Jean-Robert, came rushing over to see what was going on. ‘I know where she lives.’ He avoided the eyes of several British and German tourists gaping at this staple of the celebrity magazines passed out cold.
He took the spare key to Lara’s third-floor apartment from a hook behind the restaurant’s bar, then hoisted her none-too-slender frame further on to his young shoulders like a sack of coal and quickly jogged a few streets away to where she lived, while Lara’s red head bounced up and down against his back. He entered the dark, stuffy apartment, strewn with the detritus of Lara and Fabrizio’s chaotic existence – empty vodka bottles, magazines, clothes, shoes, underwear – and none too gently lowered her on to the unmade bed.
He stared at the stucco walls, where photographs and yellowing newspaper clippings were framed higgledy-piggledy. The tarnished silver frames cluttered every dusty surface. This poor cow was famous, thought François, but she had certainly seen better days. He was fascinated by the front page of a New York tabloid, which showed Lara, her then husband, Jonathan Meyer, and a beautiful teenaged blonde slugging it out on the slopes of Saint Moritz. ‘Can Divorce Be Far Behind?’ shrieked the tabloid. Another cover picture on
People
magazine, in colour, featured a much younger and more beautiful Lara in a gorgeous wedding gown, exchanging vows with Jonathan Meyer. ‘Inside the Golden Couple’s fabulous wedding’, the banner headline shrieked. ‘Tycoon Weds Glamour Model’.
‘Ha, the jet set – bunch of losers,’ muttered François. He surveyed the room, then returned to where Lara lay splayed out awkwardly. Looking down at her, he spied a key lying on the floor, half under a rug. Close inspection revealed it was a replica of Lara’s door key.
Without hesitation, François pocketed the key, then opened one of the drawers next to the bed. Inside was a mess of bottles of pills, face creams, candy wrappers and some diamond earrings and gold bangles, all hopelessly mixed up with hairpins, lipstick and a couple of sex toys. ‘What a slut,’ he muttered, resisting the urge to pocket the earrings too. Then he walked silently to the door, leaving the snoring Lara to her slumbers.
C HAPTER S EVEN
The First Party of the Saint-Tropez Season, early June 2015
Carlotta had arrived in Saint-Tropez the previous day. Maximus had met her at the airport and driven her to a beautiful small house in the Parc de Californie, which he had rented for the season.
‘One of the most prestigious addresses in Saint-Tropez,’ he announced proudly. He introduced her to the staff – Lilliane, a housekeeper and cook, who was married to the gardener, Denis. ‘And Denis will also drive you whenever you want to go somewhere.’
‘Oh, but I love driving and I want to explore this beautiful part of Provence!’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Maximus. ‘So, my dear, there is an amusing party tomorrow for Mina Corbain. Do you know her?’
‘Of course, I met her with you last year at the Grand Prix. I mean – who doesn’t know her? She has had a meteoric rise, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes, indeed she has. So you will you be my “plus one”?’
‘Of course, I’d love to.’
‘Well, my dear, then you should get some rest and I will pick you up at nine p.m. tomorrow.’
After he had left, Carlotta explored her new home with delight. It was charming, light and airy in the modern Provençal style – all white walls and furniture, cosy sofas and a brilliant azure pool that sparkled invitingly outside the sitting room, and a view of the Mediterranean that glittered and shone as hundreds of tiny yachts sailed gaily on the creamy waves.
I think I shall like it here
, she thought as she lay on a sun lounger beside the pool, enjoying the hot, comforting sun on her body.
I think I shall like it a lot
.
Carlotta was excited. She gripped Maximus’s arm tightly as they sauntered into the spacious hallway of
He took the spare key to Lara’s third-floor apartment from a hook behind the restaurant’s bar, then hoisted her none-too-slender frame further on to his young shoulders like a sack of coal and quickly jogged a few streets away to where she lived, while Lara’s red head bounced up and down against his back. He entered the dark, stuffy apartment, strewn with the detritus of Lara and Fabrizio’s chaotic existence – empty vodka bottles, magazines, clothes, shoes, underwear – and none too gently lowered her on to the unmade bed.
He stared at the stucco walls, where photographs and yellowing newspaper clippings were framed higgledy-piggledy. The tarnished silver frames cluttered every dusty surface. This poor cow was famous, thought François, but she had certainly seen better days. He was fascinated by the front page of a New York tabloid, which showed Lara, her then husband, Jonathan Meyer, and a beautiful teenaged blonde slugging it out on the slopes of Saint Moritz. ‘Can Divorce Be Far Behind?’ shrieked the tabloid. Another cover picture on
People
magazine, in colour, featured a much younger and more beautiful Lara in a gorgeous wedding gown, exchanging vows with Jonathan Meyer. ‘Inside the Golden Couple’s fabulous wedding’, the banner headline shrieked. ‘Tycoon Weds Glamour Model’.
‘Ha, the jet set – bunch of losers,’ muttered François. He surveyed the room, then returned to where Lara lay splayed out awkwardly. Looking down at her, he spied a key lying on the floor, half under a rug. Close inspection revealed it was a replica of Lara’s door key.
Without hesitation, François pocketed the key, then opened one of the drawers next to the bed. Inside was a mess of bottles of pills, face creams, candy wrappers and some diamond earrings and gold bangles, all hopelessly mixed up with hairpins, lipstick and a couple of sex toys. ‘What a slut,’ he muttered, resisting the urge to pocket the earrings too. Then he walked silently to the door, leaving the snoring Lara to her slumbers.
C HAPTER S EVEN
The First Party of the Saint-Tropez Season, early June 2015
Carlotta had arrived in Saint-Tropez the previous day. Maximus had met her at the airport and driven her to a beautiful small house in the Parc de Californie, which he had rented for the season.
‘One of the most prestigious addresses in Saint-Tropez,’ he announced proudly. He introduced her to the staff – Lilliane, a housekeeper and cook, who was married to the gardener, Denis. ‘And Denis will also drive you whenever you want to go somewhere.’
‘Oh, but I love driving and I want to explore this beautiful part of Provence!’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Maximus. ‘So, my dear, there is an amusing party tomorrow for Mina Corbain. Do you know her?’
‘Of course, I met her with you last year at the Grand Prix. I mean – who doesn’t know her? She has had a meteoric rise, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes, indeed she has. So you will you be my “plus one”?’
‘Of course, I’d love to.’
‘Well, my dear, then you should get some rest and I will pick you up at nine p.m. tomorrow.’
After he had left, Carlotta explored her new home with delight. It was charming, light and airy in the modern Provençal style – all white walls and furniture, cosy sofas and a brilliant azure pool that sparkled invitingly outside the sitting room, and a view of the Mediterranean that glittered and shone as hundreds of tiny yachts sailed gaily on the creamy waves.
I think I shall like it here
, she thought as she lay on a sun lounger beside the pool, enjoying the hot, comforting sun on her body.
I think I shall like it a lot
.
Carlotta was excited. She gripped Maximus’s arm tightly as they sauntered into the spacious hallway of
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