One evening, determined to leave with the handsome deputy prime minister of a small Balkan state, Tara had dressed up in her best ‘political wife’ outfit of a plain and decent-length fitted black dress, a cashmere cardigan and a string of fake pearls. Sitting primly in the front row of the Union’s grand main hall, she gazed up at her target just as Abena’s dark, feline eyes bore down on the speaker from the balcony above. At the end of the discourse, the room emptied until the only participants left were Abena, Tara, the dashing speaker himself, and Giles, the gangling Oxford Union president who slept with a postcard of William Hague under his pillow to inspire him to greater heights. Tara could see it was going to be tough to shake off the other two. Giles grandly led the way into the Union bar and the speaker turned to insist that she and Abena join them to further discuss the ‘exciting’ political issues he’d been talking about. Abena, with her sexily slanting eyes, unnaturally long, wavy black hair, perfectly smooth dark skin and full seductive mouth was starting to irritate Tara. As was her toned and tiny five-foot-three frame, which, from the look on the speaker and the Union president’s faces, rendered her irresistibly cutesy and adorable to boys – something that Tara, in all her elegant cool, had never managed.
Abena winked at Tara and ordered a magnum of Moët from the bar. She then made a point of continuously filling the glass of the Union president, who didn’t notice how fast he was drinking, being so engrossed in his own rants about cash for peerages in the Labour party, and ‘sexing-up’ various political dossiers that were not sexy and never would be. Because drinking was fairly new to him, his stringy body was unable to take the quantities Abena smilingly pressed upon him and he was soon face down on the bar muttering something incoherent about poll tax.
With Giles out of the picture, it was a stand-off between the two girls. Tara peeled off her demure cardigan to expose the exceptionally low front of her dress, while Abena leaned forward and, pressing the deputy prime minister’s leg, gently asked how it felt to be one of the most powerful men in the world. The politician, growing increasingly excitable with the abundance of champagne and gorgeous young flesh beside him, seemed at a genuine loss as to whether he was more turned on by the Western threat, baring its breast in front of him, or by the dark and mysterious excitement of Africa to his left.
And so it was that the two girls spent their first drunken evening together. As it progressed into the early hours of the morning, each recognized in the other a far more feisty and fun proposition than the deputy prime minister, who was now dribbling in the corner of his chauffeur-driven limousine. It was unclear whose idea it had been to risk scuppering the poor man’s chances of ever making it to the Top Job, but in the morning he was found by his concerned driver, slumped in the corner of the vehicle and dressed in nothing but his socks, with his navy tie tied neatly around his cock. Neither girl was anywhere to be seen.
Three years later, Tara and Abena, now relocated to the bright lights of London and determined to make their mark on the city, were the best of friends and still as mischievous as ever.
****
Having accepted the invitation to the South of France, Abena and Tara were growing more and more excited about the impending excess that awaited them there. Finally, at the start of the first May bank holiday, it was time to set off. Scrambling into the black chauffeur-driven Mercedes that Reza had sent to the apartment, Abena asked for her Nikki Beach CD to be pumped up as they headed off to Farnborough, the private airport where Reza’s plane awaited them.
Pulling up at Farnborough, she tried not to gawp at the scene unfolding before them. Stepping out of an assortment of vehicles, each of which alone might have cost more than her rented apartment, was an array of some of the most breathtaking beauties she had ever seen. She glanced at Tara, who was looking stonily ahead at the surreal sight. They had both been among the bigger fish in the small ponds of school and even university, but this was a different league altogether. These girls were supermodel standard. Moreover, observed Abena, one or two of them actually were bona-fide supermodels. She watched a six-foot Slavic blonde she recognized from the pages of Vogue wait in a shimmering black Ferrari with alligator-skin seats until its driver had raced around to her side and opened the door for her. Nervous excitement and exhilaration swelled in the pit of her stomach. She looked at Tara again, wanting her to share in her thrill but her face was set in a rigid expression Abena knew all too well.
