Vanity (13 page)

‘Beautiful morning, isn't it?' said the florid-faced chap on the neighbouring yacht to Natalia's, a monstrous gin palace that went by the unfortunate moniker of
Lady Garden.

‘Beautiful,' Natalia said politely, then picked up
yesterday's
Financial Times
and buried her face in it. Her neighbour, a self-made Brit, had been hitting on her the entire week she'd been there and she was thinking it might be time to move on (she'd heard Cap Ferrat was beautiful). She had nothing against the fact her neighbour was self-made, of course, but he was loud, coarse and persistent, and Natalia liked her privacy when it suited her. Though you wouldn't think it, given her sartorial choices.

Today she was wearing lilac bikini bottoms held together at the sides with the distinctive gold Chanel double C. Her boat-necked striped matelot top was a Chanel classic, made especially for her by Kaiser Karl in stripes of pink, mauve, aqua and yellow. Her platinum-blonde hair was swept up in its signature high ponytail and gold-and-diamond studs glittered at her ears. Her shades, which also bore the Chanel logo, were black and enormous.

Natalia's yacht was small by the standards of the gin palace next door, but beautiful in every respect. From the shiny polished oak of the deck to the navy-and-white linen upholstery, gleaming brass fittings and old-fashioned-looking (yet state-of-the-art) rigging, every detail pleased her enormously. It was by far the most tasteful thing she owned.

‘Frigid bitch,' muttered the man on the neighbouring yacht, and Natalia hid a smile behind the pink paper. She liked to keep a close eye on her stocks and shares.

One of her crew, resplendent in his pristine white uniform, walked over with a silver platter bearing the morning post and her breakfast of fruit salad, mineral water and freshly ground black coffee.

‘
Merci
, Michel.' Natalia put down the paper and smiled at him.

She opened the first item of post, a bank statement. Everything was ticking over just fine, she saw, with
satisfaction
. A couple of large standing orders had just left her current account, both to her charitable institutions in Ukraine: a refuge for battered women and a hospice originally set up for those suffering the after-effects of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, all those years ago. Some were still suffering.

Next up was her property portfolio, which she perused for some time. Her rental properties in Hong Kong were still fetching top dollar; it had been a smart move to shift her investments to the Far East just before the crash hit. She flicked through a couple of letters from large corporations desperate for her money, a bill or two, a photo of Poppy and Damian at the top of the Empire State Building, arms around one another, which made her smile.

Greetings from the Big Apple!
Poppy had written on the back, in curly turquoise ink.
Having a wonderful time so far. You must come and stay when you can spare a minute from your glamorous schedule – it's time we repaid your hospitality! Loads of love, P&D xxxxxxxxxx

And then she saw it. Picking up the cheap white
envelope
, she felt the all-too-familiar fear begin to snake around her heart. There was no address, just her name, written in black felt-tip pen. In Cyrillic lettering.

Quickly she tore open the envelope with her mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener and scanned the single sheet of paper. After memorizing its contents, she screwed it into a ball, and made her way to the interior of her yacht, where she took a lighter from an Art Deco enamelled coffee table and set fire to the noxious missive, letting it fall into a cut-glass ashtray.

After pouring what was left of her breakfast mineral water onto the charred remains, she walked on until she reached her bedroom cabin, with its walk-in wardrobe. Here she changed out of her gaudy Chanel matelot gear and into a cream jersey-knit narrow maxiskirt that completely covered her stupendous legs. A nondescript navy-blue T-shirt skimmed her slender torso. Both garments were Calvin Klein and exquisitely comfortable – this was the closest Natalia got to dressing down. She didn't do jeans – even designer ones. What was the point on spending silly sums of money on what was, essentially, peasant-wear? When she'd worked so long and hard to leave that life behind? Besides, jeans were never long enough and she'd always found them fiendishly uncomfortable.

With her hair tied back into a simple plait, and a floppy wide-brimmed straw hat covering half her face, she bore little resemblance to the glamorous socialite of minutes earlier. This was her uniform on her yearly visits to the women's refuge and hospice back home. She hoped it would serve the same purpose of relative anonymity here. Natalia wasn't what you'd call famous, but she was enough of a fixture in the gossip columns and society pages to act with extreme caution where certain individuals and
situations
were concerned.

