25

‘Where the fuck is that silly cow?’ Simon Garrison, the producer/director of ‘On Heat’ was angrily stalking around the square, a mobile phone clamped to his ear as he tried to call Sarah for the fifth time in as many minutes. This was the nightmare scenario for Simon. A very expensive, very impatient crew, standing around in one of the most expensive square footages in Europe were ready to roll, and their presenter was AWOL. He was ready to kill.

‘Simon?’ The director turned to face a beautiful girl with incredible lavender eyes.

Summer had identified Simon immediately from Sarah’s description earlier that day. ‘Always wears a baseball cap,’ she had said, ‘thinks he’s Steven fucking Spielberg.’ Along with the navy Yankees cap, Simon also had a couple of days’ worth of stubble around his chin, intelligent eyes and a deep furrow between his brow to indicate he was very, very hacked off.

‘Not now sweetheart,’ he muttered, gesturing to his mobile, ‘bit busy at the moment.’

‘No, you don’t understand, I’m a friend of Sarah’s,’ said Summer with an apologetic smile. Simon immediately snapped the mobile shut and turned to Summer.

‘Well, where the hell is she?’ he demanded, looking behind Summer hopefully.

‘Not here, I’m afraid,’ shrugged Summer.

‘I can see that,’ snapped Simon impatiently. ‘It’s nine fucking thirty and she was supposed to be here half an hour ago. Please tell me she’s on her way. Tell me.’

‘Actually …’ The look on Summer’s face said it all. ‘Actually she’s really ill. Food poisoning, I think. Someone is just putting her in a cab back to Menton.’

Simon went pink. If it had been a cartoon, steam would have come out of his ears.

‘Menton?’ he shrieked, ‘what frigging good is she to me in Menton? We’ve only got about ten minutes of film so far and most of it is shit!’

Simon’s researcher, a pretty blonde girl with her hair in a pony tail, coughed discreetly and offered a solution.

‘Maybe we can just get a lot of colour?’ she suggested. ‘You know, film everyone going into the casino? Try and get into Harry’s and so on. Do we really need a presenter on film all the time?’

Simon looked as if he was thinking about it and then shook his head. ‘No, I wanted the grand prix segment to kick off the show. This is the start of the season. If we ever needed the presenter, it’s here.’

‘Maybe we could do more filming with her tomorrow?’ asked the researcher.

‘Has to be tonight,’ said Simon, rubbing his eyes. ‘We’ve only got permission to film in some locations today. Plus, there’s a massive party going on tonight at the Sporting Club. Diddy is going to be there.’

Simon turned to Summer. ‘Just how ill is she? Is it worth me going round and kicking her arse in a cab?’ he asked hopefully. ‘We’ve got a make-up artist if she’s looking too green.’

Summer winced. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Last time I saw her she had puked about half a dozen times. I don’t think a dab of foundation’s going to fix it.’ She didn’t like to add that her friend was also so loaded it would probably take her until this time next week to come down.

Simon swore under his breath. He’d suspected something like this might happen. Sarah Simpson had been a royal pain in the arse from the start: constantly late for production meetings and a complete diva to boot. What they really needed was a no-name presenter who would do exactly what she was told. Suddenly a light went on in his head and he looked Summer up and down. ‘You’re another model, right?’

‘I saw you in Elle this month,’ said the eager-to-please researcher, ‘in that Karenza swimwear advert.’

Summer flushed a little. It was only the second time she’d been recognized. ‘Yes, that was me,’ she smiled shyly.

‘Ever done any TV? Any presenting?’ asked Simon hopefully.

‘No, sorry. I’ve only ever done print work.’

Undeterred, Simon muttered some instructions to the cameraman, who trained his lens on Summer. Simon leant over to watch the digital image playback.

‘Talk to me,’ said Simon, looking intently at the picture. ‘Tell me what you’ve done this evening.’

‘Oh no, come on, this isn’t my sort of thing …’ Summer could feel her cheeks redden and had no idea what to say.

