Sin Tropez

by Aita Ighodaro

  ‘Oh no, I really shouldn’t,’ Abena protested. ‘I’m absolutely wasted, I ha—’

  ‘Come on Grandma, one glass won’t kill you,’ cut in Sebastian. ‘Here, try mine.’

  Abena raised Sebastian’s glass to her lips, savouring the aroma.

  ‘For such a “casual” guy, you certainly know a lot about luxurious wines,’ Abena whispered into his ear, her mouth just brushing his earlobe.

  By the time the bottle was empty, Abena’s hand had moved from Sebastian’s knee to his taught upper thigh. She almost couldn’t believe her own conduct, but by this stage of the evening there was no hope of reconciling action with reason. The restaurant emptied around them and waiters hovered pointedly by the table, loudly clearing and tidying the surrounding area.

  ‘I think they’re trying to tell us something,’ Sebastian remarked, throwing a black American Express card on top of the bill. He didn’t bother to check the amount. The two friends immediately proffered their Coutts cards, and Abena made a feeble and token reach towards her purse, knowing that she wouldn’t actually be allowed anywhere near the bill. This suited her fine; she was all for equality between the sexes, just not at dinner time.

  ‘Come on, I’ll drop you home.’ Sebastian held out a hand to Abena and ushered her into a waiting taxi. As the cab trundled off in the direction of Chelsea rather than Ladbroke Grove, it occurred to Abena that Sebastian hadn’t asked where she lived. She was about to point this out when he smoothed a strand of hair falling across her face.

  ‘God you’re stunning,’ he said, staring at her mouth. ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you all evening.’ Abena looked up at him from under her eyelashes. Her heart was thumping as he gently pulled her closer.

  Sebastian’s über-modern flat was gigantic, open plan and minimalist. The glossy grey kitchen stretched seamlessly into an oval living room the size of a small bowling alley. The floor was composed of vast slabs of light-grey stone strewn with differently textured cream rugs. A pale brown leather sofa, which must have been made to measure, formed a perfect semi-circle against half of the curved white wall. At the other end of the room stood a long Perspex table so thin that at first Abena thought the rows of magazines arranged artfully on its surface were floating on air. The only respite from the clinical-looking, high-design elements were a couple of vibrant flower arrangements that added the obvious, yet striking, finishing touch. From all this Abena inferred he must have an interior designer and very efficient cleaner. She longed to take a peek at his bedroom and look for more of a personal touch and was just imagining what she might find there when her eye was caught by a pair of sophisticated red-soled high heels. They had evidently been lined up neatly to one side by the cleaner. Sebastian followed her glare and offered nothing by way of explanation.

  ‘Come over here, darling,’ he called, walking to an adjoining room she hadn’t noticed. ‘Let’s watch a film.’

  She stepped into what turned out to be a home cinema. The screen spanned the entire wall but there were only five soft, oversized chairs, upholstered in red velvet like those in a commercial cinema. He turned off the lights and pressed PLAY. Abena had no idea what the film was – it could have been Sesame Street for all she cared. She was conscious only of the proximity of her body to Sebastian’s as he moved to stand behind her. She needed him closer. He slid a lazy hand inside her dress and cupped her left breast from behind, letting out a soft moan as he unzipped her short black silk dress and let it drop to the floor. Abena turned and kissed him furiously, pressing herself hard against his erection. She knew she shouldn’t give in on the first date if she wanted him to fall for her, but her decidedly lacklustre attempt to wiggle free from Sebastian’s strong embrace only succeeded in getting him even more excited.

  ‘Stop it,’ she giggled, ‘I mustn’t. Not on the first date – I wasn’t brought up like that.’

  ‘Technically speaking, it wasn’t really a date was it?’ murmured Sebastian. As he slid an expert finger inside her white lace panties, Abena realized just how hard it would be to resist him for much longer.

  ****

  ‘Where did you get to last night, you sly thing?’ Tara asked. ‘The background noise was so loud on that message you left, I couldn’t really hear you. I thought you said you were with Alex Spectre, but you couldn’t have been, could you? I mean, I guess you weren’t – not out with him all night?’ Tara’s face was whiter than usual. Her eyes darted about the room but wouldn’t meet Abena’s gaze.

