Marbella Neat

by Camille Oster

  Felix would run this company one day, but here his father was considering giving this opportunity to his nemesis. Then again, if Felix got the role, Shania would be reporting to him. And if she got the role, he would be reporting to her. That would be utterly disastrous. It would be intolerable. He would have to quit, but quitting from what would be his own company one day because of that little harlot rubbed him every wrong way there was.

  “You can't give the job to her,” Felix said emphatically.

  Dominic looked up at him with surprise. “I do what’s best for the company. That is the job and if you don't understand that, you’re definitely not ready. You need to learn to work with her, find some way of adjusting to the fact that she's here and she's part of this company, and she likely will be for a while. Petty dislikes are irrelevant in business.”

  This was more than some petty dislike; he loathed the girl. Why would his father not see that? “I'm not sure Shania has the capability of staying with anything for any length of time.”

  “Don't underestimate her.”

  “I never underestimate her.”

  Dominic smiled. “I don't quite know how you got so at odds with this girl,” Dominic said. “It’s something you need to straighten out.”

  María called for Mr. Dunbury from outside the room.

  “Come,” Dominic said and stood up. “It’s time for dinner.”

  Chapter 34

  The photo shoot was in an industrial-looking brick building with a cold concrete floor. Jesus stood by and watched as Megan took her place on top of the light grey paper backdrop that flowed down over the floor. She wore a silver dress, almost liquid as it draped over her body. It was sexy, almost indecent, but indescribably so. It didn’t show off an excess amount of skin, or in any way in the wrong places, but somehow the dress was gut-wrenchingly compelling.

  As Jesus knew little of photo shoots and the process for making professional images; he let the photographer do as he wished. He’d tried to explain to both the photographer and Megan what he wanted, but it had been difficult to explain the feeling he wished to convey into images.

  Taking her place on the paper backdrop, Megan started, transforming in front of the camera into this other creature. The photographer gave her direction and seemed content with how she followed them. They spoke a language he didn’t understand. She was like clay, able to portray anything the photographer asked for.

  She was a professional at this, and so was the photographer. Jesus made sure to spare no expense on the photographer, asking for the best fashion photographer in Madrid to come down and do this. This was costing a fortune, but it would be worth it. The images would represent the club and a lot was riding on it.

  Some of the things the photographer did, Jesus didn't entirely understand, seemed even contrary, but he probably wouldn’t serve anyone by interfering. He just had to place his trust in them and hope they delivered.

  The club’s opening was imminent and he’d pushed everyone involved hard to get everything done. These images were one of the last significant outstanding pieces. He’d decided on a muted metallic colour scheme, contrasting with the soft, light blue of all the water features. What point was there of doing a beach club if it didn’t incorporate water? Most lighting accents reinforced the colour scheme and he’d flown in a team from Germany to design and install it. The lighting was already in place, although it looked a jumble of cables across the entire space at that moment.

  Granted, it didn’t look ready, but the project manager had assured him all was on schedule. It had better be. A delay in the launch would be catastrophic.

  The camera made a shushing sound with every shot, running long strings of them.

  “That’s it,” the photographer said. “More, there. Chin lower, lower. That's it.” Another string of shots fired off.

  The man moved closer and Megan turned her back to him, sitting on the floor in what looked like an awkward position. The dress suited her, but it was unlike anything he’d seen her in before. It seemed made for her, though, as if the designer had stitched it together just for her.

  She was so different in front of the camera, pulling from some resource inside her. If there was something a model needed to be good at their job, he could see it appearing now. She had it.

  Saying that, he couldn’t really see how these photos would turn out. The dress clung to her form, almost looking wet in its muted sheen. Every curve of her body was on display under the thin material.

  In some way, this felt as if it was imposing on Megan, forcing her to reveal every curve of her body, but this was what she did. He had a bit of trouble reconciling it, and reconciling her with the creature in front of him.

  There was a sensuality to the photos rather than overt sexiness, but maybe that was even sexier. This was the kind of sexiness most club goers, with their tight dresses, duck beak selfies and false eyelashes, didn’t achieve. It was deep and innate, and Jesus wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to look at Megan the same after this.

  The photographer stopped, saying he had enough, to which Jesus didn't have enough experience to agree with or not. He still had no idea what would come out of the other end of this. This wasn’t a transparent process, it turned out. There weren’t particular shots or stances where he said, “Yes, that’s a good one.” It all seemed to flow together and the stances weren’t that obvious. He had to trust the people involved—the photographer and Megan. He would have to see how they’d interpreted what he wanted.

  Megan stepped off the paper and walked to the back, pulling on a dressing gown. She grabbed her bag and clothes, and walked barefoot to the back where the small toilet or changing room was. The photographer moved to his computer and ejected a card from the camera to insert in his laptop. “Come have a look,” the photographer said. “I think you’ll like it. There are some good shots here.”

