We’ve just finished our starters, enormous globe artichokes with a garlicky, creamy aioli in which to dip the succulent leaves, and are eagerly anticipating our main courses: salade Nicoise for Pops, moules frites for me. Waiters in smart nautical uniforms weave between packed tables; the atmosphere is jolly, boisterous. Much to our delight, Bono and his entourage arrived by yacht an hour or so ago, approaching the restaurant from the wooden gangplank on the beach.
I hail a passing waiter. ‘Monsieur, s’il vous plait?’
‘Oui, mademoiselle?’ He smiles benignly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
‘Encore une bouteille?’ I say in my best schoolgirl French.
‘Oui oui, bien sur.’ He winks at me as he takes away the empty bottle and bucket full of melting ice.
‘I think you’ve scored,’ giggles Poppy.
‘Oh cheers. This place is wall-to-wall millionaires and you matchmake me with a middle-aged waiter?’
‘To be fair, most of the millionaires are middle-aged too,’ Poppy points out. ‘And the waiter would probably treat you better.’
‘True,’ I laugh. ‘Okay, I don’t really need a millionaire. But somebody fit, reasonably intelligent, and not toooo much older than me? Say – five years, tops? Is that too much to ask?’
‘Don’t you worry, Belles. We’ll find you a holiday romance if it kills us.’ Poppy takes a large swig of her wine and looks around. ‘There has to be some talent here.’
Poppy’s not on the prowl for herself as she has a new boyfriend, Damian, who writes for the men’s magazine Stadium. You might know it? It’s the one that likes to think it’s culturally superior, but still, essentially, peddles tits and arse – even if they are slightly more artistically shot tits and arses than those in other men’s mags. I haven’t actually been introduced to Damian yet – Poppy met him at a Full Moon Party on Koh Phangan – but he’s joining us here tomorrow.
‘I’m dying to meet Damian,’ I say. ‘He has to be pretty special to have kept you interested all these months.’
‘Yeah.’ Poppy goes all dreamy for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know what it is about him – we just really seem to get each other. ‘
‘And I guess all the backstage VIP passes and guest lists help too?’ I laugh. Damian’s wooing of Poppy seems to have involved a hell of a lot of VIP clubbing and hanging out with bands backstage at gigs. Poppy loves all that kind of stuff, has always been a bit of a good time party girl, despite her fierce intelligence and high-powered job.
‘I guess they do.’ Poppy laughs too, then stops at the vision that glides past our table. ‘Jesus Christ, will you look at that!’
‘Bloody hell, it’s the Girl from Ipanema,’ I say (referring to the Getz and Gilberto sixties bossa nova hit).
More heads have swivelled at the girl’s arrival than they did for Bono, for fuck’s sake. Around 5’10, she’s just a tad under-dressed in a tiny white thong bikini which shows off long, slender limbs, washboard stomach and an arse that looks as if it’s bounced straight off Copacabana beach. Her deeply tanned skin gleams with oil, and lustrous streaky brown hair tumbles down her bare back. She laughs, revealing perfect white teeth, as the restaurant’s dapper owner rushes forward, kissing her thrice on both cheeks (upper, not lower).
‘Mon dieu,’ gasps the crinkly-eyed waiter who has returned with our main courses, unable to tear his gaze away. He puts our plates down in front of us and distractedly removes the silver dome covering my mussels. I inhale the aromatic vapour with pleasure, but kind of wish I’d foregone the chips now – though they do look inviting: crisp, skinny and golden as the sun. Oh well, sod it, I’m on holiday, I think, as I pop one into my mouth. I’d never be able to compete with the Girl from Ipanema anyway.
A couple of hours later, we’ve polished off our main courses, two more bottles of rosé and (rather disgustingly) cream cake for pudding. It seems unlikely, but Tarte Tropezienne, one of the local specialities, is literally that – brioche sandwiched together with sweetened whipped cream. It is utterly delicious, but one cannot imagine many of the babes on this beach consuming large (or, indeed, any) quantities of it.
We’re just trying to decide whether brandies would be excessive when a tall, lean man in a slim-fitting floral shirt approaches us.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselles,’ he smiles.
Poppy kicks me under the table. This man is seriously hot.