‘Just relax,’ coaxed Simon. ‘Tell me where you’ve just come from.’

Summer shrugged. ‘I’ve just spent two hours on Adam Gold’s yacht, aka HMS Gold-digger,’ she smiled. ‘Lakes of Krug, herds of Cavalli, hundreds of innocent ostriches slaughtered to make handbags for old women whose faces don’t move.’

She could see Simon’s face beaming behind the camera. This girl was dynamite. When she started talking, that gorgeous face lit up and the megawatt smile flashed, words flowing fluidly. He couldn’t believe that this shy, polite girl in front of him had transformed into a glorious witty live-wire. She was just what he needed.

‘Why the fucking hell have you never done telly before?’ he asked, smiling.

Because it’s always the pushy girls like Sarah that get put forward for the TV gigs, she thought.

‘Dunno. Why do you swear so much?’ she replied playfully. Simon laughed.

‘Well, right now would be a good time to shut the fuck up because I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Luckily for you, the commissioning editor of the channel is in town and I’m going to get him down here to see what he thinks of these clips; but if he thinks what I’m thinking, I don’t think we’ll have any problems.’

Summer’s head was reeling. ‘Sorry,’ she asked, ‘what exactly is this offer I can’t refuse?’

‘Fuck me, girl!’ laughed Simon, ‘I’m asking you if you fancy being a household name, a star of the small screen, the next big thing. I’m asking you if you would like to replace your deadleg friend and take over presenting the show?’

The Villa La Vigie was one of the most beautiful properties on the whole Côte D’Azur. A primrose-yellow jewel perched on a hill just outside the principality, it had once belonged to Karl Lagerfeld and had also featured in the film Tender Is the Night. With its manicured, sweet-smelling gardens bursting with bougainvillea, it summed up the Côte D’Azur elegance. Tonight the villa was the venue for one of the most exclusive bashes of the grand prix weekend. Lynn Hanson, wife of the Texan billionaire William Hanson, was hosting a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party and the entire villa had been swathed in silver and white especially for the occasion. Karin and Christina walked out into the gardens and smelt the honeysuckle-infused air. It was a beautiful warm night and the Italianate gardens had been lit by flickering torches, but not even the sound of a famous Italian tenor singing heartbreaking melodies from the candlelit temple at the bottom of the lawns, or the free-flowing grand cru champagne could lighten Karin’s mood. She was feeling as if her world was falling around her ears. It was now way past midnight and there was still no sign of Adam, or anybody else from the Midas party, in fact. She had phoned Erin to find out where everyone had got to, but had been put straight through to message. Besides which, she thought with a shiver, if Adam didn’t want to be found, his assistant wasn’t going to be able to do much about that, was she?

‘Are you sure this was where everybody was coming?’ asked Christina, craning her long neck to survey the crowd.

‘Not everybody, no,’ said Karin. ‘Lynn and Bill’s is strictly invitation only. Molly has arranged for “everyone” to go to Jimmy’z, but when I spoke to Erin earlier, she said Adam was coming along here.’

‘He can’t still be at the casino, can he?’ said Christina, waving to someone in the distance.

Karin shrugged, not wanting to tell Christina about their fight. She had enough problems, without alerting the most predatory woman in gold-digging history to a possible target.

‘I suppose if he’s losing money, he’ll be there until he wins it back,’ she said vaguely.

‘Well, I hope Ari does well at the tables,’ said Christina.

Karin looked at her friend quizzically. ‘After what happened tonight?’

The two women had walked to the edge of the gardens, where the scent of honeysuckle was even stronger, and beyond them lay the crescent of Monte Carlo, twinkling like a Utopian playground.

‘Do you remember when I had to break into the house and bruised my arm?’ asked Christina, running her finger around the rim of her champagne glass. ‘Well, the diamonds weren’t all I took from the safe. Ari keeps copies of all his offshore accounts in the house. I have details of every numbered account he possesses in Switzerland, Bermuda, the Isle of Man and Jersey.’

