And the best thing of all was that Henry was proving wonderful with all his girls. He could ferry them around and organize them all without Reza ever worrying that he would try to steal any for himself. What’s more, particularly with the very young ones, it made them feel safer, more comfortable. They could relax and get tipsy with fun-loving Henry, oblivious to the fact that the real reason Reza always arrived so late at his own parties was to give the saucy things time to get into a far more receptive mood.
****
While Reza’s plane was heading north across the Channel, Tara and Abena were wandering through the port at St Tropez, hoping to bump into Alex. Out alone for the first time on the trip, they felt that buzzy excitement that comes from not knowing what a night will bring, but knowing that the possibilities are infinite. They sat down outside a loud, lively bar crammed with people, choosing seats that looked out directly on to the port. Ominously, there were no prices on the drinks menu.
‘Good evening, ladies, can I ’elp you?’ asked the friendly French waitress.
‘Bonsoir, please could we get, er, actually, how much is a vodka tonic?’ asked Abena.
‘Is fourty euro,’ smiled the waitress.
‘Oh right, erm, what about a glass of house red?’
‘Is fourty euro,’ said the waitress, looking less impressed.
‘A glass of water?’ Tara cut in.
‘Laidees, all drink is fourty euro.’
‘OK, so it looks like it’s one cocktail each and we’re gonna have to make it last two hours, at least, until the clubs open,’ Abena grinned. She felt as though she was poorer these days than when she’d been a student. At least then she’d had a student loan and could also justify scrounging off her parents from time to time, after all, to their minds anyway, she did have textbooks to buy. Since then, though, Mallinder Films’ paltry offerings had been her only income.
Just as it seemed they couldn’t nurse their Bellinis any longer, Tara noticed a small man bounding eagerly towards her. ‘Why is it that even though I’m five foot nine I always seem to attract midgets?’ she groaned. ‘And the less interest I show, the keener they get!’
‘Maybe they’ve got some dominatrix fetish.’ Abena caught sight of the subject of Tara’s disapproval and chuckled. ‘They probably get off on fantasies of being stamped on by the spiked stiletto of a towering goddess.’
‘Oh God, just don’t look at it and maybe it will go away,’ whispered Tara, shuddering as he reached their table.
‘Hey girls!’ he boomed, ‘I’m Larry. I gotta couple friends who wanna meet you real bad. We’ve been watching you for an hour now, and I gotta say, you twos are really som’in’.’ He grinned goofily at Tara. She stared at him in amazement, unable to say what she was really thinking, which was ‘look at you, look at us; I don’t think so honey!’.
Abena wondered whether they wanted a second drink desperately enough to invite him and his friends over to join their table. Eventually she decided that she’d at least take a peek at his sidekicks before making up her mind.
‘Where are your friends?’
‘Oh we’re just up on the yacht,’ said Larry breezily, and pointed to the largest boat in the port, from which Balearic beats boomed out of a state-of-the-art sound system. ‘They’re just some friends of mine, in film.’
‘Perhaps,’ Tara replied. ‘We’re quite enjoying just chilling here over drinks, but we may wander on up in a bit.’
‘Gotcha,’ Larry said, high-fiving them both before jogging backwards away from the table then turning and running back on to the boat. He gave out more high-fives as he climbed aboard.
An hour later, when the dregs of their cocktails were beginning to congeal, the pair strolled over to the yacht. Like Reza’s, it was gleaming white inside, though slightly smaller, but there were film posters on the walls and, outside, the seating was made up of a smattering of director’s chairs. Everyone was gathered on the large deck at the front. The girls spotted Larry immediately. He was standing to the side, looking out on to the water, and Abena realized with a jolt that he was surrounded by some of the cast of Lost. Tara helped herself to a drink and went in search of a bathroom. Abena started to walk towards Larry but was intercepted by a tall man with a shock of grey hair, a kind, weathered face and sparkling light brown eyes.
‘Hello. And what brings you to this party? Friend of Larry and Rufus?’
