Sin Tropez

by Aita Ighodaro

  The only thing she sometimes felt she ought to accept more work for was high-end clothing. A connoisseur of fashion, Tara flatly refused to buy clothing on the High Street. Instead, she made do with a wardrobe of beautifully cut vintage hand-me-downs from her grandmother, mixed with goodie-bag freebies from the shows in Paris and London, sample-sale finds, and a considerable collection of designer gifts from wealthier friends and a couple of ex-boyfriends. This arrangement would have to suffice until she found herself an eligible man because the only occupations that could possibly hold her attention were in fashion PR and fashion journalism, neither of which would enable her to afford a cutting-edge Preen wardrobe.

  Abena, too, was struggling to achieve job satisfaction. Hugely ambitious, she was determined to make something of her sharp mind and friendly nature. Exotic good looks inherited from her Ghanaian parents might have helped her charm her way through life, but she wanted to use her ‘interpersonal skills’ to get ahead. She enjoyed surprising people, whether with her cut-glass English accent or Oxford degree, and what could be better than a career in the media, where she could surprise people by engaging them in issues they might not have been interested in. She wanted to show disillusioned young people that the world doesn’t have to be a closed place and that they can carve out their own path. She wanted to tell tales of far away, and show people new places. And so it was with the zeal of a romantic youth who has sailed through life that Abena had pressed the ‘send’ button on her job application to Mallinder Films five months earlier.

  Mallinder Films turned out to be a bitter disappointment. She loathed the tedium of her office routine. Plonked in the accounts department on her first day, she had soon become aware of some irksome facts about business. Firstly, that even if the product to be sold is an electrifying film, the accounts still need to be tracked daily on a spreadsheet; and Mallinder Films was fond of spreadsheets. It was fond of targets. And it absolutely loved ‘performance indicators’ for all of its employees. Tracking the number of calls that the tubby head of sales had made last Tuesday was about as far removed from Abena’s vision of inspirational creativity as a position stacking shelves at Somerfield.

  By the same token, although she’d been thrilled to be given her own assistant, the sweet but dowdy Wendy, she was by now bored rigid of hearing about the woman’s home life. No, she did not wish to see another photograph of Wendy in the garden with her big, black dog Bruno. Or one of Wendy on holiday – with Bruno. Or a group shot showing Wendy’s sister with her husband, Wendy’s brother with his wife, and Wendy herself with, well, Bruno. It pained Abena to think of Wendy grinding away at Mallinder well into her middle age, getting progressively more bloated and pockmarked as she bought more dogs and cats. I need to get out now while I still can, she thought.

  Mallinder Films was also excruciatingly tight with money. Abena already knew that most of the staff were paid barely enough to keep them in lovefilm subscriptions. But she hadn’t realized quite how bad things were until a celebratory team meal was held not at the delicious Arbutus restaurant near their Soho offices but at Bangers and Beans, a greasy spoon two doors down. Olympia, the CEO, wasn’t prepared to cough up for more. Mallinder Films was clearly far from being the powerful international player in the world of film that Olympia had implied at interview. In fact Abena quickly learnt that hardly anybody outside of Mallinder Films had heard of Mallinder Films.

  But now she was on the plane and by the time the second bottle of champagne lay empty, all thoughts of work were forgotten. ‘Cheers hon!’ Abena raised a glass to Tara and helped herself to a praline, ignoring Natalya’s disapproving look. She noticed Reza pulling faces and sticking his tongue out at a bewildered Ciara, who giggled uncertainly, sitting opposite him at the back of the plane with her wide-eyed young friend Francesca.

  ‘If in doubt, just smile and giggle when it comes to the big boss,’ advised Henry.

  ‘But what if he’s not joking? Or I’m not amused?’ Abena asked. The faces Reza was pulling were beneath the dignity of a man in his fifties.

  ‘Trust me, sweetheart, just smile and giggle. He doesn’t do small talk. He mostly talks business and makes party plans, preferably with men. With girls, it’s just smile and giggle at his jokes.’

  Stubbornly, Abena turned to Reza, determined to engage him in normal conversation. When he looked over and caught her eye she leaned forward and raised her voice.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me. This is incredible – so exciting. I don’t even know where we’re staying when we get there? Are we all on your boat?’