Nobody liked being outshone or made to feel insignificant, but Abena knew that unless she could shake Tara out of this mood, she’d be haughty, rude and unsociable to cover her insecurity. Or worse, she’d make a beeline for the nearest narcotic and get absolutely off her head, leaving her vulnerable to the wolfish men who were surveying the women appreciatively.
These men were themselves outdone by some even more predatory females, who matched their looks fiercely, eating them greedily with hungry eyes framed by painstakingly threaded arched eyebrows, some concealed under big dark glasses. Their figures were gym honed and Atkins dieted to an alien-like perfection. Clothes were smart-casual but perilously body conscious and very, very expensive. Abena noticed lots of cashmere that didn’t really know what to do with itself. There was a sweater vying for attention but it couldn’t possibly be worn because, well, why cover up such a generous bosom? So instead it was draped over a pair of lean shoulders clad in a skimpy, low-cut, crocheted white vest top. The cashmere sweater offender was a smiley brunette and was also in tight white jeans, a Fendi belt and high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals. She was apparently called Tatiana and had a gorgeous face. Her eyes were wonderful and shockingly bright, and her blow-dry was so voluminous that her hair was big and silky, almost reaching the small of her back. It was ever so seductive, the perfect digestif to wash down an immense visual feast.
‘She’s just got too much of everything hasn’t she?’ Abena quipped. ‘It’s like God got a bit sleepy creating her and forgot that he’d already done her boobs and eyes and hair and ended up giving her a double portion of it all. Do you think the breasts are natural?’
Tara snorted. ‘She looks like she’s just stepped out of a budget issue of Nuts magazine. And tight white on tight white? That combination should be made illegal outside of Essex. Sweater on shoulders? Should be banned full stop.’
‘I’m sure I’ve seen you pulling a white on white before – I certainly have, not to mention double denim, a sequin catsuit and loads of leopardskin.’
‘Yeah, but hon, when we do it, we do it with integrity, you know, fashion integrity … aware of the context and the surrounds in which we’re inflicting a certain look on the world.’ Tara broke off with a grin when she realized how ridiculous she sounded. ‘But OK, OK, the girl she’s talking to, even I can’t deny that she is truly breathtaking – but then you can tell she’s a complete bitch.’
‘Takes one to know one it seems.’ Abena tickled Tara’s bare underarm and was pleased to see her crack another smile then give a throaty laugh before scrabbling in her bag and adding a shiny slick of lip gloss. Good. Tara was back in the game.
As Abena and Tara gossiped, Natalya made half-hearted small talk with Tatiana but she wasn’t really listening. She ran her eyes across the selection of men. Who would be her oligarch? Sure as hell not the one in the pale blue silk shirt, currently undressing her with his eyes. Despite his mahogany tan – a useful factor in calculating a man’s net worth – he had only undone two of the top buttons on his shirt, not the three that would indicate he was a true member of the exclusive club known as the super-rich, membership of which she’d long been angling for. She checked his watch, which only confirmed her prior observation. His Patek was last year’s model. She’d wager he was worth something pretty pitiful, twenty mill, perhaps, on a good day. In the current climate, Forbes would halve that. Not that he’d come anywhere near making their list. The next man’s customized new Rolex had the opposite problem – so big and flash on his wrist, Natalya wondered how he could even fit his hand into
his pocket to reach for his wallet. It was too … obvious; he was clearly trying too hard, a pretender. Even Gregory could buy his overweight arse, so that ruled him out. She turned to the guy he was chatting to and perked up – a hundred mill at a guess and he’s just bought himself a new watch, a new car and a new woman (the supermodel waiting by his black Ferrari had been dating an actor last month) so must have had a good year; his stock was on the up. Finally she spotted Reza. Two billion and rising.
