‘Shall we ask a couple of the others – safety in numbers? Perhaps Sarah will want to come along too?’ Abena added as an afterthought.
‘He said WHAT?’ exclaimed Sarah on the phone, wrinkling up her button nose. ‘That is obscene!’ The wholesome, jolly-hockey-sticks side to Sarah left her unamused by the invitation. ‘There is absolutely no way I am letting a fifty-something Syrian Lothario fly me out to the South of France and put me up on his yacht for the weekend, and definitely not on the basis of a photograph!’
‘Darling, relax,’ soothed Abena, ‘you’re making me feel seedy.’ Then she saw Tara yawning dramatically at Sarah’s response and, stifling a giggle, felt better.
Although Abena was immensely fond of her friend Sarah, Tara had always thought her terribly bourgeois and so was not at all surprised to see her putting on a show of middle-class righteousness at the mere idea of decadence and glamour.
‘God, hon,’ Tara wailed, ‘purlease let Sarah stay at home with her miserable excuse of a boyfriend and her earnest endeavours at the local paper. You and I’ll have much more fun on the trip as a double act and anyway you’ve never been to the French Riviera have you? Peasant! We can lose Reza and his lot and get into all sorts of compromising scrapes with rock stars and eccentric aristos,’ she laughed.
‘Yeah, well then they’d better be of the moneyed kind, not the impoverished stock you’re from,’ Abena hit back. ‘Little Miss Worldly, one of my exes has an apartment in Monaco. It might do you good to remember that while you were pissing around with Domenico, I was even further away, having a wild time in Lagos watching Kunle play polo for his father’s team. Harrumph.’ Abena grinned.
‘True,’ Tara replied. ‘Sadly neither of us was back at Oxford where we should have been.’
‘Well, all’s well that ends well – we got our degrees didn’t we? And the real fun starts here.’ Abena bopped up and down on the spot then planted a big kiss on Tara’s cheek. This was going to be one hell of a holiday.
****
The biggest bruise stretched across her ribs, forming an ugly red blotch under her heart.
Natalya stood naked in front of the mirror and surveyed the damage before turning and climbing into the marble bath. She lay back, closed her eyes, and let Mozart transport her to a kinder world. She lay dreaming for some time while the water soothed her young body, still aching from the previous night. Had the beeping of her mobile not jolted her back to reality, she would have lain longer, enjoying its gentleness. Drying herself with a fluffy white towel and wandering through to the bedroom, she reached for her BlackBerry. The message made her gasp:
RE: St Tropez!
Please email me all your details and a picture if possible as we are starting to arrange our summer in the sun. Let me know what passport you have and if you need a visa for France. Yeah, yeah, yeah, summer is on its way!
Natalya trembled. Though it was only April, Reza was already thinking about jetting out to St Tropez, and this breezy message from his young assistant, Henry – permanently bronzed and waxed like Reza himself, except that Henry was blond and gay and Reza was dark and very straight – confirmed what Natalya had been hoping for. That she would be accompanying Reza and his set on some of their weekend jaunts to the French Riviera. She would be flown from one glamorous location to another in Reza’s private plane. She would stay on the 120-foot yacht, moored far enough from the shore to distance the privileged party from any less fortunate onlookers, but certainly close enough to ensure that all could admire the splendour and opulence of the vessel, and the glamour and beauty of the girls aboard it. She might get a shopping trip thrown in – a new Cartier watch, perhaps. Most importantly, though, here was a chance to escape Gregory’s brutal and unsophisticated clutches and seek out a gentler, more malleable man. Perhaps he’d be even older; less libidinous, more giving … appreciative of the beauty of youth.
Natalya skipped across the room to her walk-in wardrobe. Pushing aside rack after rack of designer gowns, jeans and fitted sweatshirts, she burrowed her way to the summer section at the back and emerged with an armful of cut-out swimsuits, bikini briefs and tops. Starting with the bejewelled two-piece, she worked her way carefully through each bikini outfit – adding a beach skirt here or a kaftan there – until she’d tried on her entire collection. At long last she studied her reflection for the final time. Standing hand on hip in a pink tasselled Dior two-piece, a wide-brimmed straw hat, giant dark shades and five-inch Cavalli heels, she groaned before throwing herself back on to the magnificent four-poster bed. No, she decided, I look hot as hell and I know where that always gets me.