Karin whistled. ‘You wouldn’t use them though, would you?’

‘I could have the Inland Revenue go crawling so far up his ass they could see his dental work,’ said Christina with a thin smile.

‘But Tina, you can’t mean to send him to jail for tax evasion?’ asked Karin.

Christina shrugged and took a sip of Krug. ‘Well, I guess he could go to jail. But I think he’s smarter than that. This is a business, pure and simple, and Ari will understand that all information has a price.’ Christina looked at her friend with steely eyes. ‘I would have preferred not to use the information. I would have preferred that he gave me a decent settlement without the need for a courtroom. But no, Ari decided he would have his PR company spin lies about me all over the newspapers, making me out to be a whore, when all the time he was screwing Emily Kent.’

Karin could sense her friend’s deep-seated anger as Christina continued. ‘Ari could have settled it like a gentleman, but he tried to play dirty. Well, now the rules have changed and now it doesn’t matter if we have a pre-nup or if I fucked the gardener or if he fucked the man in the moon. I think he’ll roll over and beg for me. And now my price has just doubled.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘I want to see what price he puts on his own freedom. I think we’ll start at one hundred million.’

The women smiled at each other and Karin clinked her glass against her friend’s. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Just then Karin’s mobile rang. It was Erin. ‘Hi Karin. So sorry for not getting back sooner. My phone was out of juice.’

Karin tutted. ‘Well, Christina and I have been stuck at the Hansons’ party for the last hour with no sign of Adam or anybody. Can you tell me exactly what he said again?’

Erin sounded awkward. ‘I think there’s been a bit of a mix-up.’ She stuttered, ‘I didn’t actually speak to Adam; it was Molly who told me he would be at Villa La Vigie. She said it was on the schedule.’

Like hell it was, thought Karin as she snapped her phone shut.

Molly! That bitch was pulling every trick in the book to get her out of the way. Karin looked at Christina and remembered what she had said about playing dirty. Two can play at that game, she thought, and smiled as a plan began to form in her head.

‘These women look good,’ said Simon, pointing at three tall blondes who had just got out of a cab outside Jimmy’z. ‘Summer – go grab them!’

Talk about a baptism of fire, thought Summer, picking up her microphone and pulling down her dress. Silverland Media hadn’t been allowed to film inside the exclusive nightclub and instead were trying to catch people on their way in and out.

She trotted up to the entrance where Ferraris were being valet-parked. A cameraman was following close behind Summer until she suddenly stopped walking. ‘Shit, it’s my mother,’ she whispered.

Somewhere between the drinks on the yacht and here, Molly had changed into a black micro-mini dress that showed off her long legs to perfection. She was wearing a pair of very high, very strappy sandals and Summer had to admit she looked incredible; you’d never guess she was forty-three.

Molly spotted her daughter and strode over. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she began then, spotting the microphone, gave Summer a sideways look. ‘And what on earth are you doing?’

Summer flushed and shrugged, feeling like a little girl caught playing dress-up with her mother’s best clothes. ‘I’m … ah … it’s a long story.’

‘Try,’ said Molly sternly, turning to wave her two friends inside.

‘Well, Sarah had to go home ill,’ said Summer, twisting the microphone lead in her fingers. ‘I went to tell her producer. And they asked me to fill in.’

She smiled hopefully, for one moment thinking that perhaps her mother might congratulate her. Instead a black cloud swept across Molly’s face.

‘Television?’ she hissed, grabbing Summer’s arm and pulling her to one side. ‘What have I told you all these years? Modelling, then movies. Not TV. TV’s cheap, it’s small-time. You will never meet a decent man in the ITV canteen.’

‘But it’s a good opportunity, mum,’ said Summer, cursing herself for sounding like a teenager.

‘No, the good opportunities are inside that club,’ snapped Molly, gesturing towards the entrance. ‘Look, over there.’ As she spoke, the crowd parted to let Prince Albert pass inside.

