The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (17 page)

François would never lower himself to that, even though rich women had propositioned him many a time. Yes, he was good-looking, but he had a lot better and bigger fish to fry right now, and he was getting quite a kick out of it, not to mention a ton of cash.

Suddenly the Captain appeared in the crowded main salon below the top deck. Clapping his hands he announced with all the gravitas of a lifetime of maritime experience, ‘
Silencio
. Ladies and gentlemen, please evacuate the boat immediately and in an orderly fashion. We have just been informed that there is a bomb on board.’

‘A bomb!’ Ignoring the Captain’s calm command to leave the boat quietly, and shrieking with fear instead, four hundred movers-and-shakers, socialites and members of the Eurotrash set began to shove each other out of the way in their frantic quest to escape being blown to smithereens.

Henry and Blanche were first down the narrow stairs, Pixie perched terrified on her mistress’s shoulder, her shrill barking adding to the cacophony. Behind them lumbered Maximus, sweating and cursing profusely. Suddenly he missed his footing on the slippery steps and, with a bellow of alarm, fell forwards, his huge body propelled on to Blanche’s wizened frame. With a squeal she jumped out of his way but dropped Pixie. The puppy fell to the ground, and then Maximus’s massive bulk landed on Pixie with a sickening crunch.

‘Oh, my God! My
dawg!
’ screamed Blanche, frantically scooping up the tiny mutt’s remains. ‘My baby – my Pixie poo.’ Black tears ran down her rouged cheeks as Maximus struggled up on his feet to face her barrage of fury. ‘You killed Pixie, you murderer, you . . . FAT . . .
murderer
. You killed my darling little doggie.’ She held the puppy’s body closer, sobbing into its squashed and bloodied fur.

‘Madame, I am so sorry, I did not see your dog. I mean it is so tiny . . . and in the rush . . . I apologise,
madame
, but, but . . . she had a painless death. So sorry.’

‘She was the most precious thing in my life. You’re a monster,’ Blanche sobbed. ‘I demand an arrest now. Monsieur Le Mayor – listen, listen to me, please . . .’

She grabbed the Mayor’s sleeve as he awkwardly clambered down the steps, but as he was only concerned with getting off the ship himself, he brushed her arm off and jumped on to the steps down to the quay to join the gawking throng.

‘Madame, I will buy you another dog,’ Maximus blustered as the stewards started herding everyone – including Blanche and the dead dog – off the vessel. ‘A proper dog, one that is fully grown.’

‘How
dare
you! Pixie was fully grown; she had the finest pedigree; she was special. She was my
baby
. . .’ Weeping piteously, Blanche staggered on to the wharf, where she collapsed into her husband’s arms.

Camera phones started clicking all over the quay as everyone rushed from the local cafés to capture the scene.

Lara stomped down on to the quay and started rummaging through the basket of shoes.

‘My shoes? Where are my Louboutins?’ she yelled to one of the sailors, who ignored her. ‘Where’re my jewelled sandals? They were brand new from Neiman’s,’ she demanded of Maximus, who sat hunched over on a concrete slab, wheezing horribly. ‘And where’s Fabrizio?’

Maximus’s asthma was playing up so badly he could only point weakly back up at the boat, then had a coughing fit.

‘He’s still with
her
?’ Lara’s collagen-ed lips drew back into a snarl. ‘How could you let this happen, you idiot?’

Maximus, unable to speak, shook his head and wheezed some more.

Suddenly there was another loud proclamation from the Captain. ‘Man overboard.
Attenzione
everyone.
Attenzione!
Two men overboard! No – no, there’s a
woman
! Oh,
mio Dio!
Woman overboard too.’

When the frenzied, terrified throng started to abandon ship, Carlotta, who was still chatting to Nick, pressed herself against the ship’s railing to avoid being crushed by the crowd rushing to safety. Fabrizio, still hot for her in spite of Lara’s jealousy, had manoeuvred himself nearer to tell her a few more bad jokes. Before he had the chance to even start, all hell broke loose.

The handrail, which had recently undergone inept repair work, collapsed, and Carlotta and the two men had tumbled head over heels into the poisonous, polluted waters of the Saint-Tropez port. This part of the Mediterranean, so close to the giant yachts, was extremely dirty, as the crews of the floating gin palaces thought nothing of disposing of their detritus into the sea. Carlotta tried to swim to the quay but her mouth was full of the foul filth in the water and she was almost choking on it.

Nick put his arms out to Carlotta to help her, and managed to pull her to the edge of the slipway. Dripping and filthy, they were manhandled out unceremoniously on to the jetty. Carlotta, Nick and Fabrizio were covered in muck and slime as they lay panting on the concrete dock. Somebody passed around bottles of water and Carlotta gratefully rinsed out her mouth.

