The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘Want a ride?’ he asked, the sun glinting on his blue-mirrored glasses.

  I couldn’t see his eyes but I knew they were black, black as the night that comes so quickly in our village.

  My mother had brought me up to never accept anything from strange men, but this was no stranger. This was ‘Gaucho’ – a man admired and worshipped by all young girls and women in Argentina, his face on the front of every carton of sugar.

  ‘Where to?’ I asked, wondering if I sounded too eager.

  ‘We’ll go see the countryside,’ he laughed, and I had never seen such brilliant white teeth before. He was wearing a red polo shirt that matched the colour of his car, which featured a black horse inside a yellow shield on the bonnet.

  He asked me my name and what I did for a living, and I told him.

  ‘That’s not good enough for a beautiful girl like you,’ he laughed. I blushed. ‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked.

  I blushed even more fiercely and hung my head. My mother would kill me if she knew I was talking so freely to a man. But he wasn’t just a man – he was ‘Gaucho’ – he was almost a God!

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘I’m only sixteen.’

  ‘Good, that’s very good,’ he said. He had a kind smile.

  We drove around to his family’s sugar-cane plantation and he spoke most amusingly of places I had only heard of – Paris, Vienna, Capri. He seemed to have travelled the globe many times; his stories were captivating but they also made me laugh a lot.

  I became worried that it was getting late and I asked him to please take me back to the village.

  ‘Only if you promise you will go out with me tomorrow,’ he replied.

  I was stunned. ‘Gaucho’ asking me, Carlotta Perez, a poor girl who worked in one of his factories, to go out with him? What else could I say but yes?

  I told my mother I was going to go visit my cousins in the next village, and Nicanor arranged to pick me up in a quiet grove near the windmill.

  He was in a different car this time. The windows were made of black smoked glass and it looked quite old.

  ‘It’s a classic Bentley. I collect vintage cars,’ he informed me as I clambered in. He didn’t offer to help me. My mother had told me to expect men to help me, but I was young and agile and, after all, he was ‘Gaucho’ and everyone did things for him.

  We drove for miles until we came to an enormous pink villa perched on a hill with a beautiful view of the sea.

  ‘Where is this?’ I whispered. I tried not to be afraid even though it was getting dark, but it seemed he sensed my fear and put a hand on my knee.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, amor. This is our summer house – come.’

  When I stepped inside the gorgeous villa I couldn’t stop staring at the magnificence of it, at the many oil portraits of men in old-fashioned clothes who all looked very much like Nicanor and the dim lighting from golden sconces that illuminated them.

  ‘Those are my ancestors,’ he said, then ushered me into a room which had bookshelves covered in books. A deep, comfortable, dark-green velvet sofa stood in front of the grand fireplace.

  ‘Sit,’ he commanded, ‘and I will get you a drink – prosecco and peach juice – okay? It’s called a Bellini. It’s a specialty from Harry’s Bar in Venice.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t . . . I’m not allowed to drink,’ I stumbled.

  ‘Nonsense, you’re sixteen. Of course you can drink – you must.’

  He filled two crystal glasses at a dark wooden bar and brought them over.

  I sat beside him and I gazed into his deep black eyes, and although I was apprehensive I felt a wonderful feeling of excitement. ‘To us,’ he declared, raising his glass.

  I took a tentative sip from mine. It was delicious. The tart taste of the prosecco was offset by the sweetness of the peach juice.

  ‘I just need to make a couple of long-distance phone calls,’ he abruptly announced. ‘Amuse yourself with this, mi amor – I’ll be back shortly’.

  He handed me an enormous illustrated book bound in deep burgundy leather. I opened it and almost choked.

  It was full of the most explicit images of men torturing women – of a woman being ravaged by a massive dog and of men doing things to each other which I could not understand, much less imagine.

  And that was the last thing I remembered.

  I regained consciousness to the morning sounds of birds waking up. It was dawn. A TV flickered black and white shadows in a corner and an early newscaster was droning on.