Her journey to the seedy bar on the edge of town would have been enjoyable, had her mission not been such a distasteful one. The food markets, with their brightly coloured array of fruit and veg, the divine-smelling patisseries and boulangeries, the pretty squares where elderly gentlemen played boules – some parts of Saint-Tropez were so vibrant at this time of day, such a feast for the senses, that Natalia reflected she should get out and explore some more. Much as she loved her new yacht, there was more to life than sitting on deck and counting one's money.

Despite herself she laughed at the thought, looking about 25. Then she steeled herself for the task that lay ahead and composed her features once more.

The bar was more like something from downtown Marseilles than anything you'd expect to find in Saint-Tropez. A couple of black-toothed men sat smoking and nursing Pernods on metal chairs at Formica tables. Some lairy youths were cursing and thumping an ancient pinball machine in the corner of the room. There was a strong stench of cat's piss.

‘Talia.' Georgiou got to his feet, smiling his horrible leering smile, gold teeth very much in evidence. He was wearing a shiny grey suit with an open-necked black shirt. The stubbly flesh of his thick neck bulged against a chunky gold chain. ‘I am sorry that this is not what you are used to.' He spoke in Russian. ‘But in the old days this would have been the lap of luxury, yes?'

Natalia sat down and leant close to him.

‘Can we just get this over, please? How much do you want this time?'

‘Ten thousand dollars.'

‘Ten thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind? You must know I cannot withdraw that kind of money just like that …' She was stalling and they both knew it.

‘I think we both know,
baby
, that you can do anything you like with your money. And I would like that money to be transferred into
this
account by midnight tonight.' Georgiou thrust a piece of paper with some numbers written on it into her trembling hands.

‘And if I don't?' Natalia thrust her chin at him defiantly.

‘If you don't, my sweet
Natalinka
, then the whole world will know what kind of a woman you really are.'

Driving along the freeway in the direction of Venice Beach, Ben drained his organic passion-fruit and goji-berry smoothie and looked up at the palm trees against the cloudless sky, more than content with his lot. Yesterday, he'd had his second audition for
Beyond the Sea
, the romantic comedy set in 1950s Saint-Tropez that Belinda had put him up for. It had gone brilliantly, if he did say so himself. He thought he'd imbued the British-lothario supporting-actor role with just enough boyish charm to upstage the
stuffed-sh
irt all-American hero completely. Well, he'd had plenty of practice at charming his way out of bad-boy
situations
of his own making, he thought, chortling to himself. The part really could have been written for him.

To improve his mood still further, he was en route, and looking forward enormously, to his third training session with Jennifer Jackson, the mixed-race girl with the
incredible
arse that he'd met on the beach. He smiled as he thought of Jennifer. She clearly fancied him, even though she'd been playing ridiculously hard to get. He'd probably make his move this afternoon. Instead of training on the beach, as they had been up till now, Jennifer had suggested they use ‘my buddy Mel's gym. They use it for Bikram yoga sessions so we can turn up the heat and really work up a good sweat.' This would have been more than enough
encouragement
for him to pounce, had Ben been one to doubt his own allure.

And her ‘buddy Mel' sounded intriguing too. Ben laughed. Melanie (or Melody?) was such an LA name – another perfectly honed gym bunny, no doubt. Tanned, blonde and perky, he guessed. Maybe they'd be up for a threesome?

The boardwalk at Venice Beach was swarming with scantily clad rollerbladers, sun-bleached surfers, obnoxious skateboarders, tie-dyed hippies, hip-hop bling kings, tattoo artists, buskers, jugglers and jesters, all jostling for position under the blazing sun. Overweight tourists licking rapidly melting ice creams gawped on. Tanned and fit locals sat at cafés, sipping organic juices under palm trees.

Ben had found it incredibly easy to adapt to the LA scene. The healthy lifestyle, sunshine and ‘me' culture suited him down to the ground; with his enormous narcissism, he was willing to devote whatever it took to achieve the body beautiful. Now he sauntered through the crowds, turning heads in his casual gear of Hawaiian-print board shorts and a faded blue T-shirt that matched his eyes.

