ll never win with you,’ said Lavinia chuckling. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side! Not with the men!’
‘I’m not siding with anybody, Mother. I think the fact that I was not asked to help with the barbeque says it all!’
Archie looked at Razza, who sported a cheeky grin. ‘Sorry, Sis... Would you like to help us with the barbeque?’
‘What? My darling daughter?’ Piers exclaimed in jest. ‘We can’t have the f’ing women’s libbers spoiling our barbeque – the meat will go funny. Isn’t that right, lads?’
Archie remained diplomatically silent, but Razza laughed and said, ‘Absolutely, Pa.’
Polly shook her head and laughed before giving a slight, angry snort. ‘Sod you pigs! I’m going in the pool for a swim.’
‘Darling!’ Lavinia cr
ied, before giving a loud tut and giggling. Archie grinned as he observed Polly determinedly swim a front crawl from one length of the pool to another.
Archie received a text message from Konstantine. Hey mate. What are you, Polly and Razza doing tonight?
‘Oh shit,’ Archie muttered to himself. He sent a text back. Hey mate. We’re in France at the moment.
There was an immediate response. So am I. The Tolstoy II is berthed near you.
‘Oh shit,’ Archie muttered again. Polly swam up to where he was standing by the edge of the pool.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Konstantine is here. Apparently, his yacht is nearby and he’d like us to visit tonight.’
‘That’s nice of him,’ she responded.
‘Oh, come off it, Poll. He’s a total creep.’
‘I’m quite curious about this infamous yacht.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ Archie nearly snapped.
Razza came over holding a glass of white wine. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘It’s Zugalov,’ Archie replied.
‘What about him?’ Razza looked at him. ‘Oh, don’t tell me they’re here as well?’
‘He wants us to visit his yacht, which I think is rather sweet,’ Polly said.
‘Polly, you don’t know Zugalov...’ Archie began.
‘Well, maybe this is an opportunity for me to get to know him,’ she replied.
‘Polly, you don’t know the Zugalovs. They’re dodgy as hell. Dirty money.’
‘Anybody would think you feel threatened by him,’ said Polly. ‘Didn’t he go to Melton too?’
‘It’s not that, Poll. I’m just fed up with his kind coming over and flaunting their wealth as if they own the place.’
‘But isn’t that what the nouveau riche are supposed to do?’
‘Precisely, Poll. I just wish they’d leave us alone while they’re doing it. I mean, they can’t just walk in and buy access to us. It takes a few generations for that.’
‘Aren’t the Zugalovs descended from white Russian stock?’ asked Polly.