Vanity (11 page)

She was sobbing so hard that she didn't hear the
tentative
tapping at her door until it got louder and louder.

‘What?' she shouted.

‘Sam, are you OK?'

‘What the fuck do you think?' Sam managed through her tears.

‘Open the door, darling. I think they're a bunch of cunts and you probably need a hug,' said the voice.

Slowly, Sam got to her feet and opened the door, only to see Sienna Bitch-Hoffmann standing there, like some bloody aerial nymph or fairy in pale green lace. She was carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

‘Go away.'

‘I'm not going anywhere.' Sienna waltzed in as if she owned Sam's room and put the bottle of champagne on her desk. Then she turned around and put her skinny arms around Sam. It was so nice, and so unexpected, that Sam just cried and cried and cried until Sienna said, ‘OK, enough's enough. This is Lanvin and I'll have to get it
dry-cle
aned if you carry on crying on it like this. Let's have a drink. Though I can't see many receptacles left …' She indicated the broken crockery on the floor and Sam opened her cupboard to produce the mug saying
STUDENT BABE
that her mum had bought her.

‘You have that, I'm quite happy to swig from the bottle,' said Sienna, expertly opening the Dom Pérignon with barely a pop and pouring it into the mug.

‘Why are you being nice to me?' Sam sniffled.

‘Because I think you've been treated horribly and Josh is the biggest cunt on the planet. Who the fuck does he think he is? “Kit off, kit off, kit off!” indeed. Arsehole. We should try to get
his
kit off in public – apparently his cock's
tiny.
'

Sienna wiggled her little finger and Sam laughed, despite herself.

‘That's better,' said Sienna. ‘For what it's worth, I'm bloody jealous! I saw the photos and, good God, what wouldn't I give for tits like those! I've been bee-stung my entire life. Where
did
you get them done?'

‘They're not fake,' Sam muttered miserably, feeling like a freak of nature again. ‘I had glandular fever when I was 14 …'

Sienna laughed. ‘Well, in that case, you really are bloody lucky! Every man's wet dream! And if those idiotic boys out there are threatened by a woman who's, by all accounts, highly intelligent
and
has great knockers, then it's their moronic problem. Don't you think?'

Feeling an awful lot better, Sam took a gulp of
champagne
out of the mug and said, ‘Thanks. I thought you were so stuck up and posh before.'

‘Oh, fuck, no, common as muck. Daddy's in trade, darling, talks like a barrow boy. It's only the schools that make you speak like I do.'

‘But you're so confident. I'd feel like a complete dick wafting around in lace with a parasol …'

‘You'd look one too,' drawled Sienna, and they both burst out laughing. Of course, Sienna could carry it off with her height and blonde otherworldliness. Buxom little Sam with her dyed-auburn hair would look as though she were auditioning for a period porn romp.

‘But where d'you get it? The confidence? I mean, I think Josh is a … cunt … too …' Sam hesitated over the word as she'd always disliked it and her parents had been pretty heavy about the swear-box at home. ‘But wouldn't it tear you apart if he did to you what he's just done to me?'

‘I suppose I'll never know the answer to that – horrible little shit wouldn't dare – but I doubt it. The obscene amount of money Daddy's earned over the years must have given me some kind of coat of armour.' Sienna dismissed her birthright with a wave of her wafty hand and added, ‘Let's have some more booze, then get tarted up and go and have some fun. I think you need cheering up.'

‘That sounds brilliant,' said Sam, wiping away the vestiges of tears. ‘What are you going to wear?'

Sienna laughed. ‘Don't worry, I don't always dress like this. It's fun to have a certain image with these college idiots, mess with their boring heads, but when I go to Camden I like to rock it up a bit. Pints of snakebite and Lanvin are not the best bedfellows.'

‘Camden? Where?' Sam was excited; she loved indie music, and that whole kind of grungy scene, but she'd been so focused on earning a living to study, so she could get somewhere in life, that she'd never really had time for that sort of fun.

‘The Hawley Arms.'

‘Fuckin' 'ell, I think that's Natalia,' said Mark to Justin, Bella's father. They were on their third cognacs after lunching at Club 55 on Pampelonne Beach in Saint-Tropez, where they'd just been shooting for
GQ
. ‘She's not bad for an old tart.'