‘Listen, Adam is on his way over from the casino with a group of rich players. Real men with real prospects. Why are you wasting your time pretending you’re Davina bloody McCall?’

Summer flushed again, but with the TV crew hovering in the background, she somehow felt stronger. ‘And why are you wasting your time on Adam when he’ll be coming with Karin?’ she hissed back. Molly’s mouth dropped open. She looked as if she had been slapped.

Summer pulled her arm away from her mother and walked back towards the club, beckoning the cameraman as she went.

‘I’ll come in later,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got work to do first.’

That ungrateful little bitch, thought Molly as she took a seat at one of the reserved tables by the dance floor. After all I’ve done for her. Well let her play her little games. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Molly smiled as she remembered Summer’s comment about Adam. Of course Adam wasn’t coming with Karin, she smirked to herself. She clicked her fingers to summon the wine waitress and ordered an extortionately priced bottle of vodka and champagne for the table. She’d find someone to pay for it later.

But two hours later there was still no sign of anyone from the Midas party and, although Molly had kept herself entertained flitting from one old acquaintance to another, she was beginning to get bored and anxious.

‘Well, well … Here’s somebody I haven’t seen in a long time,’ said a voice behind Molly.

She turned and groaned inwardly. ‘Gunter. How are you?’

Gunter Strauss was a German industrialist. Rich and flash, he liked to dip in and out of the circuit when his fierce wife in Düsseldorf would allow him. Molly had met him at the Red Cross Ball five years earlier and he had invited her to Necker Island six months later. Gunter slid into a seat beside Molly, his long face twisted in a leer.

‘Here for the race, Molly?’ he asked.

‘No, actually,’ she said, turning away from him slightly. ‘I’m working with Midas Corporation this year.’

‘Ah, Adam Gold,’ nodded Gunter, ‘I was just going to meet him.’

Molly looked at him, surprised. ‘Meet him where?’

Gunter smiled and ran a hand lightly up Molly’s bare thigh. ‘On his yacht. He’s moored a couple of berths down from mine. I saw him at the casino about an hour ago. Said I should drop by for a drink.’

‘So he’s not coming to Jimmy’z?’ said Molly, pursing her lips.

Gunter shook his head. ‘It appears not. But how about we go for that drink together? Then I can show you my yacht. I believe I have a bigger one than Gold’s,’ he smiled lasciviously. ‘Why don’t you come and measure up?’

With a mounting bar bill, Molly had no intention of staying at Jimmy’z if Adam wasn’t coming along. If she could get Gunter to settle it and get a lift down to the harbour, then all the better. She could dump Gunter once she got to Adam’s tub.

Gunter’s car was a blue BMW with cream interior. Molly got into the passenger seat and sank back into the soft leather as Gunter gunned the engine and sped off, leaving rubber on the road. Monaco was tiny and the drive from Jimmy’z to the harbour was short, but it would never do to be seen tottering down the narrow streets to the yacht, especially not when there were so many prestige cars to travel in. But Molly knew immediately that they were going in the wrong direction, heading out of the small town into the hills of Roquebrune.

‘Gunter, I think maybe you have had too much to drink because the harbour is that way,’ she said, feeling her nerves begin to jangle.

‘I just want to take you for a spin,’ said Gunter, smiling. ‘You like my car, don’t you?’

‘Well yes, but I would like to go back to the harbour now,’ said Molly more forcefully.

They were out of Monte Carlo now. They had taken a turn off the coastal road and Gunter was slowing the car into a viewing bay at the side of the road. They could see the orange lights of Monaco to their right. Out in front of them, beyond the pine trees clinging onto the cliffs, the Mediterranean spilled out jet-black towards the horizon.

