What the Lady Wants

  He shot an approval-seeking glance at me, from the corner of his brown eyes, and casually extended his arm along the back of the seat.

  ‘One’s really a curator, as much as an owner,’ he added.

  ‘Really?’ said Leonie. ‘I understand you charter it out now. That’s quite an efficient way of maintaining it, I suppose, getting other people to fund the upkeep.’

  ‘Well, yes, but she’s still ours . . .’

  ‘Mm,’ said Leonie. ‘I Googled it.’

  ‘Her,’ said Nicky. ‘Boats are always ladies. Nelly told me that, so it must be right.’ He relaxed so that his left knee made contact with mine. Leonie was sitting with her knees clamped together, well out of reach. ‘I like to think of yachts as being very like women.’

  ‘Really?’ said Leonie.

  ‘Really?’ I said, desperately trying to think of a way to stop him saying whatever he was going to come out with.

  ‘Oh, yes. Tricky to steer, expensive to maintain, beautiful to look at . . .’

  I started to relax, at which point he added, ‘Fairly easy to tie up . . .’

  ‘We must be getting near Monaco!’ I exclaimed loudly, as a crop of white apartment blocks and palm trees rose up from the craggy waterfront ahead of us. ‘Look, Leonie! Isn’t it beautiful?’

  She peered out of the window at the spectacular view and I took the opportunity to point my finger warningly at Nicky.

  ‘Best behaviour!’ I mouthed.

  He responded by taking my finger and biting the end of it gently, which utterly undermined my attempts at sternness.

  I slapped his knee.

  Nelson’s voice crackled through the old intercom connecting the driver to the back. ‘This was all reclaimed from the sea and Monaco itself is actually smaller than Hyde Park. And,’ he added, as Nicky’s hand trapped mine on his knee, ‘I can see you, by the way.’

  The three of us sat very upright in our seats for the remaining three minutes of the journey down the twisting road to the marina.

  The Kitty Cat was moored alongside a gigantic white motor cruiser and an even bigger fast-looking monster straight out of Miami Vice. Nelson, who had been making gentle scoffing noises as we followed Alexander’s driver along the quayside of gold-encrusted, million-dollar extravagances, abruptly went silent and appeared to have slipped into some kind of trance.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Leonie.

  Nicky nodded. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘She’s absolutely beautiful,’ barked Nelson, as if Nicky had just insulted his mother.

  I had to agree with him, even though I knew nothing about motor yachts. She wasn’t as big or as flashy as most of her show-off neighbours, but the Kitty Cat was pure old-fashioned glamour, with sleek art deco lines and polished wooden decks. Every inch of brass gleamed with years of polishing, the ropes were brilliant white, and the portholes sparkled in the sunshine. Well, I say portholes. They were more like windows. It was that big. Although it seemed quite small in comparison to the other boats, the Kitty Cat must have been nearly as long as a hockey pitch.

  ‘Welcome aboard!’ Alexander appeared at the top of the stairs leading up to the deck. I was pleased to see he wasn’t wearing a jolly captain’s hat like a few of the other owners I’d noticed on the way over. Instead, he looked a picture of old-school Riviera chic, in his linen shirt and chinos.

  The first awful ‘Am I overdressed?’ worries began to steal over me. Was this hat a bit much? It was very hot in the sun, and I didn’t know when the paparazzi were scheduled for – I didn’t want them to snap me unwigged.

  ‘Darling!’ said Granny, appearing from behind him.

  I needn’t have worried. Granny was wearing silky white palazzo pants and a floppy blouse, having apparently stepped straight out of Katherine Hepburn wardrobe services. A white scarf protected her head from the sun, and gold chains glinted round her neck. To stop her looking entirely like a stray sail, her bare feet were accented with the brightest red nail varnish I’d ever seen. The effect was unfairly glamorous.

  ‘How lovely to see you again,’ said Alexander, kissing me on each cheek. He greeted Nicky the same way, muttering something terse in Greek, albeit with a smile on his face, then shook Nelson’s hand, and kissed Leonie’s.

  ‘Ah, the Lady Luck! You have brought us beautiful weather,’ he said to Leonie, who blushed. ‘I hope we’ll have a splendid weekend! Now, what will you have to drink? You must need refreshing after your flight . . .’

  We found ourselves being moved towards the sun deck of the yacht, where a sunken pit was filled with blue and white cushions, next to an oval relaxation pool, tiled in turquoise and silver. An ice bucket of champagne was waiting for us, and as we approached a crew member in a red crested polo shirt began pouring into the chilled flutes. The whole effect was so like being in a J-Lo video that I itched to wander around the deck, touching all the smooth surfaces and peering into the windows, but instead we sat and chatted politely about Marinas We Have Known and Nicky’s new interest in art galleries until a steward glided up to Alexander and muttered something in his ear, which made him nod and smile.