  I was sprawled on the sofa. There were bloodstains on the green velvet and a broken champagne glass on the floor. My stomach felt like lead and there was a throbbing ache between my legs. I picked up my underwear, skirt and blouse and quickly pulled them on. I started hyperventilating. Where was Nicanor and why had he done this to me? Was he lurking somewhere upstairs in his darkened house, perhaps waiting to pounce on me again? I wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  My head throbbed, and when I touched it I could feel a bump the size of an egg. The painful memories suddenly rushed back. I had a flash of the images in the big burgundy book. Before I even finished it, I’d passed out. And then . . . and then? Had he done those things to me? I wasn’t about to wait to find that out either. Oh God, he’d drugged me and . . . raped me? Why? Why would the great ‘Gaucho’ do this to me – an innocent sixteen-year-old? I never wanted to see him again.

  Carlotta had to get out. She dressed hastily and crept out of the library, but when she tried to open the enormous, copper-studded mahogany front door, she found it firmly locked. The villa was vast, with many windows that looked out at the verdant landscaped gardens, but as she dashed through the empty rooms draped with tapestries and paintings of Nicanor’s frowning ancestors, she found these windowed sentinels firmly locked.

  She found her way downstairs into the bowels of the house, hoping against hope that there would be an open door or window or perhaps a kind-hearted staff member who would let her escape. As she opened the basement door to a shining kitchen outfitted with the latest technology, Carlotta heard a low growl emanating from beside an incongruously old-fashioned Aga.

  Suddenly two giant Dobermans jumped up from their cushions and raced towards her, barking furiously, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, saliva dripping from their dark jowls. Carlotta screamed and, slamming the door on the beasts’ angry faces, slumped to the floor and started to weep uncontrollably.

  Suddenly I felt him beside me.

  He was naked and he was – oh! I couldn’t bear to think what he’d done with that thing. Even though he was wearing a dressing gown, that huge thing stuck out from between his legs. It had hurt me so much and I couldn’t bear to be near to him.

  ‘Where are you going, you pretty little girl?’ he whispered, holding on to my shoulders tightly. ‘Come back to bed, mi amor.’

  I struggled to free myself, but he was so tall and so strong that I couldn’t. I burst into tears of anger.

  ‘How could you – how could you have done this to me? Why?’ I wailed.

  ‘I want you for my wife,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve been watching you for weeks. Come, my darling girl, let us talk.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He made me sit down in the vast kitchen, shooing the now silent dogs into the corridor.

  ‘Breakfast – you need food.’

  Suddenly he had become so kind and caring – I didn’t know what to think. I was terribly confused. My head was throbbing, as was the pain between my legs. I watched him fry eggs and chorizo. And then he explained.

  ‘I need to take a wife, Carlotta, before I turn thirty, and I wanted my wife to be young and a virgin. I could not take your word for it, so I had to find out the only way I knew.’

  I was stunned, ‘So you raped me? This was how you wanted to find out if . . . if . . .?’

  ‘No, no – it wasn’t rape. It was . . . well, you didn’t refuse me.’

  In my muddled mind I thought maybe he was right,
and he was being so sweet – so nice and so kind now.

  ‘I couldn’t wait for our wedding night to find out, Carlotta, do you understand? So now I can propose to you.’

  I nodded, even though I found this all more than strange. Gaucho was proposing to me? Of all the women I had seen him with in the celebrity magazines – actresses, princesses, heiresses – he wanted me? It didn’t make any sense.

  Then he did the strangest thing of all – he got down on one knee and, taking my hand, he asked, ‘Will you marry me, Carlotta? Will you become my loyal, my obedient wife?’

  I was no longer a virgin. This man had raped me, but I was also a very poor girl who had little prospect of any good fortune in the future – I would be doomed to a life of poverty like my parents. He was ‘Gaucho’, the handsomest, richest man in San Miguel – maybe all of Argentina.

  Nicanor held her tight, murmuring into her ear, whispering how he loved her and wanted to make her happy. Carlotta closed her eyes. Then he gently picked her up and, mounting the marbled staircase, took her back to her bedroom.