‘Bonjour,’ we chorus, trying not to simper.
‘Ah – you are Eeenglish.’ It’s a statement, not a question – our accents are clearly crap. ‘May I?’
He pulls up a chair from the next table and sits down with us. He has a narrow, high cheek-boned face with an elegant long nose and slightly too-close-together greeny-grey eyes – which still manage, by virtue of their thick black lashes, to be disconcertingly sexy. His longish dark hair is curly, his blood red lips full.
‘You ’ave ’ad the good lunch?’ He gestures around at our empty bottles and plates, laughing.
‘Oh yes, it’s all sooo delicious!’ grins Poppy, who is tiny enough never to feel embarrassed about eating and drinking like a pig. ‘Hi! I’m Poppy, and this is Bella.’
‘Enchanté.’ He smiles and kisses our hands in turn. ‘Je m’appelle Mathieu.’
‘Bonjour, Mathieu!’ This is fab, I think: the sun, the booze, the exquisite surroundings and now the attention of a handsome Frenchman all going to my head in one glorious whoosh.
‘We are wondering –’ Mathieu addresses this to Poppy – ‘if you would like to join us for champagne on our yacht?’
Poppy and I look at each other, grinning broadly. Would we like to?
‘Um yeah, thanks, that would be great! Oui! Merci!’ I add with unseemly haste.
‘Fantastique,’ Mathieu smiles into my eyes and I feel myself melting. ‘Pascal!’ he yells over his shoulder. ‘Les jeunes filles ont dit que oui!’
The man who approaches our table with a charming smile is undeniably handsome. But also, undeniably…
‘Poppy, Bella – let me introduce you to my father.’
We’re not the only girls to have been invited aboard the glossy white yacht. Scarily glamorous model-types parade around the deck in tiny designer bikinis, sipping from glasses of vintage champagne. Some are sunbathing topless, some flirting with a handful of middle-aged men with expensive tans.
Poppy and I are sitting in the stern with father and son, and Pops has most definitely picked the long straw. Yup, she’s being chatted up by dreamy Mathieu, while I’ve landed the silver fox.
He’s really very charming, I tell myself as Pascal tops up my glass for the third time in ten minutes. And it’s important not to be ageist. The sun beats hot on my head as I regard my smiling host. His cornflower blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt matches his slightly dissipated eyes; his stone-coloured shorts enhance his silver hair. He is trim, very brown and has accessorized with a Rolex, a chunky platinum necklace and navy blue deck shoes.
‘This yacht is amazing,’ I tell him, waving drunken arms around at the gleaming bodywork, navy-and-white-striped linen cushions and enormous polished wood bar.
He shrugs in a wonderfully Gallic fashion. ‘Pouf! C’est vraiment petit.’
I laugh. While not as vast as several of the hideous gin palaces moored in the glittering turquoise bay, this yacht is certainly not what you’d call ‘petit’. Pascal laughs too.
‘You are beautifool when you laugh. Très belle. Like your name! Belllllaaa…’ He draws it out and puts a liver-spotted hand on my knee. Trying not to notice how wrinkled it looks against my own skin, I gulp back my Dom Perignon in one.
‘Ahhh, the Eeengleesh girls, they like to drink, non?’ He laughs again, opening another bottle.
No shit Sherlock, I think (not ungratefully). Pascal continues, ‘I am thinking they like all the pleasures in life…’ He winks. ‘Non?’
I give a somewhat desperate smile. What the fuck do I think I’m doing? I mean, it’s fun getting pissed in the sunshine with a mil
lionaire (billionaire?) on his yacht. I’m not averse to a bit of mild flirtation. But it’s not like I’m going to shag the bloke, and I don’t want to lead him on – he’s a nice enough chap, and I’m sure plenty of the girls on board would jump at the chance, given the poisonous looks they keep shooting in my direction.
I look over at Poppy, who’s in deep conversation with Mathieu. Lucky old her: I certainly wouldn’t mind shagging him. Catching my eye, she says something, and he nods. She jumps to her dainty little feet.
‘I need to go to the loo. You coming, Belles?’
‘Uh – yeah.’ I turn to Pascal and smile again. ‘Excuse me for five minutes?’