  ‘Oh God, no, not with Alex. But Sebastian was at Cipriani with some friends of his and you’re not going to believe this—’

  ‘You slept with Sebastian! That’s amazing,’ Tara screamed, a rosy flush restored to her cheeks.

  ‘Wait, wait, hold on! Firstly, I did not sleep with him. We were just flirting outrageously. I mean, so outrageously it was embarrassing. Anyway, we ended up back at his and – my God, Tara, his place is incredible—’

  ‘Does he live with Alex?’

  ‘No, no, let me finish. He lives on his own and Alex has an apartment in the same block. Anyway, so we get back to his, and I am totally wasted. But he suddenly makes a move on me. And, well, we kind of ended up very scantily clad and then I … I don’t know, it just didn’t feel quite right. So I told him that I didn’t want to take it any further because I wasn’t ready and things were moving too quickly, and … I’m really shy with boys.’

  Abena caught Tara’s eye and sniggered loudly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Abena continued, wiping a tear from her eye, ‘I think it was a good move because this morning when I woke up he was already awake, staring at me.’

  ‘Aaaaargh!’ Tara pounced on Abena and threw her arms around her. ‘And now there’s no excuse for me not to meet Alex. It’s clearly meant to be.’

  Chapter 9

  The following morning Abena was late to work as usual. So late, in fact, that she didn’t even have time to worry about whether Sebastian would call. She rushed into her cramped offices, flustered as always, and went straight to her desk to make sure there were no missed calls from Olympia. Despite being the boss and owner of the thirty-strong company, Olympia liked to micro-manage every thing – particularly Abena. Although Abena was diligent about making up lost time by staying late into the evening, Olympia – who rarely made it into the office until midday – had taken to finding silly excuses to ring in at 9.05 a.m. True to form, Abena had three missed calls from Olympia, as well as one from her assistant, Wendy. Unable to face Olympia right now, she called Wendy back, surprised she wasn’t in the office. As Wendy answered the phone, Abena heard a dog howling loudly in the background and steeled herself for a terrible announcement.

  ‘Oh it’s you,’ sobbed Wendy. I called in earlier to say I’m on my way to the vet. It’s … it’s awful …’

  ‘Wendy, what’s wrong? You sound dreadful. Is … is it Bruno?’ Wendy would fall apart if Bruno had to be put down.

  ‘He’s not eaten in twelve hours and he’s been throwing up all night, I don’t know what the problem is but I’m terrified. I’m ever so sorry, I’ll be in just as soon as I can.’

  ‘Not at all. Just make sure he’s alright and I’ll see you when I see you.’ Abena was relieved it didn’t sound too serious but she hoped Wendy would be back in soon; her inbox had enough red flags to start a communist revolution.

  By mid-morning Abena was battling with PowerPoint, putting together a detailed presentation on the latest mediocre producers Mallinder had taken on. She had just identified the one or two who might one day actually end up being worth something, but the fun stopped there. This was essentially an exercise in manipulating figures and creating graphs on Excel and it was incredibly dull. Not for her the glitz of Cannes or the parties at Sundance. She’d be lucky to go to the premier of an Asda advert. Parties and wining and dining the producers was Olym-pia’s domain, and although Abena had a ton of ideas for how Mallinder could promote these producers and create more press coverage about them internationally, sh
e’d long ago stopped bothering to share them with Olympia, who dismissed Abena as a jumped-up young thing – and then nicked her ideas anyway.

  At 11.30 a.m. Olympia flounced into the office in a light grey, floor-length trench coat, a red beret perched on the side of her head. Underneath the coat she had on a tight grey ruffled dress and chunky red knee-high boots. As Olympia strode towards her, Abena stared intently at her screen and tried not to giggle. An upright and majestic-looking woman, Olympia liked to dress quirkily, but she was no spring chicken. Nobody at Mallinder knew for sure how old Olympia was, it was a secret she guarded closely, but it was thought she was a well-preserved fifty. She considered herself a big hit amongst the producers she represented and was blissfully unaware that her clients only came to the office because they fancied either Abena, the tarty blonde on reception, or one of the trendy-looking wannabe film-director boys who, like Abena, had taken jobs at Mallinder to realize their dreams and had ended up ordering in boxes of A4.