‘Not bad at all,' said Justin appreciatively. ‘Apparently, she goes like the clappers too. Hey! Nat!'

Natalia, who had just swum onto the beach from her yacht, was wearing an emerald-green high-cut swimsuit with the sides cut out, which made her 44-inch legs look endless. Always aware of keeping the façade intact, she had scraped her white-blonde hair back into a tight bun. There was no way she'd put her face or hair underwater. She felt a stab of annoyance at seeing Mark and Justin. Of all the people she'd met at Poppy and Damian's wedding, they were probably the ones she liked the least, with their wandering eyes and overt lechery. Oh, well. She sighed and approached their table.

‘Hi, hi, how wonderful to see you.'

‘You too, babe,' said Mark, getting up to kiss her and letting his gaze roam unnecessarily over her body. She tried not to let her internal disgust become apparent.

‘Natalia!' said Justin. ‘Not looking a day over twenty!'

If this drunken, arrogant old pig thought that she would be flattered by this, he was very much mistaken. She knew how great she looked. She spent enough time and money on it.

‘Joining us for a drink then?' asked Justin.

‘No no no. I thank you, but there are people I must see. Wonderful to see you again.' Natalia blew them both a kiss with her long, perfectly manicured fingers and walked over to the bar. Both men watched her extraordinary bottom, atop those extraordinarily long legs, as she departed. Justin gave out a low whistle.

Club 55 was the ultimate jet-set destination in St Trop, created in 1955 when Roger Vadim was filming Brigitte Bardot frolicking on the beach in
Et Dieu
…
créa la femme.
Legend had it that when the crew mistook a local
fisherman's
cottage for a bistro, the owner's wife happily fed them all and Club 55 was born.

The restaurant, laid out behind the beach under tamarind trees, was stylishly understated, all white wooden tables and chairs with sun-faded blue tablecloths that echoed the blues of sky and sea in the dazzling sunlight. Seated at practically every table were girls, exquisite like butterflies in pink-and-turquoise kaftans, jewelled flip-flops and enormous designer shades. With few exceptions, the mahogany-tanned men footing the bills were several decades older than them.

Mark and Justin had moved to the bar area for their cognacs. The white stone bar and seats, white linen cushions and white sand emphasized the patrons' expensive tans. Mark was surprised they hadn't somehow managed to bleach the palm trees to match the rest of the decor.

The behaviour here was more outrageous than in the restaurant area. Even Mark and Justin cringed as they witnessed yet another gold-toothed rapper standing on a table and spurting yet another 2,000-euro bottle of Cristal over a gaggle of giggling, bikini-clad models. Wasn't the world meant to be in some kind of financial meltdown?

‘I wonder what the poor people are doing today,' said Justin, and Mark barked with laughter.

A man who put the sleaze into sleazy approached their table. Of indeterminate age, he was rocking a luridly patterned Roberto Cavalli open-to-the-waist silk shirt atop obscenely tight white jeans. His obviously dyed-black hair looked as if it had been washed in industrial oil and his bling out-blang everybody else on the beach.

‘Hey, Justin, my man!' He stretched out his arms in greeting and Justin rose to his bare feet.

‘Stefan. Long time no see. Wotcha been up to, mate?'

Stefan winked.

‘Half the girls in this bar.' His accent hovered somewhere between LA, mittel-Europe and Peckham.

All three men laughed, though Mark felt slightly uneasy. Although neither he nor Justin were by any stretch of the imagination clean-living paragons of virtue, there was something seriously unpleasant about this geezer. Though he had to admire the bastard's taste, if what he was saying were true.

‘This is Mark,' said Justin. ‘A friend of my daughter Bella's.'

‘Bella,' said Stefan with a lascivious gleam in his eye. ‘Pretty name, and I hear she's a pretty girl too. Don't think I've had the pleasure though … Is she with you?'

‘No, she's at home in London. And don't you go getting any ideas, you old bastard; she's my little angel and I wouldn't let you within a hundred yards of her with a bargepole.' Justin took a large swig of his cognac as he mixed his metaphors, then laughed. ‘She's way too old for you anyway.'