‘I love Monte Carlo, but sometimes it gets a bit crazy, no?’ said Gunter, sliding his hand onto her bare thigh again. ‘Sometimes you just need to be alone …’

Molly twisted away from him, illuminated only by the car headlights spilling out onto the soil in front of them. She knew why they had come out here. His wife was probably on their yacht, waiting for him, and Gunter wanted some fun beforehand. Six months ago she would have given him what he wanted, a little sexual buzz to end his evening, but tonight she was angry. She had been tricked away from Adam and she wasn’t in the mood to be playing with the likes of Gunter.

‘Can we go back, please?’ said Molly loudly, removing Gunter’s hand from her thigh. Gunter just chuckled and unclicked his seat belt, moving closer to Molly.

‘Now, tell me you haven’t gone all chaste on me?’ he sneered. His lips were close to her neck and she could smell a £500 bottle of bourbon on his breath. ‘Because that would be a real waste.’

‘Get off me!’ she spat, quickly rolling away from him and grabbing the car door. It was locked. Gunter’s fat, sweaty hand was back riding up her thigh so his fingers were touching the rim of her panties.

‘I’ve missed you, Molly,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve missed you sucking my cock. No one can suck cock better than you, Molly. I want you to remind me how good you are.’ He was almost on top of her now, groping at her breasts and fumbling with the zip of his trousers.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ she screamed, but Gunter was strong, pushing her down with his weight, guiding her hand to his cock, tugging roughly at Molly’s panties.

‘Please, Gunter. I don’t want to. I’m with someone now and I have to get back to the yacht.’

Gunter was smiling malevolently now. He had pinned her to the seat and hissed in her ear, ‘Oh yes, you’re quick to take my hospitality, aren’t you, Molly? Quick to come and stay in my villas. Quick to get me to pay your bar bills, to accept the ride home in my car. But it’s not all “take, take, take” in this world, darling. Sometimes you have to give something back.’

He tore at her panties, and she heard them rip away. Molly knew it was no good trying to overpower him so she relaxed her body and forced a thin smile onto her lips.

‘Well, I don’t want to be seen as ungrateful,’ she whispered, twisting her hips towards him and spreading her thighs until she could see his eyes widen and glint with lust. Smiling like a little boy at Christmas, Gunter moved away from her to pull down his trousers properly. At that moment, Molly bent her legs and kicked against his chest as hard as she could.

‘You fucking bitch,’ snarled Gunter, slapping her hard across the face. Molly felt her head vibrate and her skin sting, but the anger numbed her pain. This bastard was getting between her and her prize. A desperate rage possessed her. She flung her body forward, and grabbed the handbrake of the car, clicking it off. The car jerked forward and began to roll.

‘You crazy whore!’ screamed Gunter, scrabbling desperately to untangle himself from his trousers and to find the brake before the car toppled off the cliff. Given a brief breathing space, Molly punched the car’s central locking button and yanked open the door. Gunter howled and grabbed at Molly’s legs, failing to prevent her escape, but flipping her out of the car, sending her spinning into the soil, dirt flying in her face. She rolled away from the door, one shoeless foot slipping on gravel, terrified that Gunter would follow her and continue his violence.

Her heart leapt again as she heard the car engine roar into life, and she flailed backwards, landing by the side of the road. She lay there, hoping she was hidden by the brush as the blinding headlights swung across her face. The car stopped and the window buzzed down. She looked up and could see the shadows of Gunter’s face in the light of the dashboard, his eyes angry, his lips in a snarl. ‘You pathetic fucking whore,’ he said, and flung her shoe out of the window. It landed just in front of Molly’s face, coughing up a little cloud of dirt.

Her heart was beating so fast that she had to shut her eyes and breathe deeply to calm herself down. As the rear lights of Gunter’s BMW faded into the night, Molly slowly, shakily pulled herself to her feet. Her throat was dry. She felt a tear sting at the back of her eye as she looked at her knees, grazed and bloody from being thrown on the ground. She bit her lip and shook away her emotion. At least he had paid for her bar bill, she thought defiantly. At least he had paid for the bar bill.

She was surrounded by complete darkness, but she could just make out the line of the road. The lights of Monte Carlo did not seem too far away. She took off her other shoe and started walking.