‘Actually I don’t know anybody,’ Abena admitted. ‘I was just having a drink on the port with my friend Tara who is … well … she’s in here somewhere, and Larry approached us and invited us to the party! It’s a great bash though, glad we came,’ she said, looking around.
‘Ah, so you met Larry – brilliant director. I’ve worked with him on a couple of projects.’ A knowing grin illuminated his face.
‘Oh I see, then you must be an actor? Producer?’
‘I produce films.’
‘Really?’ Abena’s eyes widened with interest as she gazed up at him. ‘What sort of stuff have you done?’
‘Oh, you know, a few films you may have heard of: Winter Sunrise, My Father, Constance and the Colonel, and then of course Red, which was nominated for best film at the Oscars, and Surface, which won best director and best producer. A Day in Siberia won best female lead …’
‘Oh, you must be Carey Wallace! Winter Sunrise is one of my all-time favourite films! I think it may actually be the only film adaptation I’ve ever seen that has exceeded the strength of the original book.’
‘Yes I am. And, wow, thank you. Actually, of all I’ve done, Winter Sunrise is my favourite too.’
‘How was it to work with such an experimental director?’ Abena asked. ‘I loved his use of language – high register for street kids and low for the poncy society lot – it was fantastic, just so clever.’
Carey smiled. ‘Good question. But actually it was awful. Sure he thinks he’s so liberal-minded, but he didn’t want to work with any actor who he felt wasn’t bright, because of course his scripts are incredibly “intellectually taxing”. Yawn, yawn, yawn! He upset a lot of great actors who he vetoed even though they would have been mega box-office draws. He’s an even worse snob than the people he writes about. Social snobbery is funny because it’s so absurd, but intellectual snobbery – that’s a whole different thing. I’ve seen many a man broken by intellectual snobbery, utterly humiliated.’ He laughed. ‘Here, would you like one of these?’ he asked as a waiter passed by with a tray of glistening Kir Royals.
‘Love one, thank you!’
‘So, tell me about you, what’s your name? What’s your thing?’
Abena was enthralled with Carey’s tales of producing high-grossing hit films. It seemed a whole different world to what went on around the mostly struggling, low-budget, British films for TV or DVD that Mallinder ended up trying to distribute internationally.
An hour later they were still engrossed in conversation when Larry approached with a man who Abena vaguely recognized from television but couldn’t put a name to.
‘Hey, you can’t monopolize her all night,’ Larry teased Carey. ‘This young thing is dying to meet her.’ A scene from last Monday’s episode of Lost swam enticingly through Abena’s mind. It featured this rugged, lean actor running shirtless across a tropical island, muscles glistening with sweat. But she mustn’t let her mind wander; she was just getting to arranging a meeting with Carey in London.
As if out of nowhere, Tara appeared and made a beeline for Larry, midget complex clearly on hold. Anyone would have thought Larry was a long-lost relative judging by the way she launched herself at him before shimmying strategically into the tight gap between him and the actor. This was exactly the distraction Abena needed to turn her attention back to Carey and she smiled and left Tara to do her worst with the star.
‘Well, so …’ Carey said, picking up where they’d left off. ‘I always stay at the Charlotte Street Hotel when I’m in London, so we can catch up for lunch in the area soon. I fly home to LA tomorr
ow, and we’ll wrap up principal photography on the current project next month, so I may be in London a little after that. I’ll definitely call you.’
‘That would be fantastic,’ Abena beamed.
Just as the two were about to part company, they were interrupted by the screams of three women as they tried to throw a bearded, bespectacled old man overboard.
‘Hey, Bendy!’ Carey shouted at the laughing captive, who had now regained his balance and composure. ‘Come and meet Abena, she lives in London too; you guys should talk.’