  ‘My darling, mi amor, don’t cry, please,’ she heard Nicanor’s voice, considerate and charming, and looked up at his handsome figure in the paisley silk dressing gown. He cradled the sobbing girl in his muscular arms as she wept on his shoulder. ‘There, there. Please don’t cry, my little pet, my little darling butterfly.’

  ‘Butterfly? Why do you call me that?’ Carlotta said as she brushed the tears from her cheeks and attempted to struggle free from Nicanor’s strong embrace, which tightened as he held on to her, rocking her lovingly, his warm breath on her neck.

  ‘Because you are frail and delicate as a butterfly, and because you try to fly away from me,’ he answered as he held her tighter. ‘But butterflies can be caught with the right net, isn’t that so, my darling?’

  Carlotta nodded. Nicanor’s voice was soothing and the scent of his skin calmed her in spite of her fear. As he continued talking to her in a soft, soothing voice, she felt herself melting and he, aware of her imminent surrender, bent his head to her parted lips. As he kissed her delicately but with passion, she felt herself succumbing.

  ‘I want you,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I am sorry about what happened before, my darling. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I adore you. Something came over me. I desired you so much – too much, my love. And I want you to want me too. Please, my love, please give me another chance.’

  Nicanor set her gently down on to the silken bed. His lips travelled to her breasts, which he freed from her simple blouse. Carlotta started to respond. His lips were so soft and warm as he licked and sucked her nipples. She had never felt anything like this before. Then his hand crept down between her legs. She couldn’t believe she could feel this much pleasure.

  Having caused her the most agonising pain just a few hours ago, he was now giving her the most exquisite sensual delight she had ever experienced. He didn’t try to enter her, his fingers had found her pleasure point and within minutes Carlotta experienced her first orgasm. It was so intense that she screamed with the joy and the pain and her tears started to flow again.

  After he had finished with her he had immediately fallen into another deep sleep punctuated by snuffling snores. Making sure he was fast asleep, Carlotta crept out of bed and felt her way to the bathroom. She closed the door softly, marvelling at the huge mirrored and pale marble bathroom en suite to Nicanor’s bedroom, and drew a bath.

  She luxuriated in the vast bathtub with the gold-plated taps and buttons and switches that turned on all manner of jet streams and showers; they would pamper every part, and help to heal her aching body. She sampled the delicately scented soaps, oils and lotions that surrounded the marble-topped bath. They were delicious, and as Carlotta lay back in the foamy warm water, the thought crossed her mind that maybe she could become accustomed to this sybaritic lifestyle.

  Marry him? Of course she would.

  Carlotta didn’t dare tell her mother what had happened with Nicanor. She went through the next few days in a daze, constantly reliving the night of pain and passion with Nicanor in an alternating haze of disgust and anticipation. But as the days passed, the anticipation turned into disappointment, as she heard no word from Nicanor.

  After a week in which disappointment turned into doubt and then to despair, Carlotta took a ride on her bicycle to the outskirts of the village where the Di Ponti villa stood, in all its baroque majesty. Shielded from the road by the tall pine trees, thick foliage and luxurious flowering shrubs, all that was visible were the tall golden spires on the rooftop.

  Carlotta sat beneath a gardenia bush and took a queso fresco and tomato sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper from her rucksack. She was wearing faded red espadrilles and a secondhand pink and white striped halterneck sundress that she had bought for ten pesos at the local market.

  The sun dappled her lightly tanned shoulders as she leaned against a pine tree, watching a yellow butterfly dart amongst the foliage, and considered her options. She wanted to see Nicanor again. She yearned for him. Against all her better judgement, she had wrestled with her conscience for hours each night as she lay in bed thinking about that extraordinary night.

  Yes, Nicanor had taken her by force. Yes, he had hurt her, but after subtly questioning her best girlfriend Livia after school one day about sex, Livia had confided, ‘Losing my virginity hurt like hell, Carlotta, but after that it was heavenly.’