  Reza looked blankly at her.

  Feeling foolish, Abena smiled sheepishly and giggled. Immediately, Reza came alive.

  ‘Abena, baby,’ he boomed. ‘Have some more Dom!’ He waved at Henry to fill up her glass before turning back to Ciara and flirtatiously pushing a champagne cork down her vest top.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Henry raised an eyebrow at Abena before whistling as he reached for the culture section of the paper in front of him. ‘Flaming Nora, I’m in love!’ he swooned theatrically, fanning himself with a manicured hand. ‘They could be right out of a Bruce Weber shoot.’

  ‘What? Who?’ Abena and Tara spluttered in unison, peering at the paper.

  The headline read: ‘ART WORLD LUMINARY TO PAINT PARTY BOY ADVERTISING HEIRS’. Under this heading was a photograph of two incredible-looking men. They clearly had not been amused to see the paparazzi but even their scowls could not detract from their amazing beauty. Reading on hungrily, Abena learnt that ‘despite being publicity shy, brothers Alexander and Sebastian Spectre are known in fashionable circles for their good looks, fast living, rampant womanizing and their jaw-dropping wealth, but now they are making a new name for themselves with this unexpected collaboration …’

  ‘I had no idea they looked like that,’ exclaimed a mooning Tara.

  ‘I’ve never even heard of them. Where have they been all my life?’ Abena said.

  ‘I think the press have stung them a few times in the past, so you never see their pictures anywhere really,’ said Henry. ‘Last time I saw a photo of the kids was twenty years ago or so – I was ten, the elder Spectre boy was ten, and even then I was stirred. I think that was when I first knew …’

  Seven bottles of champagne later, the plane touched down smoothly in the radiant French sunshine. Henry wiggled off to finalize logistics while the others disembarked at a leisurely pace. To his large villa by the beach next to Club 55, Reza brusquely dispatched Piers, Darren, Fadi and the two older women, who, it emerged, were best friends called Julia and Anna. They were both single and pushing forty and, though impeccably groomed, had that weather-beaten quality (possibly helped along by extensive plastic surgery) acquired from a very early start on the party circuit and far too many years of inebriated sleeping around with unsuitable men. They were quite unlike the yummy mummies and mega-rich divorcees of the Riviera who, though of a similar age, enjoyed an expensive and well-preserved beauty that lingered long into their forties. These women had benefited from a more restful period while married, and were now guaranteed future privilege due to hefty divorce settlements. The never-managed-to-marry-a-millionaire contingent, on the other hand, were by this age feeling the strain, and had to rely on the same freebie holidays they’d relied on in their youth, and these were becoming harder and harder to come by.

  Reza’s proposed sleeping arrangements put all the younger girls with him on his boat – the winningly named Deep Pleasure – along with Henry and Anders, who, being homosexual, would have no intention of spoiling his fun.

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Tara. ‘That’s such a shame as, er, Deep Pleasure sounds fantastic but I just cannot sleep on water. Never been able to – since I was a child. I get so horribly seasick. I ’d be no fun whatsoever on the boat.’ She sighed in anguish then pouted in that spoilt-child manner that certain men like. Abena, imagining the logistics of trying to escape Reza’s advances when surrounded by deep water, added that sh
e ought to stick with Tara. Julia and Anna then made it difficult for Reza to protest by immediately proffering their own services for the boat instead. Very tired services at that, Reza thought. He hadn’t wanted to invite them but Henry had informed him that Piers liked a mature woman.

  The teenagers tugged at their low-cut tops and pulled them down further to reveal more of their perky chests as they giggled. Anna and Julia might have been right when they’d huffed that seventeen was an optimistic estimate and that these girls could well be minors, mused Abena. Poor things, they seemed so young and out of their depth. ‘Hi girls’ Reza kept saying, to increasingly uneasy laughter.

  ‘OK, listen up please everyone,’ Henry called out. ‘We’re going to get you all in cars and after everybody has had a chance to settle in and freshen up we meet for dinner at Villa Romana, where we’ll link up with Eric and his lot, and some more very lovely ladies who we’ve flown out on commercial flights. Poooohee!’ He held his nose.