What she needed was a change of strategy. No more nubile and eager Riviera dolly – that made her far too desirable to men, which, ultimately, would work against her. Men, the simple creatures, could never reconcile themselves to the fact that a girl can be both sensationally sexy and devoted and homely at the same time. If she was to snare the oligarch she wanted for good – and not just for good times – it was essential that she dress the part. Out with the ostentatious tasselled Dior and in with the subtle sexiness of a white Chanel one-piece, set off against her cocoa tan and freshly highlighted choppy layers. To that she would add a couple of flirty dresses in pastel shades, but nothing too clingy. Only elegant or cutesy would achieve the desired effect. She’d make men fall off their yachts in their haste to protect her and keep her in the lifestyle she so desperately wanted in these uncertain times.
Natalya had intended to avoid Gregory for a while after his especially rough handling last night, but she needed to be taken shopping. And since her last modelling job had been another ‘hugely prestigious editorial’, which would secure her great exposure but no pay cheque, she was left with no other choice than to make amends. Reluctantly, she picked up her mobile and dialled Gregory’s number. He answered immediately, his heavy breathing perceptible even before the phone had reached his mistress’s ear.
‘Baby is that you? Why didn’t you return my calls? Did you get my messages?’
She rolled her eyes. As she purred into the phone, a sexy Latvian twang could be detected in her accent. ‘I hef been missing you bébé …’ she breathed. ‘Come over to Knightsbridge. I want cock.’
Chapter 2
In a tiny, run-down flat on the outskirts of Latvia’s capital city, Daina’s weary face cracked into a smile of motherly pride. She ran a bony finger across the page ripped from the latest edition of Harper’s Bazaar. Natalya’s chiselled features, golden hair and smooth, honey skin seemed to jump out at her like a ray of light in the darkness of her surroundings. Her brave darling must be doing so very well now, she prayed.
Natalya was the eldest of her six children. Six years ago she’d been spotted by a scout from London’s Moda Nova Models while the family were in St Petersburg, on a rare trip across the border. Ever since, Daina had spent many hours anguishing that she had been wrong to let Natalya go and live abroad at just fifteen years of age. The world of modelling seemed a weird world indeed. Such strange people and strange practices and strange preoccupations. Would they take advantage of her child? Would she earn enough to survive? London sounded unbelievably expensive. She hoped Natalya had finally found somewhere, in amongst all the Japanese fish and French cuisine she wrote home about, to buy good, simple Latvian rye bread. She didn’t seem to eat much bread at all nowadays, no wonder she was still so thin! Oh how she missed making Natalya’s favourite pîrâgi with her, like they’d used to as a special treat when they’d saved enough for meat. She closed her eyes and pictured them sitting together and watching the soft buns rising around the crispy bacon, filling the place with warmth and delicious smells. She could almost taste the buns now. Their family was poor and she had had to juggle three jobs to feed her brood, but at least they’d had each other, and that must surely count for something.
Shuddering, she let her mind flick briefly back to when she herself had been just fifteen. A sheltered fifteen-year-old who, until that horrific year, had
known nothing of the deviousness of the male psyche. Over the years, Daina had learnt not to think about what he had done to her. She had learnt not to let her thoughts revisit that painful period because she needed to be strong. For her children. Especially Natalya. She needed to forget, or at least not think about her hatred any more, because she did not want to hate the father of her firstborn. She owed it to Natalya.
And she owed it to Natalya to protect her. Yet she had let her go. Just like that. Look what good her own ‘protected’ upbringing had done anyway! But Daina had tried to protect her baby daughter, all those years ago. If Natalya could have known the whole truth about the Englishman. About Stan. Well, this was the life that God intended for her. There must be a reason for her suffering and, in Natalya, Daina knew that the purpose of all her pain was being realized.
