Authors: Aita Ighodaro
‘You can still kind of manage your habit, Tara, but you should seek help, otherwise you might end up like your father.’
Tara couldn’t even muster the energy to get angry. ‘My father doesn’t take drugs.’ She wiped her snotty nose on her sleeve.
‘No, but he is an alcoholic,’ Natalya replied. There was no point in pussy-footing around at this stage. She reached into her bag and arranged the various treats she’d bought
in the food hall: some sushi, a selection of salads, and some Krispy Kreme doughnuts for a sugar boost. ‘Eat something.’ It was more of an order than a question, so Tara reached for a
doughnut and took a couple of nibbles.
‘Now, I know a very good place for you to go to, and your father too if he wants. It’s called Appletons Rehabilitation Centre. It’s expensive, but is supposed to be excellent.
Many models go there. They hef a 99 per cent recovery rate and only 2 per cent relapse.’
‘I’ve been to rehab before,’ Tara sulked.
‘Seriously, when?’ Natalya asked.
‘At school, when I was caught smoking weed, but I didn’t really need it then. I guess I need it now.’
‘I guess you do.’
‘I’m not gonna spend Christmas in a fucking loony bin – it’s not the glamorous jolly that all the celebrities make it look like.’
‘I know this.’ Natalya was sympathetic.
‘I have to go home for Christmas. And then maybe I’ll think about it.’
‘Progress, at least. Eat some more.’
Natalya moved closer to sit beside Tara and slid her own body under the duvet. Then she reached out a hand and stroked Tara’s greasy hair.
They lay together, wordlessly, for a long while. Natalya let her eyes close as she savoured Tara’s listless company. She tried to think of other things, but she couldn’t force
him
out of her mind. The father that didn’t want her around – didn’t want her alive? Would he really go that far to protect whatever life he had cultivated in England since
that fateful night twenty-one years ago? Natalya supposed he had a family now, a wife perhaps, and new children – legitimate ones. He had warned her not to come near ‘us’, whoever
‘us’ entailed. She sensed it was simply a matter of time before they would come head to head. The feeling repulsed and frightened her. Yet somewhere deep down she was strangely excited.
Whatever he was, he was her daddy. And if he killed her, he would have to acknowledge her first. Natalya tasted bile rising into her throat and forced her thoughts back to the present. She hugged
Tara tightly. ‘It’s OK, honey,’ she whispered.
****
Abena and Bertrand were staying at a country-house hotel for the weekend. The beds were enormous and feather-soft, each room had a roaring fire, and there was a
three-Michelin-star restaurant and a world-class spa on hand to feed body and mind. The hotel was famous for its service and boasted more than thirty staff members to every one guest. Staff who
would find themselves mostly idle tonight as Bertrand had booked all twelve of the rooms to ensure that he and Abena wouldn’t be disturbed. They were lying facing each other on parallel
massage beds, being pummelled and stroked by expert masseurs in spotless white uniforms. Scented candles encircled the beds and the surround-sound speakers played the sound of a sea rippling under
a soft breeze and lapping the shore again and again and again.
Abena had almost dozed off when she realized Bertrand was talking to her.
‘I’m going away to France for work next week. Merging one of Willy Eckhardt’s projects with a foreign investment of mine, so your pal Sarah will be coming along too.
She’s brilliant, very capable and efficient in the office and a good professional attitude.’
‘Well, whatever you do, don’t tell her about us.’
‘Are you mad, angel?’
The waves continued to lap and then Bertrand began talking again. ‘I’ve been thinking. Let me take care of your rent, precious. I hate the thought of Olympia being mean to you. Let
me take care of you.’
Abena closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
That night, after the staff had left, she offered to give Bertrand her own, special massage. Not for the faint-hearted.
‘Baby! Yes please!’ He gazed at her, eyes shining.
Chuckling to herself, she tied Bertrand to the bed so that he couldn’t escape.
‘Ow!’ Bertrand yelped as she slammed a fist into his shoulder blade. Another blow followed. And then she pummelled, jabbed and beat the man until he was whimpering and sobbing into
his pillow.
‘Baby, this isn’t quite the type of massage I had in mind.’
Abena brought her elbows down sharply on his lower back for the last time, and leant to speak in his ear.
‘B, please don’t ever ask to “keep” me again.’