‘Hey, chubby,' said Jennifer, as Ben walked into the gym, and he laughed easily. He loved the fact that she wouldn't let him call her Jenny. Every woman he'd met his entire life had fallen over backwards (or forwards) for him. Jennifer, the first challenge he'd ever had, would be the ultimate conquest. Today she was looking sexy as hell in pale pink jersey hot pants and matching crop top, which showcased to perfection the long, long legs, washboard abs and – had he mentioned the perfect arse? Her shoulder-length dreadlocks were kept away from her face with a wide pale pink headband that set off her velvety milk-chocolate skin a treat. She
positively
glowed with youth and health.

Jennifer lifted Ben's T-shirt and ran a leisurely hand over his flat stomach.

‘My oh my oh my, you boozy Brits. You've been drinking alcohol again, fat boy. Jeez, what did I tell you? You wanna six pack, you gotta eat clean.' She smiled, her pearly white teeth gleaming through bee-stung lips.

‘I only had two Buds last night, and they're not even proper beer.' Ben was pissed off to find himself sounding defensive. ‘Can we just get on with it?'

Jennifer winked and said, ‘Sure. Changing rooms over there.'

There followed ninety minutes of the toughest workout Ben could ever remember. He was pouring with sweat – Jesus, this Bikram heat was unpleasant – and every muscle was pushed until it screamed for mercy. At last, Jennifer allowed him to lie down while she stretched him out. Lying on his back, he looked up into her black eyes as she pushed his right thigh against his chest, easing her hands into his long, firm muscles to deepen the stretch still further

‘Ohhh God Jenny – I mean, Jennifer – that feels amazing,' he managed to gasp.

‘Well, that was quite a workout for a lazy-assed son-of-a-bitch like you. I think we might be getting somewhere at last. But you are just so, like, tense? Turn over. I'll massage ya.'

Ben was relieved to do as he was told. He was starting to get a hard-on and didn't relish being in such a vulnerable position. Jennifer might have been the sexiest woman he'd met in a long time, but he still called the shots.

Prone, though, his erection got bigger. The way she was kneading his shoulders, pummelling his back. Ben allowed himself to fall into an erotic trance in the intense artificial heat. By the time Jennifer reached his buttocks, her fingers kneading and probing his aching flesh, his cock was painfully stiff against the wooden gym floor. Thoroughly overexcited, he rolled over and grabbed Jennifer by her dreadlocks, forcing his tongue into her mouth, totally confident that she was just as up for it as he was.

A resounding slap around the face stopped him in his tracks.

‘What the
fuck
do you think you are doing?'

‘Oh, come on, Jen, you know you want it …' Ben started, then stopped as he saw the look of abject contempt on her face. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Just as he thought things couldn't get any worse, he felt himself being picked up by the scruff of his neck, as effortlessly as if he were a kitten. He looked up to see an enormous black man, whose arms had to be bigger than Ben's thighs. He was pure, scary beefcake. The fact that his eyes were completely obscured by wraparound shades made him even scarier.

‘You OK, Jenny?' (Jenny? What the
fuck
?) asked the giant, in a voice so deep it made Barry White sound like a choirboy.

‘Sure, Mel. Thanks, honey,' said Jennifer. She stood up to put her arms around the man, who was so not the Mel that Ben had envisaged, and then got on tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.

Ben's legs felt like jelly, and he stumbled.

‘I think I may have read things wrong …' he started, trying, as ever, to charm his way out of a tricky situation. To his own ears he sounded like a pathetic imitation of Hugh Grant in bumbling-fop mode.

Mel laughed condescendingly and patted him on the head.

‘Oh, yeah. Real wrong, boy. Tell you what, you just run along now and we'll talk no more about it. But you NEVER contact my Jenny again. OK, boy?'

Ben nodded, numbly.

‘Say, “OK, Melvin”.'

‘OK, Melvin.'

Ben looked back once more, trying to decide whether to say something else. Then he ran out of the overheated gym as quickly as he possibly could. With every muscle on fire, and his tail firmly between his legs, it was easier said than done.