‘OK, OK, man, I get it. Daughter's off-limits. But if you want to meet some hot chicks younger than your sweet little girl, come to my party tonight. The Linda Lovelace boat, moored in the
vieux port
, can't miss it. Hey,
babeeee
!' His attention was distracted by a very young Eurasian girl with shiny black hair that hung in a sleek curtain down to her waist. She was wearing an olive-green string-thong bikini bottom and matching tiny cropped T-shirt with
HOT STUFF
written across the chest. As Stefan snaked a
proprietorial
arm around her, he was joined by another girl who made Mark catch his breath. She had to be the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

Probably in her early twenties, the girl had a cat-like face, with large, slanting, deep turquoise eyes, framed with thick dark lashes and beautifully arched brows. Her wide, mischievous smile revealed perfect white teeth that gleamed in her smooth brown face. Long, streaky light brown hair swished around her shoulders, and a short dress made entirely of gossamer-fine white crochet
teasingly
revealed a lithe brown body with the exquisite muscle definition of the natural athlete. Underneath the dress, she was wearing only the briefest of white bikini bottoms; her bare, tip-tilted breasts pushed alluringly against the white lace.

‘Hi,' she said, smiling up at him through sooty lashes. ‘I'm Karolina.'

Down boy, down boy, think of Sam.
Mark willed his cock not to stiffen.

‘Hi, Karolina. I'm Mark.'

‘And I'm Justin.' Justin eagerly thrust his hand out. ‘Great dress, babe.'

Stefan roared with laughter at their reactions.

‘See? All my girls are HOT. Catcha later? Fun and games you won't regret.' He winked again and slimed off,
dragging
both girls with him.

‘Fuck me,' said Mark. ‘Did you
see
that girl?'

‘Uh-huh.' Both men were still gazing after the threesome.

‘Who's the geezer then?' asked Mark, when they'd managed to drag their gaze away and were once more sitting nursing their cognacs.

‘Stefan Rafael, the porn king. Not his real name, of course. He is
bad news.
' Justin laughed. ‘But if those two chicks are anything to go by, his party might be worth a look.'

‘Better count me out,' said Mark with regret. ‘I'm practically married these days.' He did love Sam, and for the first time in his life had been faithful the entire time they'd been together. Her sweet nature and phenomenal body brought out his manly, protective instincts. But he wasn't sure he could trust himself at a porn party full of babes like Karolina. He took out his phone and looked at his screensaver: a photo of Sam's smiling young face. It was more to strengthen his resolve than anything else.

Justin laughed again and slapped him on the back. ‘You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.'

Natalia, who had witnessed the entire encounter from the safe distance of the bar, rolled her eyes and shuddered.

‘You don't think it's a bit … tight?' Sam looked doubtfully at her reflection in Sienna's age-spotted antique mirror. Sienna had somehow managed to imbue her student digs with a bohemian charm that, while beguiling, was not so over-the-top as to feel completely out of place in halls of residence. Unlike the clothes she chose to wear.

‘Darling, you look gorgeous. Besides, it's the biggest T-shirt I've got.' In purple skinnies that clung to her long legs like a second skin, and braless in a black American Apparel vest, Sienna was practically unrecognizable from the ethereal waif in floor-length lace Sam had known earlier. She'd teased her long blonde hair so it stood out madly around her face, piled on the black eyeliner and thrown several crucifixes and skull pendants around her slender white neck.

Sam was wearing a red-and-black-tartan mini-kilt over black opaques and biker boots, but Sienna had deemed the black polo-neck jumper she had wanted to wear with it ‘boooorring' and insisted she borrow something from her own wardrobe to ‘rock things up'. Hence, the
NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS
T-shirt that strained manfully over Sam's boobs. As Sam didn't wear much make-up when she wasn't working, Sienna had insisted on making up her eyes with as much kohl as she had made up her own. After much deliberation, head tilted to one side as she considered, she'd tied Sam's hair into jaunty pigtails.

Now, as, side by side, they looked in the mirror, Sam had to admit they looked quite cool together. She'd always played it pretty safe with her sartorial choices, but was starting to realize that dressing up, messing around with your image like this, could actually be fun. It was completely different to trying to make yourself look as sexy as possible for the ‘readers' of men's magazines.