Sin Tropez

by Aita Ighodaro

  The theme of this year’s ball, held in the Old Windsor home of Sir Elton and his partner David, was inspired by sixteenth-century Mogul India. Sitar players and the tinkle of temple bells on dancers’ ankles made enticing background music for the spectacular scene, lit by flickering candles and the last glow of the evening sun. Men in dress coats, white bow ties and colourful waistcoats strutted like peacocks among the women, dramatic in floor-length gowns and sparkling tiaras. It seemed that every other person was famous, and those who weren’t were discreetly managing, finding, and paying the famous, be it to appear in their films or advertise their mega-brands. It was people-watching heaven.

  Dinner was served in a magnificent white marquee designed like a miniature Taj Mahal and decorated with tropical vines and huge lanterns. Abena picked up a menu and thought she’d gone to heaven. Courgette blossoms filled with feta, toasted walnuts, lamb and morel korma with truffle oil and basmati rice, followed by platters of exotic fruits and pistachio ice cream.

  She was seated between Sebastian and his father, Simeon. ‘Hands off, Dad,’ Sebastian said. It was clearly meant to be a joke but there was no laughter in his eyes.

  Simeon grinned at Abena, who couldn’t help but notice that hotness was a Spectre family trait. She grinned back. Simeon’s latest girlfriend, who’d been invited despite his wife’s presence on the table, was to his right. Alex and his date – a hair-tossing brunette called Sammie – completed the picture.

  Drink loosened the revellers’ tongues and conversation soon flowed freely. Abena and Simeon found themselves in a light-hearted debate about droit de seigneur in the medieval period. After conceding that maybe Abena had a point, and that allowing rich men the right to sleep with any maiden on their lands on the night of her wedding was not a civilized way to run a country, he ran his eyes appraisingly over her body and reached over to slap his son on the back.

  Turning to Abena, he asked, ‘So what did you bother with studying for?’

  ‘Sorry? Er, to give me options, I guess.’

  ‘A girl like you has enough options already, no? I’m sure you could take your pick of the men here.’ He winked suggestively. ‘Oh, wait a minute, don’t tell me you mean career options?’

  He turned to the rest of the table. ‘Help!’ he cried. ‘This one’s about to take off her bra and burn it.’

  ‘Now this I’d like to see,’ drawled Sebastian.

  ‘Off with your bra!’ shouted Alex across the table.

  Simeon picked up his knife and fork and started banging on the tabletop, chanting, ‘Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!’

  The two brothers joined in.

  When Abena giggled, showing no sign of offence, Simeon turned to his youngest son. ‘You’ve got yourself a goer here, son. Better look after her.’

  Sebastian leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘I knew my folks would love you.’

  Abena wasn’t so sure about his mother. Lucy’s steely glare had pierced the side of her face throughout the meal, and when Simeon rushed off to the bathroom, his wife jumped at the chance to seize his seat and interrogate Abena.

  ‘What a delightful dress you have on. Elie Saab, no?’ Lucy enquired.

  Abena glanced down at her dress, a designer gem she’d found languishing at the bottom of a pile in a Notting Hill thrift shop. ‘Yes, it’s Elie Saab, and yours is fabulous too.’ So far so good, but she was still cautious. Her face had been burning with the heat of Lucy’s stare.

  ‘Thank you, I thought it looked pretty with these.’ Lucy fingered the string of pearls nestling in her crêpey bosom. ‘They were passed down from my grandmother. I think she wore them with her debutante ball dress. We’re a very old family; Sebastian has a long tradition to uphold.’ She tittered.

  Abena smiled back sweetly. She knew that Lucy’s grandfather had been a relatively successful tradesman, but by no means the aristocrat Lucy would have liked him to be. She also knew that Lucy had been a struggling waitress when she and her husband had first become acquainted, long after Simeon had built his advertising empire from nothing.

  ‘Where do you come from … A-bee-na is it? Do forgive me; I struggle with African names.’