  ‘Thank you. John has just told me that your bags are unpacked in your cabins, so if you’d like to freshen up, or have a dip in the pool . . .’ He lifted his hands and beamed at us. ‘Dilys and I had planned to have an early dinner on board, and then perhaps visit the casino later, but you must do exactly what you want.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Nicky. ‘Really?’

  I kicked him discreetly, but he sighed at me so loudly that Nelson stopped admiring the yacht and glared so hard the varnish nearly bubbled on the deck.

  The crew began milling about efficiently as we went below, and soon we were heading out of the marina into the open water ‘for a short cruise before dinner’. If I hadn’t seen the seascape changing out of the windows, I’d barely have known we were moving, it was all so smooth and quiet.

  Frankly, I could have spent a whole hour just in my cabin, opening and closing the hidden fittings and admiring its pine-green and cream elegance. The double bed, made up with proper linen sheets, was surrounded by deep cupboards, with round-edged mirrors everywhere to make it seem twice as big. The tiny bathroom was just as smart, with one of those huge rainstorm showerheads, and big old-fashioned brass taps on the basin. It smelled of polish and beeswax, with only a very faint tang of ozone to remind you that you weren’t in fact in a Mayfair hotel. Inside the wardrobes were matching cream and green satin padded hangers, on which some invisible maid had hung my clothes, lining up my shoes underneath. The latest magazines were stacked by my bed, along with CDs for the stereo and a pink silk sleep-mask.

  I sank onto the bed and marvelled at the luxury of it all. Then I had a shower, just because I could, and washed my hair, because the bathroom was filled with Aveda products. When I’d finished drying myself with at least three towels, I put on my new magic bikini, with the palazzo pants over the top, and wrapped a long scarf around my hair. I was admiring the raffish effect of my big hoop earrings when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ I said, getting into the spirit of things.

  It was Nelson. ‘Are you coming up for a go in the . . . Wow.’ He stepped back a little. ‘You look very glamorous.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, twisting round to look in the mirror. ‘Sure you can’t see my love handles over the top?’

  ‘No one will be looking at your love handles with that top,’ Nelson assured me, then added, in more familiar tones, ‘Have you put on plenty of suncream?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Oh, apart from my back.’ I didn’t usually expose that much of myself. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Um, no,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said and handed him the tube of sunscreen, adding, ‘Oooh!’ as the cold cream touched my warm back. Nelson’s hands moved with quick, firm strokes across my skin, over my shoulders, under the straps of my bikini, down to the small of my back where my palazzo pants start
ed.

  ‘Mmm, that feels nice,’ I started to say, then stopped, realising just how nice it did feel. Nelson had very strong hands. He’d done my feet for years, but he’d never massaged any part of me above the ankle before. Clearly, I’d been missing out.

  ‘Better do it now than let Nicky lech all over you,’ he said, as he stroked the rounds of my shoulders with his palms. ‘I’d hate to think where the cream might end up. By accident.’

  ‘Oh . . . Um, yes.’ I hadn’t thought of that. The idea of Nicky massaging suncream into my back or, indeed, anywhere, was rather a cheek-pinkening one.

  Nelson’s hands carried on moving across my skin, squeezing my arms, pushing my neck forward to cover the sides of my throat, and a tingling sensation spread through me.

  ‘Funny,’ I said. ‘When I did my arms and legs it absorbed much more quickly than this.’

  ‘Right, there you go, all done,’ said Nelson, finishing abruptly, and I was quite sorry when he did.

  We cruised along the coast for a few hours, relaxing in the jacuzzi and playing deck quoits, until the hot afternoon began to soften into a balmy evening, and the chief steward informed Alexander that dinner would be served in half an hour. Naturally, having brought about nine changes of clothes for three days, I was more than happy to pop back to my cabin and dress for dinner.

  Dinner was served in the dining room, a wood-panelled room with a full-size dining table that could have seated twelve easily. Tomato and fresh buffalo mozzarella salad was followed by gigantic prawns and sea bass, with wine glasses that seemed to fill themselves by magic.

  ‘So, tonight,’ said Nicky, rubbing his hands as his plate was whisked away by the steward, ‘you’ll be pleased to know, Leonie, that we’re on the VIP list at Jimmy’z, which is a very well-known club here in Monaco, and it’s always packed with racing drivers and hot models . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alexander, patting his lips with a linen napkin.

  ‘What?’ Nicky demanded.