‘How are you getting on?’ Poppy asks, once we’re safely ensconced in the opulent marble bathroom.
I pull a face. ‘Dunno. I mean this is all fun stuff, but he’s starting to get a leeettle bit too frisky for my liking.’
Poppy laughs. ‘I guessed as much. Look, why don’t we swap? You can have a shot at Mat, and I’m a world expert at fending off dirty old men without offending them…’
I grin. ‘Pops! You sure?’
‘Course I’m sure. I’m off the market, and you could do with a bit of fun. Now hurry up out there before one of those other bitches snaps him up!’
I love my best friend, I really do.
An hour and another bottle of Dom Perignon later, Mathieu persuades me to remove my bikini top.
‘Vois, c’est normal, ici.’ He nods towards the glossy babes on the bows, who are looking more pissed off by the second. Giggling slightly and thinking ‘sod it, when in Rome…’ I take another gulp of champagne and untie the pink strings.
Mathieu nods approvingly. ‘C’est bon.’
As he doesn’t seem to be paying my boobs the slightest bit of attention, I relax and turn my face up to the sun. It must be around six by now, but it’s still swelteringly hot.
Father and son didn’t seem to mind (notice?) when Poppy and I swapped places on our return from the loo, and Pops is keeping Pascal well entertained, judging from the guffaws of laughter and peals of giggles emanating from that corner of the stern. We have established that Pascal, who grew up in the slums of Marseille, made a fortune in ‘lingerie pour le sexe’ (crotchless knickers?) and now likes to divide his time between Paris in the spring and autumn, St Tropez in summer and St Barts in winter. Well you would, wouldn’t you?
Determined to give his only son all the privileges he never had, he sent Mathieu to Le Rosey in Switzerland, La Sorbonne and Harvard. And how has Mat repaid him? By becoming – well, what, exactly? An international playboy? He’s adept at evading questions about himself.
Whatever it is his son does, Pascal doesn’t seem to mind much, as he occasionally lifts his glass to us, toasting life, summer, women and – always, most importantly – family.
‘So tell me about your mother,’ I say to Mat.
‘Ah, maman.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘She is a great beauty. But she doesn’t understand the appetites of men like Pascal and myself.’
This strikes me as rather an odd way to describe the family dynamic, but I am so mesmerised by the way Mat’s full red lips move as he speaks, the way his long black lashes brush his tanned cheekbones when he blinks, that I just nod sagely.
‘Does she live with you?’
‘Sometimes. It is important for my parents to be seen together pour les fonctions, you see?’
I nod sagely again, as though gala dinners and charity balls loom large on my social calendar.
‘Now she is – je pense – at our villa in Capri, with Jean-Marie.’
‘Jean-Marie?’
‘One of ‘er lovers.’
Mat laughs at the look of shock I fail to disguise. ‘Oh Bella, Bella, sweet naiveté,’ he says, gazing into my eyes. He takes my face in both his hands and kisses me, ever so gently, with those beautiful lips.
Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the sun, maybe I’m just a complete tart, but I find myself closing my eyes, winding my arms around his neck and kissing him back, forgetting I’m topless until my boobs brush his chest, by which time it’s too late.
I’ve no idea how long we sit there, just snogging and snogging and snogging, in a way I haven’t since I was teenager (and mightily enjoyable it is, too), but by the time we come up for breath it’s getting dark, and there’s nobody else to be seen.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I hope we haven’t frightened them all off.’
Mat laughs. ‘Non non. They will have gone to get dressed for dinner. For some of those putains, that takes a verrrry long time.’
I laugh too, though am slightly thrown by the way he just casually referred to his guests as whores.
‘What about your father? And where’s Poppy?’ I ask, starting to panic a bit now.
‘Do not worry. They will be inside the boat. Papa was giving us the privacy.’ Ah, bless the dear old man, I think. ‘Shall we find them?’
As Mat takes me by the hand and I start to follow him towards the cabin, a sudden gust whips my bikini top from the banquette and tosses it overboard. I watch with dismay as it floats away. Mathieu starts to giggle uncontrollably.
‘It’s not funny! I really liked that bikini!’