  ‘Yes, it’s Abena. I was born in London, and my family is originally from Ghana.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘It must be very different for you here in the English countryside. How long have you been in Britain? You sound almost more English than I do.’ Lucy gave another shrill titter.

  ‘I was born in London,’ Abena repeated, ‘but my family are based in Kent. I went to school in Sussex and then on to Oxford, where I would often venture out with friends into the Oxfordshire countryside.’ Abena didn’t mention that those breaks had usually consisted of alcohol-fuelled rampages through the woods, organized by the cross-dressing party boys of the weird and wonderful Piers Gaveston Society – an Oxford institution. ‘So I suppose I am fairly used to the English countryside.’

  Happily, Abena didn’t have to carry on the conversation, for all of a sudden the chattering that had filled the marquee stopped, and the charity auction was announced. With lots including a luxury trip to India accompanied by Richard Gere, and a Bentley Continental GTC, the marquee soon raised an incredible £4 million. But it was the final item that really got everyone excited: the chance to have a medley of award-winning singers record a personalized CD in the winner’s honour. The bidding was furious. When the bid reached £500,000 Abena thought that must be the limit, so she was shocked to see a mumsy red-head on the adjacent table throw off her jacket and shout across the room to the previous bidder, ‘That all you got? I’ll raise you £100,000!’ The crowd whooped, cheering on the charitable largesse. The auctioneer was in his element.

  ‘You gonna top that then or what?’ he shouted to the other bidder, a fat man in his forties. ‘You gonna let a woman trample all over you?’

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  ‘£650,000,’ retorted the fat man.

  ‘Ooooh, someone’s got a small penis!’ mocked the auctioneer. ‘Come on lady, please. Someone needs to put this show-off in his place!’

  ‘That someone is me,’ she screamed. She took to her feet in excitement and shook down her curls from their uptight bun. ‘One million pounds!’

  All eyes swivelled round to see if her competition could top that. He waved the auctioneer away in good humour and shook his head to signify defeat. Victory was the red-head’s and the crowd put their hands together and clapped her on.

  Sir Elton even took to the stage and serenaded her.

  By now, even po-faced Lucy had relaxed. She beckoned Sebastian to follow her on to the dance floor and began a strange variant of the tango, cackling as she led her son across the floor. Simeon had sloped off with his girlfriend and Alex appeared to have been kidnapped by two sweet gay guys who clearly fancied him rotten. Annoyed with Sebastian for deserting her, Abena gathered up her clutch and went for a wander through the grounds.

  Having done a fifteen-minute circuit, Abena was just about to sit back down at her still deserted table when she caught sight of someone who looked vaguely familiar. She realized with a jolt that it was Benedict Lima, the bearded man on the boat in St Tropez, now with a very seductive-looking woman on his arm.

  ‘Ben!’ she called, grateful for somebody to talk to even if they hadn’t exactly hit it off when they’d met. She hurried across the marquee’s shiny floor in her precariously high heels, conscious that she was tottering in the way that always really annoyed her in other girls. ‘We meet again!’

  ‘Abena!’ Ben started in surprise, catching her about the waist as she tripped and fell slightly.

  ‘These shoes are a bloody nightmare!’ Abena cursed.

  ‘Well, at least you look good.’ Ben smiled, disparagingly.

  Abena checked out his date – a doe-eyed, wavy-haired Indian girl with that enviable combination of a slender body and naturally large, shapely breasts. How on earth did he pull her, and what was he doing here in the fi
rst place?

  As if reading her mind, Ben announced, ‘My friend Hasna is an actress – we met when I was working on a film she was in and she invited me along.’

  ‘Oh right. I’m here with my boyfriend, Sebastian Spectre,’ Abena said proudly, turning to point him out. They both looked in the direction of her table, where Sebastian and Alex were playing some sort of drinking game with two very excitable raven-haired actresses. Sebastian had taken off his waistcoat and one shoe and was shooting Alex amused looks.

  Sensing her embarrassment, Ben drew Abena and Hasna off to the dance floor. Filling glasses for all three of them, he started to dance with both girls, until Abena had cheered up slightly.

