The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (16 page)

Blanche always carried with her a bald, snappy, midget dog, and as she reached the top deck, heavily out of breath, she parked herself as close to the Mayor of Saint-Tropez as she could manage.

‘Oh, he’s so cute,’ cooed Chantelle, Monty Goldman’s wife, a blonde, Britney Spears lookalike, as she stroked the mutt’s liver-coloured head.

‘Careful!’ warned Blanche, ‘Pixie hates to be touched.’ But the warning came too late. With a low growl the dog clamped its tiny gnashers on to Chantelle’s acrylic neon nails and succeeded in biting one of them off, then chewed on it contentedly. Blanche berated the unfortunate Chantelle.

‘Never touch Pixie,’ she screamed furiously, straightening the pooch’s faux-diamond collar. ‘She hates being stroked by strangers, don’t you, sweetie?’

Chantelle was dumbstruck, her over-filled lips parted to suck on her bleeding finger, tears running down her cheeks. Blanche ignored her and quickly whisked herself off to the top deck in search of someone famous, one arm cradling Pixie, the other pulling a recalcitrant Henry behind her.

Watching in amusement, Gabrielle Poulpe followed her. The insane lives of the Eurotrash and American social climbers never failed to interest her. She smiled at Contessa Carlotta, who looked angelic in a short white Grecian gown, which showed off her lovely legs. Gabrielle’s brief questioning of Carlotta had given no clues as to Mina’s death, but she hadn’t really expected anything. Carlotta was new in town and she seemed sweetly innocent, not yet tarnished with the blasé attitude of the Saint-Tropez majority. As she walked around the packed throng, Gabrielle noticed many of the men eyeing Carlotta, but Fabrizio was bold enough to approach her.

Never one to let the grass grow beneath his size elevens, he had strolled over to the party early looking for fresh fields to furrow. Lara, still being tended by half the hairdressers and
visagistes
of Saint-Tropez, had told him she would meet him on the boat, so he knew he had a little time. And there she was, the newest object of his desire, standing at the bar alone.

‘You’re looking ravishing tonight, Contessa,’ he purred, his dancing eyes never leaving hers.

‘Thanks, you are sweet, but you told me that at the beach on Sunday.’ She tried to move away but there was too much of a crush at the bar, and in her bare feet she felt dwarfed by Fabrizio’s height.

‘Ah yes, but your beauty grows like . . . like . . .’ He searched for an appropriate metaphor.

‘Weeds?’ Carlotta smiled blithely.

‘No, no, no, Contessa. Your beauty grows like . . .’ He bent to whisper in her ear lasciviously. Carlotta flushed.

‘I think you’re rather crude!’ she said.

‘Sorry, sorry, it was a joke!’ Fabrizio realised he’d made a big mistake. Likening Carlotta’s beauty to the size of his cock was probably not the coolest attempt at a chat-up line, although it had sometimes worked for him on previous occasions. One thing Fabrizio did not have, in spite of his looks, charm, and prowess in bed, was a way with words. He watched as Carlotta walked over to another group, then he slouched over to the bar. Ah well, ‘
que sera, sera
’; there was always another time.

Maximus suddenly appeared by his side, having heard their dialogue. ‘If you don’t stop fucking around the Contessa and get your wedding date to Lara sorted, I’ll wash my hands of you,’ he hissed in Fabrizio’s ear. ‘And I’ll tell CRAP,’ he finished darkly.

‘Oh, shit, where are they?’ asked Fabrizio despairingly. ‘Why can’t those bitches leave me alone?’

‘They will when you come up with enough money for the two of them and your poor starving infants. Get married pronto; don’t wait a year. You’re not getting any younger. Make Lara a bride
now
! Then you can pay off CRAP – get rid of them for good.’

‘Fuck you, I’m only twenty-nine! Do I really need to marry a fifty-year-old drunk?’

‘Yes,’ Maximus said gravely. ‘You know she’s addicted to you.’

‘And to vodka and to dope as well,’ snapped Fabrizio. ‘I’m trying to get the Contessa interested in me. She’s rich and young and beautiful. We’d make a great couple.’

‘Forget Carlotta, she’s much too good for the likes of you. Go for the Russian broad – get her pregnant.’