‘Bendy’ came over immediately and introduced himself as Benedict, or Ben. Abena was shocked to realize he was probably in his late twenties – not an old man at all. She felt an irrational annoyance at young guys who did the whole beard and glasses thing, especially when they hid what looked like attractive features, probably thinking it made them look intellectual. Ben was tall and slim with dark skin and a slightly lopsided grin. His thick-rimmed spectacles almost concealed his eyes. Unable to place his looks, Abena wondered where his family was from. Other than the long beard, his hair was short and the darkest brown. He wore a sixties-style billowing white shirt over a pair of Levi’s cut off at the knee.
‘This is Abena. Winter Sunrise is her favourite film,’ Carey announced proudly.
‘I’ll bet it is,’ Ben said drily, already bored by the thought of yet another empty-headed groupie trying to pull a rich Hollywood mover and shaker.
‘It was actually a book first, but oddly enough that didn’t seem to capture the imagination of the unthinking masses the way the film did.’ He looked at her scathingly. ‘How about Sorrow, did you like that?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But as a member of the “unthinking masses”, of course I prefer Winter Sunrise – the leading man had better abs.’ Abena couldn’t be bothered to defend her choice seriously to someone who had clearly already decided she was a bimbo.
‘Ben also worked on Winter Sunrise,’ Carey said.
‘Oh?’ Abena asked. ‘In what capacity?’
‘I was a runner.’
‘A runner?’ And after all that showing off, she thought.
Seeing that Carey had been waylaid by an actor and was now engrossed in a new discussion, she thought she’d better continue their conversation. ‘How come you’re out here with Carey?’
‘Carey knows my parents – they used to work for him – so I’ve helped out on quite a few of his films. He flew me out here as a birthday present. There’s no way I’d be able to afford a holiday like this otherwise – and it’s not as if I could just flirt my way into a party like this.’
Abena was furious. This guy didn’t know the first thing about her, so who was he to judge? And besides, he’d only wangled his job – as a paltry runner – through contacts of Mummy and Daddy.
When one of Ben’s previous captors re-emerged and grabbed his arm, Abena was only too pleased to wander off into the crowd.
Chapter 7
There was a colossal difference between Abena and Tara’s flight in, and their flight back. Without Reza, the girls had to make their own way to Nice airport, from where, to their bitter disappointment, they would be flying cattle-class to Heathrow. Tara gazed wistfully at first-class check-in and was horrified to spot a little girl of no more than three years old carrying a tiny customized Hermès Birkin Bag.
‘Oh my God, Abena, look at that kid. Tina’s been on the waiting list for one of those for a year.’ Her mother liked to be referred to by her first name as it made her feel young.
‘Probably a good thing they won’t sell it to her if she’s in as much debt as you say she’s in?’
But Tara was too busy seething over the bag to hear. She didn’t want to feel this way about a three-year-old, but she couldn’t help envying her. Imperious little cow in her high-heeled jelly shoes and mini-Birkin.
‘Piss off,’ she muttered inaudibly as the bewildered child toddled past.
The girls reluctantly joined the economy-class queue behind three large teenagers sporting a uniform of velour tracksuits with matching pouches of flesh hanging over their waistbands. As Tara turned to point this out to Abena, the biggest teen swivelled round, put a hand on her formidable hip and gave Tara a petrifying stare. Taken aback, more by the pinkness of the adolescent’s sunburnt face than by the venom of her gaze, Tara bit back a giggle. This girl was clearly susceptible to a condition Tara liked to call ‘fattitude’, and she had no intention of suffering the consequences of a sudden outbreak.
Never had the differences between the haves and the have-nots been more clear to Abena – well, apart from when she holidayed in her sprawling family home in Ghana, designed and built by her wealthy grandparents long before Abena was born and raised in England. They had wanted to be sure that no matter what, the many children and grandchildren they hoped to have would always have somewhere full of love and joy that they could retreat to.
‘It’s going to be a long flight,’ Abena said, grinning at Tara.
‘Anyhow, we haven’t had a proper chance to catch up about last night. Did anything happen with that actor, I didn’t catch his name?’
‘What? Oh him, yeah, no, I wasn’t really interested in the end so I didn’t pursue it. Anyway, he was so up his own arse he was practically tickling his tonsils,’ she huffed. ‘Great party though, who was that old guy you were chatting to all night?’