  Carlotta ruminated as she gazed up at the blue summer sky and the scudding clouds. The memory of the feelings she had finally experienced with Nicanor had become her most prevailing thought. She had known little real affection in her life. Her father had left her mother shortly after Carlotta was born and her mother blamed the new baby for his disappearance. Consequently she gave little heed to Carlotta when the baby cried or when, as a toddler, she hung on to her mother’s skirts, hoping for a crumb of affection but receiving nothing. Her grandmother was more affectionate and loving, but the old lady suffered from painful arthritis and her withered old limbs didn’t make cuddling Carlotta comfortable.

  As she lay in bed at night, her hands strayed to that place whence Nicanor had extracted such deep pleasure, and she found herself climaxing gently to images of his mouth on her body and his lips on hers. She knew these were wicked thoughts and actions and she tried to banish them, but it was difficult when every magazine she scanned there he strutted, the ‘Gaucho’, with his handsome, insouciant gaze, his tight trousers outlining his manhood, one hand on his hip, the other holding the harness of a fierce black stallion.

  On the outskirts of the village, Carlotta had passed another giant coloured poster of him proclaiming the values of Di Ponti sugar while astride a horse. He looked supremely confident, supremely male, and Carlotta realised she was supremely smitten.

  Suddenly there was an excruciating roar and a posse of leather-clad young men on motorcycles zoomed past her, the noise of their exhausts so loud that she had to put her fingers in her ears. After they had ridden into the distance in a haze of fumes, one of the cycles stopped, turned, and came back to where Carlotta sat. As the rider stepped down and removed his helmet, Carlotta’s heart leaped.

  ‘My butterfly, I’m so happy to see you here!’ Nicanor smiled broadly. Bending to hug her, he took a huge bite of her sandwich and sat down beside her.

  ‘Oh, what are you doing here?’ she stammered. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about me.’

  ‘Forget you? My gorgeous butterfly – never. You have been in my thoughts the whole time. I’ve been on a trip,’ he laughed, then took another bite of her sandwich as Carlotta gazed at him open mouthed.

  My God, but he was even more handsome than ever in his black leather jacket and trousers. His raven hair clung to his head in tight curls that accentuated the darkness of his eyes.

  ‘Miss me?’ he grinned, his mouth full of Carlotta’s lunch.

  ‘Ah, ye-es . . . yes, I did but, why . . . why didn’t you call me or send a message . . .?’

>   ‘My darling – I thought of you when we were on the road with my gang and I couldn’t . . . well, you know what it’s like when you’re in a group. We went all the way to Punta del Este,’ he laughed. ‘God, we had fun!’

  Carlotta took a sip from her water bottle and kept silent. She didn’t know what to say and remembered the advice of her ancient grandma: If you don’t know what to say – say nothing.

  Misinterpreting her silence for reproach, Nicanor looked repentant. ‘I’m sorry, my love, truly sorry. I’m a rat, I know, but it hasn’t been that long, has it?’

  ‘Ten days,’ said Carlotta weakly.

  ‘Then let’s start making up for them right now,’ he declared and, taking her hand, led her deeper into the dense foliage until they came to a grassy clearing surrounded by flowering bushes and smelling of hibiscus. He laid her softly on the grassy mound and looked into her beautiful innocent brown eyes. ‘How lovely you are,’ he breathed as he brushed her parted lips with his.

  Undoing the halterneck tie, his hands pushed the straps of her sundress to her waist and his lips eagerly found her soft mounds. It was useless to resist, and besides, Carlotta loved the feel of his mouth on her breasts, the touch of his hand on her loins, which felt heavy with desire. In seconds she came, her cries mixing with those of the Andean gulls that circled above them.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ he whispered, entering her while she still quivered with ecstasy. ‘Hush, my little butterfly. We have our whole lives ahead of us to make love.’

  They married four months later, on Carlotta’s seventeenth birthday, in a lavish ceremony in Buenos Aires at the Metropolitan Cathedral. Society, royalty and A-list celebrities ensured that the wedding received maximum coverage in People, Vanity Fair and Hello! magazine. Carlotta was a ravishing bride in a pure white Alençon lace wedding dress by Valentino.