As Daina always knew she would, Natalya had become a huge success in London and made a good living for herself. She must now be very wealthy indeed, Daina mused once more. After all, she had been working non-stop since the very beginning, and now, at the age of twenty-one, she had a luxurious apartment in one of London’s best neighbourhoods. For three years she had been sending her mother money and prints from fashion shoots. Although it saddened Daina that her daughter was seldom able to return home and visit her, she had been putting the extra money to good use and all five remaining children could now be clothed, fed and sent to decent local schools.
The children’s education was the most important thing for Daina, as it had been for Janis, her late husband and the father of her five youngest offspring. Despite their poverty, the children had led culturally rich lives from the moment they were born, and that very trip to St Petersburg, during which Natalya had been scouted, had been the result of years of saving. Seeing the Philharmonic Orchestra perform there at the splendid Mussorgsky Opera House had been a more magical experience for them than any fairy tale. All six children were bright, and for Daina the choice between spending Natalya’s contributions on more pleasant surroundings and living conditions or educating the children as richly as she could was an easy one to make. But, looking at yet another captivating set of pictures of her little light, perhaps she would soon be able to move to a flat closer to central Riga, one with another room, so that they would not all need to share.
What Daina did not know was that, despite being represented by one of London’s top agencies, Natalya was yet to make any real money. Natalya had indeed been enjoying a comfortable lifestyle, but the price of this was greater than her beloved mother needed to know.
****
The Hon. Tara Wittstanley had more in common with girls like Natalya than she cared to acknowledge. Both girls had what could be described as regal looks, and though in Tara’s case her fine patrician features clearly did reflect a noble ancestry, her family’s current situation was far from financially secure. No longer able to compete in this era of industrial tycoons, global speculators and City high-rollers, Tara’s family were on a downwardly mobile track to refined poverty. Tara wished desperately to reverse this trend and, like Natalya, she wanted more than she had.
The family did at least still own Willowborough Hall, a Regency pile in Gloucestershire with six hundred acres of land. Like generations of Wittstanleys before her, Tara had grown up there. Unlike most of her ancestors, though, Tara didn’t have a trust fund to see her through adulthood. An artistic and whimsical family, the Wittstanleys had not made the most of their considerable acres and over the years had squandered substantial wealth through ill-fated investments and unwise marriages. By the time Tara’s father, Hugo, had been born, all that was left was the family home and the right to the title Lord Bridges, of Bridges in Gloucestershire.
When the time came for Hugo and his two younger brothers to make their final career choices – a day job outside the running of the estate now being, irritatingly for them, a necessity – his brothers swallowed their pride and jumped head first into the world of commerce and City banking. Hugo, however, stubbornly decided to pursue his artistic leanings and attempt to make a living by dealing antiques and doing equestrian paintings for friends. He travelled the world in search of sights and horses to paint, visiting some of the former colonies in Africa and Asia and, with some help from high-powered friends in the government, even venturing into hostile territories such as the closed USSR. Life had been exciting but not lucrative, and he had failed to make good money from his art and antiques.
Tara often found herself musing over how her family had evolved over the years. If only they hadn’t been such suckers for aesthetics. Maybe then her father would have made a more sensible career choice. Perhaps there would have been some sensible marriages. A strategic coupling with a rich heiress would have restored the wealth her grandfather had gambled away. Instead, both her grandfather and her father had married ambitious young beauties with no wealth or name to speak of.
Her own dear mother, Tina, was in fact often a source of embarrassment to Tara. Twenty years younger than Hugo, Tina had met and seduced him on a flight to India on which she’d been working as an air-hostess.