‘
Pregnant?
You’re joking! She’s fifty-three, for Christ’s sake! It’s a bit too fucking late! Christ, what a life I’ve got myself into! It’s hard, Maximus, I don’t even like Lara any more. She’s a total bitch. I could really make it with Carlotta.’

‘No way,’ said Maximus. ‘I’m too fond of her to let her get involved with a bum like you.’

‘C’mon, give me a chance to work on her – okay?’

Maximus remained silent, but levelled a cold, hard stare at Fabrizio who, realising he was defeated, wandered gloomily over to the bar. Maximus stared after him. He started to think about the possibility of a liaison between Fabrizio and Carlotta. Why not? If Lara’s ex-husband Jonathan was so obdurate about cutting off her alimony if she remarried, then maybe Fabrizio and Carlotta
would
be a better match, and he could get a significant finder’s fee. Maybe he should encourage it.

Carlotta managed to escape to the top deck, where Henry and Blanche were deep in conversation with the Mayor, Sophie, and Frick and Adolpho.

‘Carlotta, darling, darling
cara
! Welcome to Saint-Tropez! I’m so thrilled to see you. You look gorgeous!’ shrieked Blanche, cranking herself up to give Carlotta an effusive hug, then pulling her down to sit between her and Sophie. ‘I haven’t seen you since the Grand Prix in Monaco last year. You were with your poor husband . . . I’m so sorry, darling.’ Blanche arranged her face in what she thought was a sincere expression of sympathy but which, thanks to multiple facelifts, just came off looking comical.

‘Thank you, Blanche,’ said Carlotta. ‘Yes, it was very sad.’

‘And so young! And so handsome!’ Blanche was in full flow now, which made Carlotta feel a little uncomfortable. She had had to play the grieving widow in Buenos Aires for four months and she had hoped that in new environs most people would grasp that the mourning period was over. Luckily Blanche skipped to another subject.

‘Oh, and remember that lunch we had the next day when we saw Prince Harry on the beach with his girlfriend? Poor guy, he was trying so hard not to be noticed, but we saw him, didn’t we, Carlotta?’ Carlotta nodded. She tolerated Blanche because she found the pushy socialite rather pitiable, and Carlotta tried never to be rude to anyone.

Blanche pulled Carlotta down beside her on to the banquette, but Sophie was not best pleased by Carlotta’s inclusion in the group. She liked Carlotta but never took kindly to younger, prettier women sitting next to her, and Carlotta’s exotic natural beauty and sweet nature seemed to be making her popular with the Saint-Tropez social set.

Suddenly Blanche’s dog, which was the size of a rat and having regurgitated the plastic fingernail, decided to pounce on one of Carlotta’s dangling emerald earrings. For a tiny pooch Pixie had simian strength, and Carlotta shook her head violently to try to dislodge the animal. But Pixie seemed determined to swallow her Harry Winston bauble. Carlotta tried pushing the dog away, but it hung on, tiny teeth attached to the emerald earring and growling as menacingly as a toy pooch could.

Blanche seemed unaware of what her pet was up to yet again as she continued to recount to a bored Sophie the saga of her recent breast reduction.

‘That Beverly Hills doctor is magic, just magic,’ she confided. ‘I was a 38DD and he cut everything out and made me a 34B – look!’ She proudly pulled down her loose chiffon top to reveal six-month-old breasts on a sixty-nine-year-old chest.

Frick and Adolpho, totally taken aback to see this elderly American flashing her fresh boobs, turned away, giggling uncontrollably. Carlotta looked as embarrassed as she was able with a snarling puppy attached to her ear.

Sophie, grinning devilishly, purred, ‘They’re lovely, darling, simply divine. Hollywood starlets would be jealous of those – er – breasts.’

‘Ya think?’ Blanche looked extremely pleased, then finally noticed Carlotta trying to wrestle her earring from Pixie’s fangs.

A young man, who had been leaning on the handrail watching the scene with amusement, came to Carlotta’s rescue. He gently removed the earring from the yapping dog’s mouth and returned it to Carlotta with an enigmatic smile.
My God, but she is lovely
, he thought.
So much more refined and beautiful than the over-Botoxed and over-tanned females in this town.

Carlotta smiled shyly back at him. ‘Thank you so much. I’m not quite ready to be dog meat yet.’