  Abena groaned inwardly, remembering that she hadn’t returned Olympia’s calls and was probably in for a bollocking. Instead, Olympia announced smugly, ‘We’ve just added a new freelancer to our database. I’ve had a little tête-à-tête with him and he said we’d been recommended by Carey Wallace! The Carey Wallace.’ Olympia smirked. ‘If word’s out to the likes of him, it won’t be long before we have Oscar winners in our catalogue! Right! I’m off to a screening at Bafta and then a late lunch with the Simpson boys.’ She gave Abena a naughty smile, which clearly said ‘I’ll use my wit and sex-appeal to charm the powerful Simpson brothers into investing in our dismal back-catalogue of films’.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Abena stammered. She didn’t point out that the only reason Carey had heard of Mallinder was because of her, nor that, at sixty, the Simpson brothers were far from ‘boys’.

  ‘Oh,’ Olympia added, ‘and I’ll need that presentation I asked for by first thing tomorrow morning.’ With that she turned and stalked into her plush corner office, knowing full well that the original deadline had been next Friday, and now Abena would have to stay in the office all evening to get it done.

  The afternoon was greatly improved, however, by a text message from Sebastian. She held her breath as she clicked on the little envelope icon.

  Watching the sun set over Paris from my suite at George V. Shall we watch it together next time? S.

  Chapter 10

  Sarah was desperately low. Her interview with Willy Eckhardt a few weeks earlier had been, by all accounts, an extraordinary success, giving the paper a full mailbox of reader feedback for the first time in months, much of it from young people describing their own struggles with bulimia. The Gazette had acquired a younger, punchier image as a result of this touching celebrity exclusive, but still there had been no mention of a permanent position and a salary. There was only one week left to go until the end of her internship and then she would be out of a job.

  The last time she’d been in touch with Willy it was to email him a long list of things to do with his wife and kids in London and Oxford. She’d included a little-known production company that put on enchanting musicals, tailoring them to suit individual families by renaming iconic characters such as Peter Pan and Mickey Mouse after the children in the audience. She’d also spoken to Abena about high-end builders and designers and had got a recommendation from Olympia, whose Hampstead home was a riot of colour and showcased her vast collection of modernist furniture, all shaped like a teapot. Sarah really hoped he liked her suggestions, even if he hadn’t got back to her.

  She rose from the soft single bed she’d slept in since she was ten and pulled open the curtains to inspect the weather. Raining. Anyone would think it was February, not the first day of June. Having showered quickly and thrown on a mismatching bra and pants, she reached for the nearest pair of trousers, happening upon the black ones she’d worn yesterday. She raised them to her nose and sniffed. They’d do for one more day. She added an old black V-neck jumper from Hennes and a pair of plain black lace-up plimsoles. Calling goodbye to her parents, she trudged down the stairs and flicked through the pile of post on her way out. To her surprise, there was an official-looking envelope addressed to her. Probably the Student Loans Company wanting payback.

  Sarah opened the letter and scanned it quickly. Then she read it again, more carefully this time. She read it once more just to be sure. Then she closed her eyes, grinned until her cheeks began to hurt, and jumped up and down as fast as she as could. The fourth time she read the letter, she whispered the words aloud:

  Dear Ms Hunter,

  Further to your meeting with Mr Eckhardt, he is delighted to be able to make you a formal offer of employment. Should you accept the position of personal assistant to Mr Eckhardt, your key responsibilities will be as follows:

  1) You will be responsible for the organization and upkeep of Mr Eckhardt’s schedule.

  2) You will oversee correspondence between Mr Eckhardt and his fans/clients/suppliers/colleagues.

  3) You will attend business and social functions with, or as a representative of, Mr Eckhardt, should your presence be appropriate.

  4) You may on occasion be required to undertake personal tasks for Mr Eckhardt, such as the supervision of his children or the arrangement of familial and social engagements.