In those days hostesses were employed above all for their alluring looks. For Tina, who was eighteen at the time and had never left Liverpool, the job was a dream come true. She enjoyed the travelling and loved meeting the smartly dressed, upscale passengers even more. She was awed by the women in their elegant twin-sets, with their well-behaved children who didn’t trouble her. And the men were all so dapper, never without blazers. She liked to study the passenger list before they arrived and was excited to see that there was a lord on her first ever flight to India. ‘Can I offer you a drink, my Lord?’ she asked him when he embarked looking bored, tired and unremarkable. She wondered whether she ought to curtsey. She poured him a Martini at his seat and then turned to offer a drink to the gentleman on the other side of the aisle. She leaned over so that her round little bottom pushed against the taut material of her navy-blue pencil skirt. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his lordship lean forward as if to get up.
‘Oh, toilets at the rear,’ giggled Tina.
‘The only rear I’m interested in is this one,’ his lordship murmured, letting his signet-ringed hand slide across her buttock as he glided ever so slowly past her. ‘Splendid little filly aren’t you,’ he whispered in her ear. His breath was hot on the side of her face, the faint aroma of alcohol filling her nose with its intoxicating promise of champagne, ponies and high tea with the Queen. Men were expected to be chauvinists and molesters in those days, but women were certainly not allowed to show it when they enjoyed it.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ she tittered, feigning shocked offence.
But she still took her time demonstrating the safety procedures in front of him, lingering over the one about the overhead luggage compartments as she knew that with her arms up above her head her breasts were at their most uplifted and must look fantastic straining against her tight shirt.
She was sad when the flight landed in Bombay. ‘Can I do anything else for you my Lord, you know, to ease your trip?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Come with me.’ So she followed him to his hotel in India and cleverly remained chaste during their stay, although she relented a little when he asked her to put her uniform back on and point out the emergency exits for him while he pleasured himself. Then, at the moment of climax he liked her to assume the brace position.
Afterwards they returned to Willowborough Hall, where he painted her on horseback. That painting remains, to this day, Lord Bridges’ most well-received piece. Critics hail the extraordinary look on the rider’s face as an artistic coup: she appears unsure yet deliriously happy, beautiful but wretched; with an impenetrable smile like that of the Mona Lisa.
With her family’s approval Hugo asked for Tina’s hand in marriage. Despite their backgrounds being worlds apart, Tina was so impressed by his title, confidence and family home that she ignored his paunch, his condescension and his drinking habits and jumped at the chance. Likewise
he, hopelessly excited by her young and nubile body and her naive devotion to him, did his best to forget that she’d had a strong Liverpudlian accent when they met, had not been educated at a ‘decent’ school, and could not tell the difference between a Mondrian and a Modigliani. In this way the couple had limped along for twenty-three years. But for some time now, the cracks had been beginning to show.
Luckily, given the Wittstanleys’ financial situation, Tara had managed to secure scholarships to her expensive boarding schools, where she excelled effortlessly. Her haughty looks and her witty, if also bitchy, tongue ensured that the other girls admired her; a few also feared her. In her adolescence she grew prone to extremes of feeling and behaviour. Or, as her detractors put it, she could be a complete drama queen. By the age of twenty-two she had already checked herself in and out of different rehabilitation centres and a psychiatric hospital for a range of modern conditions from exhaustion to body dysmorphic disorder. At heart, though, she was a kind person whose prickliness masked a deep-rooted feeling of unlovableness and inadequacy, brought about by her overbearing yet needy, neglectful and self-absorbed parents. To the few people Tara deemed interesting and glamorous enough, she was a loyal friend. One of those was her dear friend Abena, whom she’d met at Oxford.
Initially Tara had had no interest in getting to know other girls and concentrated on stalking the Bullingdon boys in search of a privileged sponsor for her rampant partying. The Bullingdon was the university’s most exclusive gentlemen’s drinking society, whose members rollicked around Oxfordshire starting food fights and smashing up smart establishments so that they would have something to spend their inheritances on when the repair bill arrived. It seemed this was excellent training for going on to run the country. But, having slept her way through almost the entire society, Tara came to the sorry conclusion that the Bullingdon boys were pitifully overrated in virtually every way imaginable. Disillusioned with anything the students had to offer, she turned to the celebrity speakers who regularly descend on Oxford to address the Union, the university’s historic debating society.
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