‘Oh, baby, is that what this is about? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disrespect you. It’s just you seem so upset about your career, and your friend Tara. And the money
really is negligible to me. I thought it would be a nice gesture – one less thing in your life to worry about.’
‘Worry about my pleasure, darling, not my rent.’
After an hour had passed, Abena untied him, kissing the sore marks on his skin where he’d been bound. Bertrand rubbed his wrists and looked at her slyly.
‘Well, you’ve taught me my lesson, so I better teach you yours …’
Abena ran whooping through their suite, bracing herself for the mother of all punishments.
****
Tara’s emaciated back bobbed up und down in quick, convulsive movements as she retched into her blood-splattered pillow. It was three days since she’d last had a hit
but her nose still bled intermittently. Despite pains in her chest and her arm, she couldn’t stop wanting more.
The highs were fleeting, but so intense, so euphoric. The lows were not fleeting; they lingered. The lows made Tara feel as though she might as well end it. That it didn’t matter if she
died of a heart attack one of these days because she didn’t care. She didn’t care that her friends were beginning to hate her. She didn’t care about her parents’
relationship. About that goaty man that her mother was so taken with now. She didn’t care that her father was always drunk. None of it mattered except her next line.
And then there was the fear. Fear of how she would cope if she couldn’t get hold of more cocaine. And fear of what would happen to her if she got hold of more than she could pay for. Joe
wasn’t so nice to her any more. He didn’t have time for poor little rich girls whose pocket money had dried up. She’d met other men who could give her what she wanted, but only if
she gave them something in return. A blow for some blow. Fuck. Why was she seriously contemplating it? She wasn’t an ‘addict’ for Christ’s sake. She was an intelligent,
well-bred girl. She wouldn’t suck a cock for a gram of coke. Would she?
‘Wow,’ said Sarah, as she ran her hand along the shimmering cocktail bar on board
Sin
. ‘I never thought, not in my wildest dreams, that I’d find
myself on a super-yacht in the South of France. Thank heavens Willy took a chance with an inexperienced PA. Which reminds me, we need to organize a Chairman’s Reception for you for next year
when you’ll be chairing Willy’s board. I was thinking the Dorchester—’
‘Sarah, you’re not working now – stop fussing.’
‘Of course I’m working, Bertrand, why else would I be here? I feel like this isn’t me, like I’m having a weird out-of-body experience. And where on earth have all these
women come from? These are like … mythical people, you know, those breathtaking beauties of fable and fairy tale, who you never actually know or see in real life …’ Bertrand
silently congratulated himself and Reza on hitting the spot with their floating club. Sarah went on, ‘I’m glad my boyfriend and I broke up – he definitely would not approve. In
fact I’m not sure I do.’ She looked around, open-mouthed at the solid-gold opulence of the bar at which she stood. ‘And please keep this Reza character well away from me,
I’ve heard some real horror stories about him.’
Bertrand glanced in the direction of a smallish man in tight snakeskin trousers doing the limbo under a girl’s outstretched leg. He bit his lip.
‘To be honest I don’t think you’re his type. Ahem, far too classy,’ he added, after Sarah looked offended. ‘When did you break up with your boyfriend?’
‘I’d seen it coming for a while. He said if I got on a plane out here today then that was the end of us. He thinks my job is taking over our relationship and that my values are
melting.’
‘Melting?’ Bertrand looked amused.
‘“Melting” was his word. Values that were once solid are apparently turning to slush. They’ve become a sticky pool of depravity – he’s awfully melodramatic
for an accountant. And anyway it’s not true.’
‘Sticky pool of depravity … Good God, that sounds blissful!’ Sarah shot him a warning look and he changed tack. ‘Sarah, you skilfully manage a team of thirty people
directly and hundreds indirectly; you’ve helped thrust Willy Eckhardt back into the collective consciousness of an entire nation; you’ve masterminded events that have raised hundreds of
thousands for charitable causes; and you’ve more than likely saved Willy’s marriage with all the anniversaries, birthdays and children’s treats you’ve organized. What has
your boyfriend done as a trainee accountant?’
‘Thanks, Bertrand.’ She treated him to a genuinely warm smile. ‘Well I couldn’t have done any of it without your mentoring. Anyway, enough about him. Let’s get
another drink. I am determined to catch up on all the years of fun I’ve missed out on with that silly boy – and it’s not every day I get to drink Russian cocktails out of
imitation white skulls.’