  Jesus walked over to him and leant down to look at the laptop screen. The colours of the photos were completely different from reality, a darkness and contrast that hadn’t actually been there. There must have been some filter used, but Megan looked unearthly. Her face looked almost cast, perfect bone structure and shadows. Looking at these photos was like seeing into another world. She looked incredibly sexy and he couldn’t deny how shocked he was at the effect. Her skin looked metallic along with the material of the dress. There were a couple of shots of her hip and the sway of material hugging across her upper thighs to stretch tautly between them. He couldn’t help feeling himself react to it. It might be one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. There was another that looked like a shoulder blade straining, and the material of the dress framed the metallic sheen of her skin.

  Megan returned, wearing white pants and a blue top, nothing like the creature he’d just seen peering out of the laptop. She smiled brightly. “How’d they come out?”

  There were scores of photos, all of them a piece of art.

  “There are some good ones,” the photographer said nonchalantly, lighting up a cigarette.

  Megan turned to Jesus to see what he thought.

  “I love them,” he said. In a way, they’d given him what he’d asked for, but in a way, unlike anything he’d anticipated. Maybe even better than what he’d seen in his mind’s eye.

  “I’m glad,” she smiled. “Now we have to decide exactly which and how to use them.”

  “I have some idea,” Jesus said. Actually, they were quite recently developed ideas, but now that he saw the photos, he wanted them to be more prevalent than he’d initially thought. “I'm very impressed,” he admitted.

  “In post, we can play around with the filters, create some different looks.”

  “No, I think they’re perfect.”

  “I will do some work,” the photographer said with a shrug, “but I will need a couple days to play around with them. Then I will courier. These files are too big to email.”

  Jesus nodded, thinking about how he would deal with the printery. It might be best if he
go there in person. He’d already seen a photo he wanted to print on a large banner.

  Biting her nail, Megan looked at him. She was back to her normal self, a slightly nervous disposition. She cared what he thought. “They are beautiful pictures,” he said reassuringly. “Exactly like l want.”

  She smiled again. It lit up her whole face.

  “Let me take you to lunch,” he said. He hadn’t intended on it, and really should get back to the club, but this felt as if they needed a celebration.

  “Alright,” she said and picked up her white leather bag with daisies sewn across the front.

  Chapter 35

  Jesus drove down the coast a bit to a restaurant located in a standalone building. It was a seafood restaurant run by a Spanish family, serving traditional Spanish food. Megan had been there a couple times before and it served some of the best Spanish seafood around.

  Everything in Jesus’ car was black and it seemed to suit him. There was a muted moodiness about him, a quietness that conveyed he knew exactly who he was and what he was about.

  It hadn’t taken them long to get there and she got out when they pulled into the carpark. As he joined her, she felt his hand on the small of her back and couldn’t help being utterly aware of the touch. These things didn't necessarily mean anything with the Spanish, who were on the whole more confident and comfortable with touching. She knew this, but the small touch made it seem as if there was an intimacy there—at least to her, probably more so than there really was.

  She couldn't deny there was something very exciting about being here with him. Jesus was so utterly different from any man she knew. Jesus was much more laid-back with everything he did, but he was distinctly focused on business—if she ignored her own reactions to his closeness. She’d never seen anything stress him out. Surely the launch of this club must as he had everything riding on it, but nothing seemed to faze him.

  During the photo shoot, she’d done her very best for him, knowing he had so much invested in this and in her.

  It was strange being so meaningful to someone, but she had to check herself. This was a commercial arrangement to him and she couldn't forget that, even if the simple act of him putting his hand on her back sent tendrils of excitement through her. Perhaps she was so starved of meaning she read it into anything. She just wanted to be meaningful to someone.

  They sat down at the table with a pink tablecloth. This restaurant had soft colours, as opposed to the strict and precise designs of most restaurants in Marbella. This place was all about the flavour rather than the image. Understated and unapologetic in only caring about the food.

  “Are you getting nervous about the launch?” she asked.

  “Everything is on schedule,” he replied. “There are a few things that need attention, but no disasters yet.” He said it so calmly as if he was completely sure that everything would go well.

  “These images will be the final touch. They will be the image of the club. They represent a perfection that Virtue will live up to.”

  That was the name of the club—Virtue. It was growing on her. He seemed to like simple names. Virtue in what, she’d asked herself, but supposed it didn’t matter. However anyone saw virtue. Was that what he saw in her, virtue?

  “You will come to the launch?” he asked. “I know things have not gone well with you and Ricky, but this club is in your image—a beauty that is simple and true.”

  Megan blushed. Again she was reading into words what were probably not there, but she still reacted.

  “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.” She smiled, feeling the way he was looking at her as heat brushed along her skin. “I am a professional,” she said. Ricky wasn’t going to put her off. Yes, it might be uncomfortable, but she was doing this to support Jesus’ vision—something he saw in her.

  “Yes,” he said, then didn't say anything further. “What would you like?”

  She stared at him for a moment, not entirely sure what he meant by ‘what she would like.’ What was he proposing to her? Then she realised he was speaking about the menu and she felt embarrassed.