‘Only the most talented man in film,’ Abena announced smugly.
Finally the girls arrived back at their ground-floor flat in Ladbroke Grove.
‘And we’re home,’ Abena said, taking in their colourful surroundings. The decor consisted of shoes and exotic dresses strewn everywhere, clashing gloriously with the hundreds of pictures tacked haphazardly on almost every spare surface, a shameful number of which were of themselves. Abena tried to suppress the dull dread building up at the thought of returning to work the next day by browsing the ASOS website for an affordable fashion hit before checking her emails. She perked up when she saw a note from Sarah about going to interview some star – she must invite her over for a drink so they could swap gossip.
Meanwhile Tara was in the kitchen, chatting on the phone. ‘Yes Papa, Natalya Ozolin. Why, do you know the name? I don’t think you’d know them – she only came over here a few years ago … Anyway, how are the little dogs? Are they missing me?’
Tara ended the call and groaned, flouncing into the sitting room and throwing herself on to the sofa. ‘Ugh! Work tomorrow …’
‘Where are you this week anyway?’
‘Still on reception at that hideous novelty paper-clip manufacturer run by Harry the Hobgoblin. How can such a tiny, odious little thing have his own company?’
‘Is he really that gross?’
‘Abbi, he’s shorter than you, he’s perennially pompous and hideously smug. Monday to Thursday he’s just about tolerable to look at I suppose, because he wears a suit, but dress-down Friday kills me every time.’
‘Oh God, the Sad Friday Outfit – tell me about it. Just when you think someone’s looking amazing, they swap their hand-tailored Savile Row suit for a pair of granddad jeans pulled up really high and then belted so it gives them a wedgie.’
Abena closed her eyes as she conjured up the unpleasant image in her mind, adding mischievously, ‘You know what I think? I think men should be born into one female-approved, standard outfit and have to apply for a licence and take a test before they’re allowed to dress themselves.’
‘Oh my word, yes!’ Tara shrieked with glee. ‘Yes, something simple and classic, no coloured lining or any of that vulgarity.’
‘Oh my God, listen to us!’ Abena laughed.
****
Reza and Henry were ensconced in the spacious basement office at Reza’s Mayfair home. Giant screens covered every wall, on to which share prices were constantly projected, so that even while eating a power breakfast Reza was always on top of any market fluctuations. He removed his tailored suit jacket, classically cut and in elegant navy, but lined
in a sumptuous purple silk. He finished the business section of his newspaper and quickly skimmed the gossip pages. Its contents made him spit with rage.
‘How could the Sorellensens have missed my party to go to Billionaire in Sardinia! Pah! I have much, much more money than Flavio Briatore,’ he spat. ‘Why shouldn’t I have my own nightclub?’
‘Oooh,’ Henry said, his eyes flashing, ‘you’d be a brilliant club proprietor. But you’d need to do something bigger and better than anything out there at the moment.’
‘Go on.’ Reza looked pensive.
‘Well, I don’t know exactly, maybe a new idea like, like a club on ice, or on water.’
Reza banged his hand down hard on the desk and a vein at the side of his neck began to throb.
‘I have an idea!’ he roared. ‘A floating nightclub. I’m going to buy another boat – a motor yacht four times the size of Deep Pleasure, with a huge helipad for guests to fly in from all over – and create the world’s only floating nightclub.’ He rose and began pacing the room. ‘Yes, and people will pay to come – no fifty-euro entrance fee here, men will pay in the tens of thousands, but women will come for free. All guests will have to be invited to pay and party. It will be … a members’ club of sorts. Henry, take notes.’
Henry was already scribbling away in his Filofax, nodding his head furiously.
‘We will cultivate an aura of exclusivity so potent that men will do anything to become members, and pay anything. And every beautiful woman the world over will kill to set her painted toe down on this historic vessel. It will be wonderful—’
Reza was interrupted mid-flow by the ringing of one of his phones. Henry looked to see who it was.
‘It’s your brother.’
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