‘Hear! Hear!’
The theme of Reza and Bertrand’s Christmas party was white. On the deck of
Sin
, two huge Christmas trees sculpted in white gold by that year’s Turner Prize winner gleamed in
the moonlight. Diamond rings hung off the delicate upturned branches – a little souvenir for each of the female guests. Taxidermy was having a fashion revival so stuffed tarantulas clambered
up each tree and crazed-looking stags and does were positioned around the deck. Security had been discreetly ramped up tonight, and hidden in waterproof casing underneath the boat’s golden
gunwales was a newly installed anti-paparazzi device that could detect any unauthorized camera activity for miles around and obliterate the images.
And what fantastical images they would have been. The dress code was head-to-toe white: apart from the staff in black, Reza was to be the only exception in a tight denim shirt and snake-skin
trousers. Although most of the women were in floaty ethereal silks, and the men in tailored linen shirts and white jeans – perfect for showing off gleaming winter tans – there were a
few outfits that really stood out. Sarah passed a man smoking a cigar, his slicked-back silvery grey hair complementing his white silk pyjamas and monogrammed slippers. And who was this
haughty-looking woman? In a belted white satin suit jacket with matching harem pants, clear PVC courts and white floppy ears atop a head of lustrous black hair, her look was ‘Bugs Bunny does
the couture shows’. Next to catch Sarah’s eye was a family dressed entirely in white feathers. A fresh-faced teenager in a feathered mini-dress was furtively eyeing the men while her
parents, both dressed in long feathered coats, were talking animatedly to Reza.
‘No, it’s probably best you don’t engage Rhiannon in that superb limbo dance. It looks hilarious but the poor dear’s still recovering from a lacrosse injury at
school—’ laughed the mother, scarily shrill.
‘Incidentally, Reza,’ cut in the father, seeing Reza’s eyes snake down his daughter’s coltish legs, ‘did you know, I flew in straight from a record-setting shooting
weekend in Hampshire. I’m now so adept with a gun I could shoot the cork off a bottle of Dom from an astonishing distance.’
Sarah laughed and moved on, doing a double-take as a girl glided past wearing nothing but pearls, vast strings of them draped around her to form a bandeau dress that shimmered and tinkled as she
moved. The girl looked at Bertrand out of the corner of her eye, holding his gaze for a few seconds before prowling on. Sarah glanced despairingly down at her own white dress, which Tulip had
picked out for her. It clung to her curves a bit too lovingly.
Bertrand looked as debonair as ever in deck shoes, linen trousers and a simple white shirt. He’d rolled up the sleeves to reveal a slim watch – with a fat price tag, Sarah noticed
– and although he’d undone too many shirt buttons, he’d avoided a Rezaesque greasiness by ensuring there was plenty of room to breathe in it. He began to bounce in time to the
blaring house music. Reza had flown in a hot new DJ fresh from a private gig in Ibiza, and the star mixer was already working the boat up to a frenzy.
‘You look really great today, Sarah. White is definitely your colour.’
Sometimes Sarah forgot Bertrand was twice her age; when you gave him some alcohol he seemed to revert to his teens. She could see him stealing glances at her cleavage whenever he thought she
wasn’t looking. She really ought to pull the dress up a bit. She didn’t.
Neither did she resist when Bertrand grabbed her hand to lead her to his clients.
‘Ouch!’ Sarah shrieked, as her foot was pierced by a spiky metal heel. ‘This boat is way too crowded. Are you sure you’re adhering to health and safety regs?’ she
grumbled, but her comment went unheard above the music. The tracks were getting faster and as a low, deep voice boomed ‘The world is mine’, the fervour of the crowd intensified. Sarah
would definitely have preferred something more soulful.
Eventually Bertrand found the clients he was searching for, clustered inside on a white leather banquette. The stage and casino had been collapsed for the night and the revolving dance floor
stilled, leaving one gigantic space in which to dance, chat and play. One of the clients was the man with the monogrammed slippers, though Sarah didn’t quite catch his name above the din. He
shook her hand and, still puffing on his cigar, offered her another drink. Although the second of the clients, who introduced himself as Theo, was much younger and better looking, somehow it was
the first that Sarah couldn’t stop scrutinizing. There was something in his manner that suggested he wielded immense power, and it was strangely thrilling to be around him. She finished her
drink in one gulp to steady her nerves.