  Abena watched Ben dancing. He had rhythm and danced in an easy, unselfconscious manner, but as he noticed her watching him he camped it up, wiggling obscenely to make her laugh.

  ‘We love to dance in Brazil,’ he smiled.

  ‘Oh, is that where you’re from?’

  ‘My family is, yes, but I’ve been living in LA until pretty recently. I—’

  ‘Angel, where have you been?’ Sebastian charged over and grabbed Abena around the waist, kissing her and singing love songs into her ear, loudly, off key and completely at odds with the music that was playing. He tried to slip a hand down her top but Abena hit his hand away playfully, ecstatic to have him back. She was oblivious to the look on Ben’s face as he watched them, and to the flirtatious glances Sebastian was giving Hasna over her shoulder. All Abena was aware of was Sebastian’s magnetic presence, and how dull she felt when, seconds later, he was off again.

  ‘Well, it worked for a while at least,’ Ben muttered.

  ‘What worked?’ Abena asked, surprised.

  ‘You made your boyfriend jealous … Nice to know I’m good for something, huh?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! I don’t need to make my boyfriend jealous. And what business is it of yours anyway?’

  ‘None. But I know girls like you, tripping about in your heels, expecting everyone to fall for you – twisting men round your fingers.’

  ‘What do you mean, girls like me?’

  ‘Well, you know … gorgeous, but … you know, just flirt their way through life, not a care in the world.’

  Abena shivered as the evening began to cool, annoyed but also slightly flattered.

  Watching her, Ben removed his dress coat and went to drape it around her shoulders when, suddenly, the marquee fell silent. Abena looked up to see an ocean of awestruck women with their mouths hanging open and turned to find out what was causing such a stir. She caught her breath as she watched Sebastian stride coolly through the parted crowds, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein underpants and a single Turnbull & Asser sock. Beating Ben to it, he enveloped her in a bear hug and kissed her ravenously.

  ‘I’ll keep you warm, darling,’ he whispered, wrapping his toned arms around her, a brazen, nearly naked figure in a marquee of men and women dressed in their most formal attire.

  She should have been mortified, but in his arms she felt deliriously happy.

  ****

  Gregory’s bitches were out of control. His wife had grown even fatter and lumpier in her pregnancy, and today he’d received a postcard from the strangely addictive young slut he’d been juggling for the past five years. The picture on the front had shown the port of St Tropez, and the message on the back had been short and clear.

  Gregory,

  Things between you and me are no longer working. I can’t be your mistress any more. I have met somebody else, so please do not try to contact me again. Your wife should find an honest man who likes women, not schoolgirls. You should seek help.

  Natalya

  ‘Natalyaaaaaaa. Natalyaaaaaaa.’ Gregory howled her name through his sobs. Who else would indulge him like she did? He’d booked himself into a hotel, telling his wife he was off on a work trip. He didn’t give a shit that she deserved his support; whoever said women glow with pregnancy was a lying toad. He just needed to be alone. Curling his weedy body up into a ball, he rocked back and forth on the bed. He had been to the little tramp’s apartment but she didn’t seem to be back from France. Well, he could wait. He was going to find her. And when he found her he was going to ruin her. He was going to make her scream louder than she’d ever screamed for him in bed. No designer would dream of paying her to model again, and no man would want to fuck her after he was through with her face.

  Chapter 14

  Tara climbed into the driver’s seat of Harry’s Jaguar XKR, snorted the last of her charlie off the top of the dashboard and sped off down the M40 towards Gloucestershire and her ancestral home. She thought back to how she and Harry had fallen into this clandestine kinkfest in the first place.

  It had started with an email. ‘We’ve got a problem here, Tara, can you come into my office.’

  Uh oh, she’d thought. She knew she’d been rude on reception. She’d had a terrible day, was fed up with being a receptionist and so, when someone with a nasal, whining voice had called up and said ‘I wonder if you can help me?’, Tara had drawled ‘Sweetheart, there’s no helping you.’ It had turned out to be Harry’s biggest client.