  ‘Get on with it you miserable little fairy, I’ve got a conference call in ten minutes,’ snapped Reza.

  ‘ And then after that I’ve organized the best table, a king-sized table, a Reza-sized table, in the VIP section at Les Caves. Yeah, yeah, yeah!’

  Piers ushered the girls to the first waiting car and, beating the driver to it, held open the door for them. Abena noticed how much he resembled her old tutor at Oxford. ‘He’s got something of Professor Hughes about him hasn’t he? A masterful quality …’

  ‘Only you’d be able to see the good in that navel-gazing bore. I think my tutor was a eunuch,’ laughed Tara.

  ‘I just like men who I can learn from,’ Abena protested.

  Piers climbed into the passenger seat, a dimple forming in his cheek as he asked what outfits he would be dazzled with later. ‘You girls had better start getting ready right away – it’s almost five o’clock,’ he teased. Although Piers was joking, the girls were already planning what to wear as they were driven towards Reza’s villa in the uplifting sun, fully aware that London rules don’t apply in St Tropez. Here, it was all-out glamour and sex-appeal. The adjectives ‘tasteful’ and ‘understated’ were obsolete in this part of the world and the girls knew that this was as much the resort’s triumph as its failing. As they were transported past picturesque pastel-hued cottages and café-lined cobbled squares they felt nothing but love for the place.

  The tall gates to Reza’s villa were flanked by dense rows of palm trees. They opened to reveal a magnificent example of cutting-edge architecture set back in the gravelly grounds. The asymmetric front wall was painted a bold red and slanted dramatically from a single storey on the north side to three storeys on the south. It was breathtakingly audacious.

  ‘Look at those windows!’ Abena exclaimed, astounded by the glass shapes embedded into the wall. There were stars, moons and circles big enough to let in tons of light, but nothing resembling a standard rectangle.

  An assortment of uniformed staff emerged and lined up on the front steps as the car approached. As soon as the driver braked they burst into a flurry of activity, unloading baggage and helping the girls and Piers out of the vehicle. A maid attempted to show Abena and Tara to their rooms but they sped past her in their haste to explore the villa, taking in the surprisingly minimal, spotless white spaces.

  The sun went down but the evening remained warm and inviting. A butler brought a silver tray of Mojitos up to Abena’s room, where the girls were getting ready together, and then, before they knew it, it was time for their driver to take them to dinner.

  The Italian restaurant was furnished sumptuously, unapologetically overdone with gold-leaf furniture and mythical oil paintings adorning its walls. It hummed with the loud buzz of excited and exciting people. As the large group began congregating at the long corner table that overlooked the entire room, heads turned to stare at the unfolding spectacle.

  Abena and Tara were the first of the girls to arrive, both clad in figure-hugging mini-dresses. Abena shimmered in a navy-blue skin-tight Roberto Cavalli number embellished with sequins that came right up to the neck at the front but was cut almost indecently low at the back to reveal an expanse of toned flesh. She had teamed this with a pair of flat gold gladiator sandals – the dress was foxy enough without heels, and besides, there were so many amazingly tall model types around that she figured she was better off going for the enchantingly petite and feminine effect, which made even the weediest of men feel as big and strong as Spartacus when she coquettishly looked up at them from under her curly dark lashes. Tara, however, had pulled out all the stops, and in five-inch heels was over six feet tall. She had opted for a black vintage Alaia bandeau dress. It needed no embellishment; she would let her whippet-like figure speak for itself. The men, with the exception of Reza, had arrived earlier, and now shot eager looks at the assembling delights. As Natalya and three tall Eastern European blondes strode across the room towards their table, all legs and big hair, Piers smirked. They had the attention of every single table in the restaurant and that was just as he liked it.

