The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (5 page)

Throughout Carlotta’s pregnancy, Nicanor had seldom come near her. They returned to San Miguel, where the family doctor told her that, given her young age, barely seventeen, and petite build she must spend the next six and a half months confined to her bed. Carlotta was lonely and horribly confused.

Her mother, despite being happy now that the Di Ponti family had bought her a cottage on the outskirts of the village, rarely came to visit. Madame Elsa was seldom at home, busy socialising in all the jet-set spots of the world, and Carlotta’s grandmother, racked with arthritis, couldn’t make the journey. Therefore Carlotta’s only visitor was her schoolfriend Livia. Livvy had married her boyfriend and was divinely happy. She visited often, regaling Carlotta with tales of family gatherings and outings to the beach, pizza restaurants and the movies – all things Carlotta could no longer do.

When Carlotta’s daughter Flora was finally born, Nicanor couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘Why couldn’t it have been a boy?’ he whined. He started blaming Carlotta for ‘the mistake’, as he referred to the child. When she asked him if he still loved her he replied bitterly, ‘To quote Prince Charles, my dear, “Whatever love is” – quite apt for a Brit, I thought.’

Nicanor’s desire for a son became more and more obsessive. His monthly lovemaking, if you could call it that, was timed to Carlotta’s menstrual cycle. The doctor had told the couple which were the optimal times of the month to conceive, so for three days in the middle of her cycle, Nicanor pounded relentlessly into his young wife. These couplings were completely without affection or even a modicum of lovemaking. He seemed to think that the rougher and more brutal the sex, the stronger the chances were of producing a boy. She had endured his perversion as long as she could until, after a near-death episode involving a vodka bottle, she decided that a sexless marriage was preferable to what he demanded. This was reinforced by her doctor who informed her she was badly scarred by the incident. Carlotta became resigned to the fact that he found satisfaction elsewhere. ‘Just not in our house,’ she had requested.

Carlotta’s life revolved around her gorgeous baby Flora, and eventually she gave in to the blandishments of the Buenos Aires socialites and started frequenting their gossipy lunches and get-togethers. She adored her daughter and spent her days involved in charities helping the poor and destitute of San Miguel. But she was not happy. It was an empty life, and when she brought up the subject of divorce, Nicanor refused to even consider it.

‘You have your new life – I have mine, and if you divorce me I will see to it that you don’t receive a penny from me or my family,’ he threatened.

His jaunts with his motorcycle buddies became more frequent and, heedless of her request, he constantly brought under-age girls back to the villa, where he would abuse them, often so loudly that the sounds of the young girls’ sobbing penetrated Carlotta’s bedroom – despite being as far away from her husband’s vile den as it could possibly be.

‘One day – one day it will all end,’ Livvy told her comfortingly.

‘But how?’ sighed Carlotta, watching the now six-year-old Flora play with her favourite parrot. ‘How can it?’

The official cause of Nicanor’s death seven years later was a heart attack, but everyone wondered how someone so young, so vital, could have had a heart condition. Carlotta had found his body hanging by a black silk stocking from a rafter in his lair; a chair overturned and an orange stuck in his mouth, while a terrified teenaged whore in a Nazi cap wearing one black stocking and a garter belt screamed her head off. His family was shocked with the suddenness of his death, even though his debauchery was common knowledge among the elite of Buenos Aires.

With the help of the family lawyer, Carlotta had managed to brush the potential scandal of her husband’s death efficiently under the Aubusson carpet, and salvage Nicanor’s reputation, but not without first taking some graphic photos of the death scene. No longer the ignorant and naïve girl she had been before their marriage, she made sure to show his immediate family some of the photos, in the event there was any resistance to his will, which left her a very handsome woman in every aspect.

A month after Nicanor’s funeral, and to escape the animosity of her in-laws, she thought about taking her daughter and her fortune away and start a new life abroad. Why had she never found the true love that her childhood dreams had foretold? A life in the dissolute world of the mega-rich of Buenos Aires had never dimmed her romantic hopes. She had stuck it out with Nicanor because she had no choice – and, truth be told, that life was infinitely preferable to the poverty she would have had to endure if she hadn’t married him.

Last year, when she and Nicanor had attended the Grand Prix in Monaco, she had met a charming Italian, Maximus Gobbi, Jr. Gobbi had given her his card and said smoothly, ‘If you ever need anything at all, my dear, I would be only too happy to assist you.’

Monte-Carlo, May 2014

Maximus Gobbi heaved his enormous bulk out of the rented vintage MG. This exercise consisted of several false starts, a copious amount of groaning, and left him with a ripped shirt and a face flushed from exertion. He adjusted his crumpled peach linen suit and lumbered up the white marble steps of the Hôtel de Paris.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Monte-Carlo was buzzing at this time of the year. The Cannes Film Festival was just finishing and this was the opening day of the Monaco Grand Prix.

Maximus had no intention of doing something as plebeian as sitting in the stands to watch the race. The noise alone would drive him up the wall. No, it was far more interesting to be a guest at the celebrity-studded luncheon thrown by the Russian oligarch Sergei Litvak, who collected stars as some people collect rare paintings.

Maximus strolled through the opulent foyer and turned into the large dining room where the hundred or so invitees, the
crème de la crème
of the jet set, gathered to gossip and sip their morning cocktails. He quickly scanned the room with the expert eye of a hunter, missing nothing and no one. He pretended not to notice the B-list reality-star couple, awkwardly huddled in a corner with their year-old child inappropriately frocked up in a black chiffon tutu and biker boots.