  5) You will give your neighbour a great big hug at the end of each day. A Willy world is a happy world. :-)

  You will receive twenty-five days paid holiday.

  The salary Mr Eckhardt has proposed for you will start at £35,000 per annum with a review after six months, and the position is available immediately.

  Should you wish to discuss any of the terms of this letter, please do not hesitate to contact me.

  I look forward to hearing from you as to your availability.

  Yours sincerely,

  Ms Gloria Dwyer,

  Publicist to Willy Eckhardt

  Sarah floated to the Gazette office on a great sea of happiness, not even noticing the wind or the rain.

  ****

  ‘Natalya, do you have a problem with nudity?’ The woman cocked her head to one side and her eyes travelled slowly up and down Natalya’s slender body. Then she fixed her stare on Natalya’s breasts, taking in how they appeared both small and yet, in comparison to the slightness of the waist and the daintiness of the ribcage, voluptuous.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. Could you take off your dress for me, leave your undies on, and I’d like you to walk slowly to the other side of the room. Stop for five seconds, turn your head and then walk back to us. That’s right isn’t it Emilio?’

  ‘Exactly, if you can do that for us please …’ a bored-looking Emilio glimpsed the name at the top of the model card in front of him and added ‘Natalya’.

  Natalya glanced behind her at the queue of models waiting for their turn and sighed. The queue had grown longer and the row of girls now stretched through the door and out into the hallway. Most of them were the same height as her with blue eyes and hair falling just short of shoulder length, which was the particular look they wanted at this casting.

  Natalya scrutinized her competition. Some looked bored or tired. Others were nervous, particularly the new faces, who hadn’t yet had time to build a portfolio of pictures and must rely solely on the impression they were about to make in their two-minute window. These new faces were visibly intimidated by the regular models’ experience and confidence. Natalya knew so well how they felt, plucked from the school gates or their local shopping mall and thrown into the world of fashion modelling. Despite dreaming of this day from the age of ten, they would have been stunned by quite how difficult the job is to get the hang of.

  The hardest thing is learning how to walk. Natalya had watched countless adolescents miss out on the chance of a lifetime because of the particular rhythm with which they placed one lanky leg in front of another, caught out by shoes that have transcended fashion to become sculpture. And yet despite all the angst and struggle
of initiation, new faces have their own weapon against the more established. They have bodies that are not yet battling the onslaught of womanhood. They have not yet succumbed to the ruinous invasion of hips, breasts and thighs.

  Natalya stared enviously at two identikit blondes chatting gaily with each other. She couldn’t understand girls like this. They thrived on the travel, the constant flow of people and the glamour, and whether they were walking for a poxy graduate or the biggest designer in the world, they retained an affinity and camaraderie with each other that never ceased to surprise her – didn’t they realize they were competitors? Even the make-up artists had their favourites. This was a cut-throat world and Natalya trusted nobody.

  She undressed slowly, undoing each popper at the side of her tight green dress individually, although they could have been easily peeled apart in much less time.

  Emilio drummed his fingers on the table and exchanged a look with the woman beside him.

  ‘If you could hurry please, we’ve quite a lot more to get through today,’ the woman said.

  Finally, Natalya was down to her sheer thong and bra and she started to walk, as instructed, to the other side of the room. Halfway there, she heard the woman laughing. Natalya spun round to find her poring over a series of photographs on Emilio’s digital camera. From the sound of her giggled whispers, the photos apparently showed Emilio’s young goddaughter, wearing fancy dress and with a finger wedged up Emilio’s nostril.

  The woman looked up. ‘Keep going,’ she snapped.

  Seconds later and before Natalya even had a chance to stop and turn, Emilio put up a hand. ‘OK, that’s enough, thanks for coming. Who’s next?’

  There were two piles of model cards on the table: a large one and a small one. He placed Natalya’s card on the large pile, raising an eyebrow at the woman, who nodded. Natalya just had time to retrieve her dress before the next girl strutted to the centre of the room to pose for her Polaroid, looking unsmilingly into the camera lens and hunching her shoulders so that her back was concave and her thin body appeared skeletal.