Nick gave the impression of latent strength as he helped Carlotta to sit. His sinewy muscles supported her and she leaned against his chest gratefully. A feeling of safety enveloped her. In spite of the shock of falling and the maelstrom around her, Nick Stevens felt good, solid and safe.

‘I guess they scrimped on repairs,’ he grinned. ‘But hey, it could have been worse. We could’ve drowned in that crap.’

The paparazzi were having a field day, feverishly jumping up and down and pushing people out of the way to get the best shots of everyone shivering on the quay.

‘They look like drowned rats!’ crowed Pete the Brit-pap, ‘This summer is a real money-maker!’

‘The tabloids and the celeb mags are going to eat these up!’ gloated Jean-Pierre, the French paparazzo. ‘You know how the public loves seeing celebrities looking terrible.’

‘This is the sorriest-looking bunch I’ve ever seen,’ said Pete, in his element, stoked by the prospect of dollar signs dancing before his eyes.

Jonathan Meyer’s white suit was covered in red wine spilled on him by his wife Vanessa. As they struggled down the boat’s steep step, her dress rose above her thighs; in an attempt to pull it down, she put her hand on her husband’s head to steady herself and dislodged his toupee, which slid over one eye. With his black eyes and moustache, he looked like a passable imitation of Hitler. Some of the onlookers, noting the resemblance, excitedly snapped pictures on their phones.

Blanche was ‘papped’ weeping, clutching a small dead dog to her half-naked breasts. The videos went viral the following day.

Sophie Silvestri, who hated the paparazzi, was photographed adjusting her blonde bouffant wig while being comforted by the Mayor who, having always fancied her, was feeling rather excited.

Lying flat out on the concrete quay and choking on slime, was Fabrizio Bricconni. A barefoot Lara Meyer, bloodshot eyes burning with rage, was standing over him and she had resumed her verbal flagellation as he coughed and spluttered.

‘That’s a great shot!’ panted Pete, hot-footing it over to them.

Ignoring the assembled snappers, barely managing to contain her fury, she screamed abuse at him as flashbulbs exploded in front of them like 4 July fireworks. Suddenly, when the realisation of what was happening hit Lara, she hissed through gritted teeth, ‘Come, Fabrizio, let us go home. I’m gonna take care of you,
darling
,’ as she grabbed him by the collar of his sodden silk shirt.

Fabrizio, shivering with cold, felt his knees turn to jelly. God knows what was in store for him now. Lara’s ominous ‘I’m gonna take care of you,
darling
’ could mean anything. He would never put it past her to threaten suicide, then cut up his suits and throw them out of the window. Whatever it was, he knew tonight he was in for a bumpy ride, yet again.

‘What you do with that woman?’ she hissed, pointing to Carlotta.

‘I wasn’t with her. I wasn’t doing anything. She was talking to that guy next to her.’ He stumbled to his feet, glancing over to where Nick was helping Carlotta to sit up.

‘We’ll talk about it later,
caro
. Come, let’s go.’ The furious socialite attempted to throw a rictus grin towards the panting paparazzi as she hustled her lover away by the neck of his ripped shirt.

‘This is just like what she did to her husband when he was banging that teenager,’ said Pete the Brit-pap to Jean-Pierre.

‘Lara Meyer’s a goldmine when she’s pissed off,’ grinned Jean-Pierre. ‘These photos are gonna make us a mint!’

Gabrielle and her father took notes while they and a dozen local gendarmes attempted to interview everyone who was on the boat, who in turn were attempting to escape both the amateur and professional paparazzi.

The Bomb Squad, in full body armour, arrived by speedboat from Saint Maxime. They cautiously searched every inch of the vessel, but after several hours the Captain of the squad informed Captain Poulpe: ‘It must have been a false alarm or a hoax. There is no trace of bombs or explosives of any kind. We do, however, have this note that was delivered to Captain Boursin. It came with a bouquet of red and white carnations.’

He handed it to Captain Poulpe, who shared it with his daughter. Simply printed in childish handwriting it said, ‘There is a bomb on this boat and unless everyone leaves by midnight the vessel will explode.’

‘Death,’ Gabrielle whispered. ‘Red and white flowers mean death, Papa.’

Amazingly, not one of the thirty staff and fifteen crew members had any recollection of the bouquet being delivered to the Captain, who admitted that he had only noticed them an hour earlier in his wheelhouse when he had first read the attached note.

‘I wonder if whoever played this sick trick could be the same person who killed Mina?’ said Captain Poulpe. ‘But was it a sort of warning or a practical joke in very bad taste? I think, Gabrielle, we have not heard the last of this individual.’

The shadowy figure lurking behind the gawping crowds grinned.
What a great joke, how the mighty fall
, he smiled to himself.
These people are going to get sick to death of being in this place after what I have planned for them
.