  The client must have complained, and now awful Harry wanted to see her. Crap. She crept to Harry’s office door and he beckoned her in.

  ‘The bad news is, Tara, you’re fired. The good news is we’re now no longer breaking company policy if I do this …’

  He pressed a button on the remote control he was holding and the projector screen in the middle of the room rose to reveal a desk piled high with a selection of sushi, strawberries and cream, and chilled champagne, some of it already poured into two glasses.

  He dialled his PA’s extension. ‘There’s a problem to be dealt with here, Karen. I’m not to be disturbed for the next hour.’

  He walked over to the door and locked it. Then, turning to face Tara, he quietly and calmly said, ‘Remove your dress.’

  When she stood there open-mouthed, he raised his voice an octave. ‘Do it.’

  Something compelled her to comply. Perhaps it was the sheer crazy unexpectedness of his request. She had no time to take in the situation, let alone consider it rationally, so in unthinking, auto-pilot mode she did as she was told.

  ‘And the rest,’ he whispered. Then Harry lifted her up on to the desk, dipped his forefinger in a glass of champagne and slid it into her mouth. He moaned softly as her lips closed around his finger. Afterwards he reached for a piece of sushi and fed it to her. One by one he fed her every piece of sushi on the plate until she’d consumed the lot.

  Despite the bulge in his trousers Harry had still not touched her anywhere other than on her mouth. As he moved on to the strawberries, Tara suddenly came to her senses. What in God’s name was she doing sitting naked on her boss’s desk? But it was too late to turn back. No matter, she would just have to assert herself instead. With the back of her hand she smacked the platter of cream across the room, where it splattered all over the wooden floor. She stared defiantly at Harry, who ran his eyes all over her body, boring into her in a way that made her shiver and thrill.

  ‘A Care in the Community type spent all day scrubbing that floor,’ he said, his moist lips forming a twisted smile. ‘Get on your hands and knees and lick it off.’

  And so there she was, butt naked and spread-eagled at his feet, licking cream from the floor and desperate for him to reach out a sweaty palm and touch her. But he never did.

  ‘Get up,’ he smirked. ‘Put your dress on and go. I’ll be at your house at 8 p.m. tomorrow to take you for dinner.’

  Still speechless, she had done as he’d told her and for the next twenty-four hours had been unable to think of anything but him. He was a smug, repulsive dwarf in his Sad Friday Outfit, and yet he’d managed to manipulate her like that, to get her tingling and wet between her legs, excited to be sitting there naked in front of him, gagging for him to touch her.

  After their dinner, the orgasm he’d given her had been her most intens
e ever. But afterwards she had wanted to barf. She knew she could never love him, never date him, never even enjoy his company. Alex was the sort of man she needed to be with.

  It was time to end this dalliance with Harry – she needed more from a man than just a freaky orgasm. It was no big deal. She would return his car. When he called her she’d be busy then forget to call him back. This would anger him at first and he’d pursue her more, spurred on by her lack of interest. Soon afterwards the calls would slow down. He’d get bored, give up, meet somebody else. Someone on his level. She had no particular desire to hurt him; the fling would simply fizzle out by itself, with no need for a dramatic or emotional break-up. In the meantime, his car was proving useful.

  She glanced at her watch and groaned. Poor Connie hated it when she was late for Sunday lunch. Her faithful old nanny and now housekeeper had worked for the Wittstanleys for as long as Tara could remember and was virtually family. She and the gardener were the only permanent staff the Wittstanleys retained. Both of them septuagenarians, they stayed out of loyalty and were paid virtually nothing, though they did enjoy free lodgings. Tara stepped on the accelerator. Ignoring angry hoots behind her as she swerved, struggling to control the powerful Jaguar, she turned the radio on loud to wake herself up. She had called Tina earlier to warn her that she would be late but her mother’s mobile had been off. When she phoned home instead, her father had snapped that Tina hadn’t yet returned from dinner at her sister’s last night, claiming to be too drunk to drive – which seemed odd to Tara because Tina had, at Papa’s request, cut off most of her family after her marriage and hadn’t seen her sister for years.