  As she pulled herself together, she smiled at her own stupidity. “Fish, I think.” He watched her and nodded slightly as if she’d said something much more important. “I will order.”

  He spoke in Spanish to the waiter, a stream of words that seemed to flow into one. It was so beautiful when he spoke. She understood a portion of it but not all, but all she wanted to do was just listen to him speak.

  “Is your family from Marbella?” she asked once the waiter had taken his order and left.

  “They are a couple of hours inland. They grow olives.”

  “Do they really?” she said, images of a mountainous orchard surrounding an old finca fleeting into her mind. It was something very otherworldly, a million miles away from the glitz of Marbella. That was obviously the background he came from—humble origins. No one had helped him achieve what he had. He’d ventured out and created a future he wanted. She was impressed by that. “Your mother must be proud of having a son like you.” The Spanish mothers adored their sons and any successes they had.

  She wondered if he would return there one day, return to his roots. It was important to the Spanish, their roots. It was a part of their culture, the loyalty to the place they’d come from and their families.

  As far as she knew, she’d never heard of a girlfriend in his life. He wore no ring on his finger so he wasn't married. Perhaps he had someone—someone he loved. Jealousy reared in her, but she dismissed it. Some lucky girl would have his heart, whereas she got someone like Ricky, who couldn't even be bothered hiding his activities from anyone, apparently. As time had gone by, she'd learned more and more about his activities at the club and outside. No doubt, he’d returned to doing the exact same thing now and she’d just slipped out of his life as a passing phase. Perhaps it was easier for him now that he was single, but from what she heard, it made absolutely no difference to him.

  Chapter 36

  And then it arrived, the launch of Virtue Beach Club. The workmen were there that very morning finishing off the club. It had been mayhem and Ricky hadn’t expected it would all come together, but seemingly at the last moment everything fell into place. There were still people polishing the floors when Ricky arrived, and the barmen were stacking the bars. They were opening as soon as the sun went down, and Ricky was playing a set.

  All sorts of people had been invited to the launch—celebrities and other dignitaries, the media, and anyone who is anyone in Marbella. This would not be a typical night; it was an important night—possibly the most important he'd ever play.

  Music producers would be there that night, along with some of the biggest club owners across Europe. It was important to put on a show.

  Placing his laptop down, he cracked it open and booted up. The sound system had been tested the previous day, although half of the wires had still been lying on the ground. Somehow they had all been hidden away some time since.

  Nervous tension dripped off him as he looked out across the space that would soon be filled with people. The lights were being tested and they flashed in sequence slowly and stopping before starting again as the AV guys ran through the testing routines.

  Photos had been erected around the space. They were sexy and he knew it was Megan. She was a model, but he hadn't been aware she took such awesome photos—they really were jaw-dropping. Seeing them, again he felt like an arsehole. Megan was the best girl he'd ever gotten with, but still he couldn’t make it work. He knew full well it was his fault; he had let it go, had never really invested as he should have. What was it about him that made him unable to appreciate a girl like her? It hadn’t been meanness; he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but in a way he blamed her for it—for wanting more from him than he was prepared to give.

  Time was relentlessly slipping away and he had to concentrate. The performance of his life was coming up and it wasn’t the time to be contemplative about a failed r
elationship.

  “It’s time to start,” a woman said, breaking into his concentration. Some event manager he didn’t know, but knew she was responsible for the night, with her clipboard and little mic hanging off her ear.

  Time to shine, he thought with a smile and executed the first track. Before long, people started to stream into the club and the flow didn’t stop. Within minutes, it was jam-packed and everyone was in a good mood—ready for an awesome night. All his attention was on the music, to ensure nothing went wrong. He’d planned this night in intricate detail for weeks and he knew exactly what he was going to play, and the beats that would really fire the crowd. There were reporters here, taking pictures that would describe the night and the club in detail, and he wanted a scene of sheer ecstasy—the night people wouldn’t stop talking about.

  Throughout the night, everything had gone without a hitch. There weren’t any major mistakes, nothing that jarred the dancers out of their worship.

  Ricky could feel he was a bit dehydrated, so it might be time for a break. Looking over, he saw Jace not far away, eager to take over for a while. One hundred percent keen and waiting for his break. Some guys had it and some didn’t—and Jace didn’t. Everyone knew it except for him.

  With a nod, Ricky let him take over for a while. The problem with letting Jace have the platform was that he tended to show off, and he simply didn’t have the talent to do it well. He was alright, Ricky supposed—good enough for a fill in.

  Walking away, Ricky made his way to the bar and grabbed a club soda. He wasn't drinking that night. The night was too important to mess with. He might be arrogant in many ways, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he was as good drunk as he was sober. Stupid people made that assumption. Drunk was fine for writing music, or thinking up new mixes, but when it came time to deliver and it was crucial to be perfect, alcohol messed with your timing.

  He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't drunk in the club. Checking his watch, he saw it was about eleven thirty. In an hour or so, he might have a drink, when all the notables had gone and all that was left were the party freaks—too drunk or high to care what was played.