He laughed and held out his hand. ‘Nick Stevens – and that dog has great taste in snacks.’

She laughed and shook his hand, ‘Carlotta Di Ponti. I’m glad to meet you.’

Nick Stevens was nothing like the blasé two-faced partygoers who would stab you in the back while saying, ‘Darling, you look amazing!’ Dressed in simple chinos and a plain white shirt, he was medium height with sandy-blond hair, cut unfashionably short. His deep tan was not the kind one gets from lounging on the beach or a yacht covered in suntan lotion. It was the dark almost chestnut brown acquired from being out in the open air with no beauty aids. The crinkles around his pale, almost translucent blue eyes attested to an outdoor life. His handshake was firm but not bone crushing, and he held it for a fraction longer than necessary, looking into Carlotta’s eyes.

‘Do you want to help me stargaze?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Carlotta stood up, glad to get away from the mad dog and the hysterical Blanche, and followed Nick over to the handrail. ‘You don’t look like you really belong here,’ she said, then hastily added, ‘I mean, I’m sorry to sound rude.’

‘Not at all, Contessa.’ He smiled and she realised he knew who she was. ‘I don’t belong, you are right. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem to be like these people at all.’

‘Oh, I’m the new gal in town. Please, call me Carlotta.’

‘You’re a widow, are you not?’

She nodded. His questions should have put her on her guard, but Nick was not only good-looking in a non-threatening way, but also had a down-to-earth, relaxed attitude that she really liked.

‘Another drink?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ Carlotta smiled as he signalled to the waiter, then they leaned on the railing watching the stars and listening with amusement to the cacophony behind them.

Having heard the story about Blanche revealing her boobs, Fabrizio bounded up like a big puppy and plonked himself down next to Blanche and joked in his little-boy voice, which many women found adorable, ‘Can I have a look at your boobies too?’

He winked at Carlotta, who was at the handrail staring down at the dark, diamond-encrusted waves but had heard his remark.
He had some nerve, that boy. Good-looking as he was, he never knew when to quit and his jokes weren’t funny
.

But Blanche, delighted to have such a handsome audience, obligingly pulled down her top again for Fabrizio’s and everyone else’s delectation.

Pixie was feeling left out, and having been denied her emerald earring, decided to get some attention by taking a nip at Blanche’s left nipple.

Blanche’s screams were so loud that they echoed through the ancient back streets of the village and started all the dogs barking madly. Carlotta turned, startled, then rushed to comfort her. Fabrizio, ever the hero, tried to cover Blanche’s breasts with a cocktail napkin that was far too small for the job.

Lara heard Blanche’s manic cries as she minced up the steps in search of Fabrizio. Her white Lurex Hervé Léger was too short, too tight and too low-cut but, having heard how fabulous she looked from her ‘wrecking crew’, she oozed confidence. But when Lara saw Fabrizio, one hand on Blanche’s chest and looking at Carlotta with a buffoon-like smile, she went ballistic. ‘
STRONZO BASTARDO!
’ she screamed, yanking him away by the collar of his white Dolce shirt. ‘What are you doing with her?’

‘Nothing,’ he yelled, adjusting his shirt, uncomfortably aware that all the guests were watching with great amusement.

‘I’ll show you nothing,’ yelled Lara, slapping his face for the second time that night with a be-ringed hand.

Galvanised into action, Maximus rushed up the stairs and watched helplessly as Fabrizio attempted to defend himself from the onslaught of ten pointed acrylic nails.

François, the waiter from Sénéquier, in the process of serving Sophie a glass of wine, grinned. He liked nothing more than to see the so-called ‘beautiful people’ making fools of themselves and each other, and he thought Lara was a ‘Grade I’ bitch. Another incident had occurred with Lara just that morning. As François had manoeuvred around the overcrowded tables of Sénéquier Café and Bar, she had accused him of spilling water down her sun-ravaged décolletage. He’d attempted to deny it, but she had threatened to have him fired. To placate her he had signalled to another waiter to bring her another vodka.

‘On the house,’ he smiled. She was a nasty piece of work and he wasn’t about to let her get away with her endless bullying. Her time would come.

Lara was still hissing at Fabrizio, who looked like a cowering dog. François felt a touch of pity for the poor gigolo. What a way to earn a living – banging raddled old bags, waiting for hand-outs and singing horribly.