‘Do not worry, ma cherie, we can buy you plenty more bikinis.’ Still giggling, he kisses me on the lips and drags me inside the cabin, where Pascal is standing with his hands on his hips, his shorts around his ankles, a pretty impressive hard-on and a proud smile on his leathery face. It’s a perturbing sight, to say the least.
‘Um – I think I might have given you the wrong impression,’ Poppy’s saying. ‘I did tell you I’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘Do not be shy, bébé. My son and I, we share everything,’ says Pascal, winking and lunging at me. Mat has made his way over to Poppy and is starting to grope her slender body. We look at each other in mildly hysterical horror. How on earth are we going to get out of this bizarre, quasi-incestuous father/son porn scenario?
‘Um – we’re not really like that,’ I say, sounding terribly uptight English to my own ears.
‘Relax, bébé. You will enjoy yourselves,’ responds Pascal, kissing my neck. We don’t seem to be making ourselves clear.
The sound of light footfall reaches us from the stern.
‘Ah – c’est Carlota,’ says Mat, giving his father a creepy nod. ‘We share everything with her also.’
All eyes turn to the door, and there she is. Tall and tanned and young and lovely, wearing nothing but a smile.
The Girl from Ipanema.
*
The Place des Lices bustles colourfully in the late morning sun. St Trop’s famous open-air market sells everything from the juiciest, ripest tomatoes, peaches and nectarines, to fabulous Art Deco wind-up gramophones, to cheap-as-chips 100% polyester garments that possess a certain je ne sais quoi found lacking in their counterparts on Portobello Road (my stomping ground at home).
Poppy and I are nursing citron pressés, large espressos and death-defying hangovers at the first pavement café we stumbled on. Huge, bug-like shades (Poppy’s Prada, mine Primark) half cover our burnt faces.
‘Shit Belles, duck!’ squeals Poppy, nimbly jumping off her flimsy metal chair to crouch on the hot, dusty pavement. I try to follow suit but fall bang on my knees.
‘Who is it?’ I whisper from under the table.
‘Carrrrrlottttta,’ she giggles in a comedy Latin American accent. I stare at her for a couple of seconds, trying to figure out if she’s for real.
‘Oh fuck you, Pops, I’m way too fragile for this.’
‘Ooooh sorryyyyy… Just trying to lighten the mood a bit.’
‘Well, it hasn’t worked.’ Grumpily I get to my feet and sit down again. ‘Don’t know why you’re so bloody sprightly anyway.’
‘Mind over matter.’
‘Bollocks. You’re still pissed, aren’t you?’
‘It’s possible, I s’pose,’ Poppy laughs. ‘Or maybe I’m just excited about seeing Damian this evening.’
‘Of course,’ I smile. ‘Sorry lovey – I’d almost forgotten after yesterday’s shenanigans.’
After the Girl from Ipanema had turned up on the boat, the scene took on even more farcical proportions. Pascal actually tripped over the shorts around his ankles as he darted between the three of us. Poppy and I were lucky that he and Mat, despite their deeply peculiar relationship, were not in the habit of forcing themselves on people. They’d genuinely thought we’d be up for it. And who could blame them, really, after the way we (oh all right, I) had behaved up until then, living down to the worst stereotypes about English girls on holiday.
Once he realised that we really, truly weren’t into family group sex, Pascal rang a bell and told one of his crew to take us back to the harbour in the motor boat. As we sped across the dark water, Carlota’s husky gasps, Pascal’s throaty chuckles and Mat’s silky laugh rang out from the yacht. We couldn’t look at the crew member, who kept an impressively straight face throughout.
‘Um – I think it’s probably best if we don’t tell Damian about last night,’ Poppy says now, taking a sip of her citron pressé. ‘I mean, technically, I didn’t do anything wrong, but…’
‘I know. It makes us look like a couple of slappers, doesn’t it?’
‘Speak for yourself,’ she laughs.
I laugh too. ‘I guess I am, really. Though if I’m a slapper, God knows what that makes Carlota.’ I cheer up at the thought.
‘A hooker?’
‘Do hookers look like supermodels?’
‘High-class ones probably do.’
‘So she’s what – their very own, on-demand, high-class personal whore?’
‘How the other half live,’ says Poppy, and we both laugh again. ‘How are your tits, by the way?’ she adds.
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