  Pair by pair, women kept arriving to join the group. Striking women vastly outnumbered the men, who promptly set about making energetic displays of largesse, waving vigorously for rare bottles of champagne and enquiring after their favourite brands of cigar for after dinner. A place at the head of the table was reserved for Reza, but everybody else just pulled up a chair wherever there was a space. Piers grinned at Eric, a fellow financier, and winked in the direction of Tatiana, whose huge breasts threatened to tumble right out of her flimsy silk vest and knock over her Bellini each time she shook her long tresses from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘So, I, er, think I made a mistake asking my latest “project” to come join us out in France tomorrow. There’s already more than I can handle on this side of the Channel,’ Piers told Eric, looking pointedly at Tatiana’s chest as she ran her fingers slowly up and down her glass and pretended not to listen. ‘Perhaps I can tell her I got called to a meeting and send her to Harvey Nicks with my credit card instead,’ he mused. ‘I haven’t had time to look for another wife but I’ve always got a “project” on. As long as you keep them in holidays and watches and set them up with a nice convertible then they’re happy.’

  ‘Holy cow! Can I be a project?’ cut in Tara, looking pained. Piers and Eric appeared momentarily surprised and then as Tara’s face creased with laughter they joined her, guffawing a touch too loudly. Some of the other girls shot her irritated looks, annoyed that she’d managed to infiltrate the boys’ talk and was threatening to rise above arm-candy status.

  Natalya peered down from the other end of the table, where she sat in a strategically selected black silk dress that quietly skimmed her subtle curves. She’d been purposefully ignoring the men around her as this was always the most effective way of gaining attention from those not used to being disregarded. She stared enviously at Tara. All those flippant comments. Everything in her simple life could be neatly summed up, dealt with in a throwaway remark or a privileged laugh.

  Finally Reza appeared, flanked by the two young Italians, Ciara and Francesca. Ciara, in a one-shouldered burgundy cocktail dress with her dark hair piled up high on her head and shimmering diamond drop earrings, looked like a sweet child who had raided her sexy elder sister’s wardrobe. She took a seat squeezed in beside Reza and, pulling out a compact and lipstick, repainted her pouty mouth a brighter shade of red.

  ‘Do my thighs look a little chunky in this dress?’ Abena whispered to Tara, starting to regret having worn flats.

  ‘No, no, you look great,’ replied Tara without looking. Walking into the restaurant was a man in his late twenties or early thirties with swept-back ash-blond hair, finely chiselled cheekbones and a long Roman nose not dissimilar to her own. He was dressed in a pink shirt tucked into low-slung, pale blue jeans, with a chunky Rolex hanging loosely around his wrist.

  As if reading Tara’s mind, Henry winked and purred like a cat.

  ‘Who is he meeting? O
h please God, don’t let him have a girlfriend,’ she muttered.

  He sauntered through the restaurant and joined a dark-haired friend already seated with his back to the group. Abena had been studying him earlier, surprised that he was so casually dressed in shorts and a beat-up white T-shirt at this exclusive restaurant. He was enjoying a glass of chilled Sancerre, completely at ease waiting on his own, apparently oblivious to the female waitresses, each desperate to serve him. He rose to greet the blond newcomer and Abena found herself longing for him to turn round so that she could see the face above such promisingly broad shoulders. They were both tall and even from the back had that lazy air of youths who are used to easily having whatever they desire. Now they were laughing loudly over something, still standing. Over his shoulder the blond caught sight of the raucous corner table and ran his eyes briefly along it. He said something to his friend, who turned to glance briefly at their table and, noticing the girls scrutinizing them with such intensity, directed a curious gaze at Abena. Jolted, she dropped her eyes hastily and studied her menu upside down. ‘I’m sure I know them from somewhere,’ she said.

  As the bottles of vintage Bollinger gradually emptied and the night set in, the drunken group, buoyed up by the attention they’d been commanding, moved on to dance off their excited energy at Les Caves du Roy, the chicest and most exclusive nightclub in St Tropez. Reza, who was well known there, led the group past the queue of impossibly pretty young women and pushed his way to the entrance, stopping only to let Cameron Diaz enter before him. Once their table in the raised VIP area had been loaded with Grey Goose vodka and magnums of Cristal, Henry handed out glasses with a theatrical flourish. A few extra glasses of champagne were awarded to the hopeful hangers-on who were circling their prey like killer-heeled vultures. Swept away by the charged atmosphere, Tara and Abena started to dance on their seats, swaying crazily as they tried to emulate the sexy continental girls gyrating to the loud, catchy beats. ‘Ooooooh Yeeeeaaahhh!’ boomed the DJ with a phoney American accent. ‘Welcome to Seeeaaaaiiint TRO PAY!’