His glance settled for a second on Mina Corbain, the rock-star singer who was rising quickly to the top of the charts under the auspices of mega-manager and producer Khris Kane. Mina – a gorgeous young sprite of a girl in her late teens – was Khris’s latest discovery. Though she had not yet reached the superstar status that would entice Maximus to say his first
buongiorno.

Then he spotted the ageing diva Sophie Silvestri surrounded by several fawning acolytes – she was definitely worth a good morning peck on the cheek and a mini-grovel. Even though Max hated the bitch, she was a huge celebrity, screen icon and legendary beauty, who stood up to Father Time and, in spite of half a century in showbiz, was still at the top of her game.

‘Buongiorno, bellissima,’
Maximus beamed and kissed the goddess’s white-gloved hand, which she offered to avert the risk of him smearing her matte-powdered cheek.

‘
Ciao,
Maximus,’ Sophie replied, politely cool. There were paparazzi everywhere, not to mention some guests who had slyly taken out their iPhones and, while pretending to check emails, were instead filming the stars. She didn’t want to be seen as the spoilt prima donna everyone thought she was.

‘More beeyootiful than ever,
cara
– how do you do it?’

‘Make-up,’ snapped the diva, then turning to the couple beside her said, ‘Maximus Gobbi, may I introduce you to Count Nicanor Di Ponti and his lovely wife, Contessa Carlotta?’

‘Charmed, charmed, I’m sure,’ Maximus started to bow and then remembered he had buttoned his jacket to hide the rip in his shirt, and the button was already at breaking point. The bow turned into a sort of awkward head bend, which almost made Carlotta giggle. Maximus’s Rolodex of a mind scanned through a bunch of names until he hit the jackpot. ‘Of course, Count Di Ponti, delighted to meet you. You have a very beeyootiful wife, if I may say so.’

Nicanor, unimpressed by this old man in the wrinkled suit, nodded brusquely and turned to Carlotta. ‘I’m going outside to watch the test runs – see you at lunch.’ Then, with a disdainful glance at Max, added sarcastically, ‘I’m sure he will entertain you.’

With that, Nicanor moved through the elegantly set tables to the outside terrace, where the Grand-Prix drivers were doing their warm-up lap through the streets of Monaco before the race.

Max turned to Carlotta with his most winning smile, ‘Would you like to go outside to watch as well, my dear?’ Carlotta shook her head shyly.

He sensed a vulnerability and nervousness in the lovely young woman, and also realised he had heard a lot about this famous Argentine family. Rumour had it that Nicanor was an avid womaniser who liked them very young and often beat them up. He was also a fanatical follower of the latest fashions in designer drugs, and there were rumours that he had caused the accidental death of a young girl. The marriage was no love match any more, Maximus had heard, but they stayed together for the sake of the Di Ponti family name and their daughter.

‘Then would you like to sit down?’ Maximus countered, noticing her wistful gaze towards her nonchalant husband, who was now leaning on the terrace balustrade, smoking a cigar and chatting animatedly with Sergei Litvak’s gorgeous model wife, Lilly. Lilly was an ex-beauty queen and a model of exquisite perfection. From her tumbling blonde curls to her amazing body sheathed in skintight floral Dolce & Gabbana, she was the embodiment of gorgeous womanhood and she knew it.

Max clocked the couple’s intimate body language, and stored it away in his mind for future reference, deciding to concentrate instead on this forlorn-looking but lovely flower of a young woman. Maximus, from years of practice, was an expert at reading people where others failed. He was able to penetrate the carapace of the public faces and see their real selves behind the masks, and he could sense palpable unhappiness emanating from Carlotta in the fleeting expressions and glances at her husband.

What she needs is a good roll in the hay,
he thought, noticing Carlotta’s eyes stray towards the strapping stud who had just sauntered into the room.

‘Ah, Fabrizio,
caro!
Come here, I must introduce you,’ he exclaimed to the young man.

Fabrizio Bricconni, at six foot three, oozed macho charm as well as devastating good looks. Black silky hair falling casually over one of his amethyst eyes, and a deep tan set off by a cream silk Brioni shirt and beautifully pressed cream trousers, made him a ‘pussy magnet’, as he charmingly referred to himself.

‘Bingo,’ thought Maximus. ‘This could be a match made in heaven.’ Although it was not common knowledge, Fabrizio was one of Maximus’s exclusive stable of studs for hire – young men who dated older rich women and who often ended up either being kept by them or marrying them.

He noticed that Carlotta seemed amused by the guy, who had instantly turned on a trunk-load of his Italian charm and wit. As the three chatted, Sergei Litvak clapped his hands and announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for lunch. The race is about to begin.’

Maximus excused himself, leaving Carlotta in the thrall of Fabrizio, and lumbered to the table plan at the door to find out where he was sitting. He managed to quickly exchange his place card so that he would be next to Carlotta then, returning to her side and taking her arm, he escorted her to one of the long white tables that, with their gleaming silverware and centrepieces of roses, lilies and hydrangeas, looked like an ad in
Architectural Digest.

‘Ah, what a coincidence!’ Max smiled roguishly. ‘We are lunch partners. I’m so happy.’

‘So am I,’ smiled Carlotta beatifically.

Lunch conversation was punctuated by explosive noises from the engines of the cars zooming around the track, but by the end of it, Carlotta felt she had found a new friend in Maximus Gobbi.