Unlike Heathrow, at Farnborough one only needed to arrive fifteen minutes before take-off, which cut short the girls’ sizing up of the men and each other. Before Abena and Tara had a chance to panic, or change their minds altogether, they were swooped upon by a grinning Reza in his customary leisure ensemble of blue jeans, brown loafers, crocodile-skin belt, and tight white shirt stretched over his hairless orangey-brown chest. He made a big show of kissing each one of them on both corners of the mouth, which, he seemed to feel, counted legitimately as part of the cheek. Then, taking both girls’ hands in his, he lifted them high above his head so that their short summer dresses rose up dangerously, and proceeded to do a peculiar jig. Gyrating his pelvis from side to side as his surprisingly pert bottom strained against the scant material of his jeans, he threw his triumphant face upward towards the heavens and roared ‘Where the fuck is St Tropez? Come on baby – all aboard the jet.’
Seconds later Reza’s assistant, Henry, whom both girls had come to adore, shimmied over with his boyfriend, Anders, a young Dutch singer with a new rock-band. Abena ran to hug him as he led them to the aircraft. The plane was streamlined and compact, in dark teal with a red-and-white stripe across its side. From the outside it was surprisingly understated and quite beautiful. ‘Not as flamboyant as you’d expect from the big man is it? But then my boss is shrewd enough not to let pleasure get in the way of business. He parties like there’s no tomorrow but he also needs to be taken seriously when doing deals and if he happens to want investment from an abstaining tycoon whose wife wears a burqa, then it doesn’t look great to have a crystal replica of a naked woman embellishing the wing of his PJ,’ explained Henry, ushering them in after Reza. Abena was surprised at how few seats there were, each surrounded by acres of space.
‘Oh, so sad,’ whispered Tara, ‘there’ll be no room on the PJ for Ms Vogue and the rest of her posse.’ Henry, having followed her envious gaze towards the other girls, confirmed that they’d be flying with Eric, the tall Swedish financier she’d glimpsed earlier. The two groups would reconvene once they reached France.
Just as she thought they were in the clear and that there were to be no models joining them, Tara saw with irritation that the very slender, young-looking blonde with choppy layers and an angelic face was tottering towards the plane. Doubtless an evil old witch, she thought bitchily. ‘Here comes Slutlana,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Aah Natalya, how are you sweetheart, meet Abena and Tara,’ said Henry, introducing the girls to each other. Directed to a seat beside the newcomer, Abena was unsure which was lovelier to look at: Natalya herself or the sleek, beige and dark brown interior of the plane. The leather upholstered chairs were vast and butter-soft and could be reclined right back to become a bed. Each place was ready stocked with a selection of current newspapers and magazines, and there were bottles of Evian and tall crystal glasses by the arm rests. Reza hadn’t been able to resist a little personalization here, so there was a gold company crest embedded in each glass. The uniformed captain introduced himself, pointing out the fully stocked mini-bar and the freshly baked cakes, snacks and savoury treats ranging from cucumber sandwiches to sushi and caviar, which Reza always had specially sourced.
Tara had been staring surreptitiously at Natalya, who was, in turn, staring out of the window looking bored. ‘Abbi,’ she whispered, ‘look at her neck.’
‘Oh my God!’ Abena gasped. A patch of skin on the side of Natalya’s neck that should have been covered by her hair was exposed with the twist of her head to reveal an angry red welt.
A few more people filed into the aircraft and eventually the last arrival was seated. The male passengers were mostly either employed by Reza or were potential business clients. As well as Henry and Anders there was a silver-haired Englishman called Piers and Reza’s two right-hand men, Darren and Fadi. Burly Darren was his minder and Fadi was the money man, which meant that he literally followed Reza around with a fortified briefcase filled with the £50 notes that Reza needed to pay for things on a day-to-day basis. The female passengers were all attractive. Besides Tara, Abena and Natalya there were two Italian girls who appeared to be about seventeen and barely spoke English, and two older, ultra-groomed brunettes in daringly, if not commendably, skimpy outfits who looked with disapproval at the ‘mere children’ around them.
‘Mutton-dressed-as lamb alert,’ Tara whispered. ‘Next thing you know my mother will be out here.’
Abena digested the first woman’s look: a small Prada bra top with high-waisted short-shorts – ropey enough on the anorexic-looking teenagers who exhibited it on the runway, let alone unleashed here. The second woman was also falling out of one of those looks that should never, ever be allowed to leave the catwalk. ‘Hmmn, certainly a clever time-saving trick – put your beachwear on before you reach your holiday destination. I’m quite tickled by it,’ she murmured.
