billionaire Harry Silver’s palatial villa in Cap des Salins, one of the most prestigious addresses in Saint-Tropez.
Harry Silver had made his fortune by selling arms to North Korea, but what the hell? Someone had to do it and this was, after all, Saint-Tropez, where for the most part you are only as good as your money, your youth, or your looks. Who cared where the money came from, as long as it was used to maximum effect and the procreation of pleasure?
Maximum effect had certainly been achieved on Harry’s villa. It was an avant-garde vista of shining, whiter-than-white marble floors, with zebra-skin walls slotted between black mirrors, and fat black and white candles clustered on every surface.
It was a warm night and a full moon glimmered on the calm Mediterranean. A long table was set out on the terrace, thick with candles, orchids, Tiffany glasswear and gold cutlery. The sound of cicadas competed with the sound of South American sambas from Luigi the famous DJ, and the lights of Saint-Tropez twinkled across the water below.
‘Ah, I see that the usual suspects are here,’ confided Maximus to Carlotta. He loved nothing more than a good party, as did Charlie Chalk, the rotund and affable British TV personality who was the life and soul of every gathering. Next to Charlie stood his life-partner Spencer, an Australian ‘trolley dolly’ with Qantas Airlines, who spent more time faking illness to enjoy the Saint-Tropez high life than he did dispensing cocktails in the air.
Maximus introduced Carlotta and then pointed to a roguish middle-aged American movie star and whispered, ‘There’s Dirk Romano, aptly named “Dirk the dick”. He loves dropping his pants and mooning the paparazzi while boating with his latest young fling, who is usually the age of his granddaughter.’ Maximus laughed, wheezing as Carlotta followed his portly behind, wobbling in too-tight pink trousers, swaying over to greet their host.
Harry Silver was standing at the edge of the black onyx pool, a Havana cigar clenched between moustachioed lips, his slick, dyed-jet-black hair gleaming like a patent-leather helmet. Clutching at his legs, one on each, were his adopted twins, a pair of gorgeous three-year-old African infants, dressed in the latest blue denim diamanté-studded Saint-Tropez baby gear, their huge eyes gazing around with wonder.
‘May I present the Contessa Carlotta Di Ponti?’ Maximus said proudly. He loved a title, as did Harry, who bestowed a cigar-scented kiss on Carlotta’s hand.
‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening, Contessa. It’s in honour of Mina Corbain as you know. Khris Kane is coming tonight and we will be the first to hear the new record he’s produced with her,’ bragged Silver.
Maximus was impressed. ‘Khris Kane – he’s the biggest record producer in the world now . . . And I hear Mina’s out of rehab,’ Maximus knew everything about everyone, thanks to TMZ, social media, and his gossipy acquaintances. Gossip was his currency and he used it to maximum advantage.
‘This is the only party she will be coming to,’ said Harry smugly, not mentioning that he was paying Mina a fortune to attend his soirée. This was just between him and her ‘people’, although Maximus suspected Harry had paid a whopping fee for the privilege. Superstars like Mina didn’t attend parties of people they hardly knew, unless a lot of money changed hands. Mina was new and hot, a great coup to have at any event. Designers fawned over her and sent truckloads of clothes and handbags to her LA mansion, hoping she would choose to wear them and get their wares advertised for free in the media.
‘Ah, here she comes now,’ said Harry with forced nonchalance.
‘
Mamma mia
, but she is gorgeous!’ Maximus was awestruck. He was in social heaven. After money, parties and food, there was nothing that made his day more than meeting a real-life superstar.
‘She’s the biggest singer in the world now,’ Harry had a
Harry Silver had made his fortune by selling arms to North Korea, but what the hell? Someone had to do it and this was, after all, Saint-Tropez, where for the most part you are only as good as your money, your youth, or your looks. Who cared where the money came from, as long as it was used to maximum effect and the procreation of pleasure?
Maximum effect had certainly been achieved on Harry’s villa. It was an avant-garde vista of shining, whiter-than-white marble floors, with zebra-skin walls slotted between black mirrors, and fat black and white candles clustered on every surface.
It was a warm night and a full moon glimmered on the calm Mediterranean. A long table was set out on the terrace, thick with candles, orchids, Tiffany glasswear and gold cutlery. The sound of cicadas competed with the sound of South American sambas from Luigi the famous DJ, and the lights of Saint-Tropez twinkled across the water below.
‘Ah, I see that the usual suspects are here,’ confided Maximus to Carlotta. He loved nothing more than a good party, as did Charlie Chalk, the rotund and affable British TV personality who was the life and soul of every gathering. Next to Charlie stood his life-partner Spencer, an Australian ‘trolley dolly’ with Qantas Airlines, who spent more time faking illness to enjoy the Saint-Tropez high life than he did dispensing cocktails in the air.
Maximus introduced Carlotta and then pointed to a roguish middle-aged American movie star and whispered, ‘There’s Dirk Romano, aptly named “Dirk the dick”. He loves dropping his pants and mooning the paparazzi while boating with his latest young fling, who is usually the age of his granddaughter.’ Maximus laughed, wheezing as Carlotta followed his portly behind, wobbling in too-tight pink trousers, swaying over to greet their host.
Harry Silver was standing at the edge of the black onyx pool, a Havana cigar clenched between moustachioed lips, his slick, dyed-jet-black hair gleaming like a patent-leather helmet. Clutching at his legs, one on each, were his adopted twins, a pair of gorgeous three-year-old African infants, dressed in the latest blue denim diamanté-studded Saint-Tropez baby gear, their huge eyes gazing around with wonder.
‘May I present the Contessa Carlotta Di Ponti?’ Maximus said proudly. He loved a title, as did Harry, who bestowed a cigar-scented kiss on Carlotta’s hand.
‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening, Contessa. It’s in honour of Mina Corbain as you know. Khris Kane is coming tonight and we will be the first to hear the new record he’s produced with her,’ bragged Silver.
Maximus was impressed. ‘Khris Kane – he’s the biggest record producer in the world now . . . And I hear Mina’s out of rehab,’ Maximus knew everything about everyone, thanks to TMZ, social media, and his gossipy acquaintances. Gossip was his currency and he used it to maximum advantage.
‘This is the only party she will be coming to,’ said Harry smugly, not mentioning that he was paying Mina a fortune to attend his soirée. This was just between him and her ‘people’, although Maximus suspected Harry had paid a whopping fee for the privilege. Superstars like Mina didn’t attend parties of people they hardly knew, unless a lot of money changed hands. Mina was new and hot, a great coup to have at any event. Designers fawned over her and sent truckloads of clothes and handbags to her LA mansion, hoping she would choose to wear them and get their wares advertised for free in the media.
‘Ah, here she comes now,’ said Harry with forced nonchalance.
‘
Mamma mia
, but she is gorgeous!’ Maximus was awestruck. He was in social heaven. After money, parties and food, there was nothing that made his day more than meeting a real-life superstar.
‘She’s the biggest singer in the world now,’ Harry had a
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