Reza looked over the inhabitants of his shiny teal toy as a king might survey his kingdom. He thought of his childhood, of growing up with his Syrian father and Belgian mother, living first in Syria and then in different Middle Eastern countries, so that he and his brother were constantly being dragged around and pulled out of new schools. Somehow his brother had always managed to adjust. He’d done well and been happy everywhere, while he, Reza, had been the misfit. But that was then. He leaned back, letting his lips curl into an awful smile. If the kids who’d picked on him at school could only see him now. But then, they could, couldn’t they, he smirked, glancing at his picture in the business pages of The Times.
Reza recalled the strange dream he’d had the previous night, still mildly aroused by it. He’d dreamt he lived in a mythical land where he had the gift of unlimited ejaculations. But as he came, all his produce morphed into a torrent of £50 notes so profuse that he filled entire seas with money. And then the girls appeared like mermaids, bikini-clad and swimming around in the notes in ecstasy. Mmmn, marvellous young girls. There was Lilith, who he’d asked out as a spotty adolescent and who’d laughed cruelly in his face. Well she wasn’t laughing here. Then Farah appeared. She’d agreed to one date with him because his mother had paid her – and then nipped to the loo during lunch and never returned. All the young beauties he’d ever wanted, who he still seethed at now for spurning him, were present, thrashing around in his seas of passion. They chased after the notes and whenever they got hold of one were amazed to find that it was no longer Her Majesty the Queen’s face emblazoned upon it, but Reza’s own, complete with dazzling tan and glinting white teeth.
Now, as his plane roared down the runway and sailed into the sky, a frisson of excitement rippled through the cabin. Reza reached into the mini-bar by his seat and pulled out a bottle of champagne. ‘Dooooooooom,’ he chanted at Fadi, Henry and Darren, who immediately sang back in unison ‘Pé, Pé, Pérignooooooon.’ Then he shook the bottle hard, popped the cork and unleashed his fizz all over the shrieking passengers, spraying them and the immaculate interior.
‘Open up, Ciara,’ he ordered, leaning forward to pour the champagne directly into the pretty teenager’s ready and willing mouth as she thrust out her chest and threw her head back, damp hair falling wantonly everywhere.
Henry opened another bottle and poured Reza a glass before helping him off with his loafers.
‘It’s showtime!’ Reza roared.
Chapter 3
With the plane a few hundred feet in the air, its passengers could glance down and smile a satisfied goodbye to southern England, now just a series of concrete clusters divided by swathes
of green fields. Hidden somewhere among the buildings of central London stood the office blocks where both Abena and Tara worked, and the girls considered their careers from this new vantage point.
Tara had been employed for only three weeks the previous month. She’d fallen into temping after leaving university because she was reluctant to commit to any of the careers on offer. She’d rather wander homeless through the streets of London than confine her lifestyle to a rigid and mundane routine. Not for her the daily grind of taking a ghastly bus to a drab office every morning, then sitting in front of a computer with a bunch of people she would never normally have chosen as her friends, before trudging home with just enough time for some supper before bed. She knew that somewhere there was a more glamorous life waiting for her. In the meantime she would temp, accepting only the bare minimum of work. This usually meant three weeks of secretarial work a month in order to cover her half of the rent.
She found it wasn’t necessary to spend much to maintain a hectic social life, having discovered soon after her move to London that if one is invited to the right parties, a diet consisting almost solely of canapés is more than substantial. Besides, she was regularly invited on dinner dates, where, despite being a modern woman, she never had any intention, or need, to open her ostrich-skin purse when the bill came. Cars to ferry her around from restaurant to bar to nightclub or party were normally taken care of by either the date for that evening or a friend, be it the owner of the restaurant or the PR person for the venue. Tara had soon learnt that being fashionable and connected is not just agreeable, it’s lucrative.
Sin Tropez Page 3