  ‘I’ve been talking to John . . .’ John was the captain; he’d given me and Nelson a lovely tour of the boat. ‘And he says there have been a few set-tos between the paparazzi and some actor who’s here on honeymoon. The place is seething with photographers. So, with that in mind, perhaps it might be a good idea to go out on Saturday night instead?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly, seeing what Alexander was hinting at. ‘If we give the paparazzi lots of pictures of you on the boat tomorrow, they’ll go away happy and leave you alone, whereas if you go out tonight, and they’re spoiling for a scrap, they’ll be trying to provoke you.’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Nicky reluctantly.

  ‘And you don’t want a repeat of the Cuckoo Club incident!’ I reminded him, more pointedly.

  A few months before I met Nicky, he’d steamed out of the back door of the Cuckoo Club and lamped a couple of photographers whom he assumed were there to get an exclusive shot of him when he was pissed. They weren’t. They were waiting for Prince Harry. One of them didn’t even know who Nicky was. It was all most embarrassing.

  He glared at me. ‘I think you’ll find we’re under far more scrutiny here than we ever are in England.’

  I knew Nelson would be biting back some retort about no one knowing who the hell they were outside Hollenberg, but he was far too polite to do anything more than shoot a quizzical glance at me.

  I had to bite my smile back.

  I must admit it was quite disconcerting, seeing Nelson in his new suit, making witty dinner-table chit-chat with Leonie and Granny. Obviously, I’d seen him entertain Roger and his schoolfriends with his dry anecdotes, but tonight he was positively charming, whether out of competition with Nicky or not, I didn’t know. It was really rather attractive. Granny, especially, had been giggling all evening at his observations about London restaurants. I didn’t even know he’d been to the Ivy. Certainly not with me, anyway.

  ‘Why don’t you leave it till tomorrow when you can really let your hair down?’ Granny suggested now. ‘There’s plenty to entertain you on board – films and PlayStations and what have you.’

  ‘It’s all right for you to say that when you’re heading off to the casino,’ grumbled Nicky, but he knew it was a losing battle and gave up before Alexander had to glare at him.

  After dinner, it was still very warm, and we took our coffee up to the aft deck and watched the red sunset melt into the sea as we sailed back into the marina. The lights had come on in every window in the flat-roofed houses rising all the way up the Monte Carlo hillside, and the shoreline glittered as if someone had strung diamonds along the streets and between the yachts in their moorings.

  ‘Doesn’t that look fabulous!’ I sighed, helping myself to another chocolate and relaxing back into the cushions. ‘Just think of all those clubs and little bars . . .’

  ‘Have you been to the Blackpool Illuminations?’ enquired Leonie. ‘That’s quite similar. And much less pretentious.’

  ‘Do you know, I haven’t?’ said Nicky. ‘You must take me sometime.’

  I checked to see if he was being sarcastic, but he didn’t seem to be. In fact, he was making more than his usual effort with Leonie. I’d muttered as much to him as we were making our way up to the deck, and he’d pulled a very descriptive face and murmured something about ‘the quiet ones’ and how much he ‘enjoyed rising to a challenge’.

  ‘Not on a par with you, of course,’ he’d added, with a knee-wobbling dip of his eyelashes. ‘But then you’re more than a challenge. You’re completely out of bounds.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am.’

  OK, I smouldered Honey-ishly when I said it. I couldn’t help myself. I was on a yacht, in a Pucci gown, for heaven’s sake. When Nicky was around, I didn’t need the blonde wig to be Honey. He sort of brought her out, like a snake-charmer teasing the snake out of the basket.

  In a manner of speaking. He even had me thinking in faintly saucy metaphors.

  In addition to this, Nelson also seemed to be making an effort to bring Leonie out of her shell, although this had led to quite a long discussion of inheritance law, which wasn’t so interesting, despite Nelson’s admirable nodding and mm-ing in the right places.

  All in all, I thought, as we motored into the harbour, given the selection of people there, it seemed to be going astonishingly well.

  ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’ asked Nicky, pushing himself away from the prow we were all leaning on, watching the pretty lights of the harbour sharpen and sparkle in the first evening dusk. ‘Or I can have them make you a pot of tea if you prefer, Nelly?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Nelson through tight lips, just as Leonie said, ‘Ooh, yes, I’d like one of those Irish coffees.’

  ‘Something hot and intoxicating, eh? I think we can manage that – come below with me . . .’ he said, directing a saucy wink in my direction.

  I pretended to ignore it, but shivered a little when he was out of view.

  ‘Cold?’ asked Nelson, at once, and before I could answer, he’d slipped off his sweater and draped it round my bare shoulders.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, tucking it around me. I wasn’t cold, but it was nice of him all the same. ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous view!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nelson, looking at me rather oddly. ‘It is.’ Then he coughed awkwardly.

  I put that down to his inability to like anything connected with Nicky, and slipped my arm into his. ‘Thanks for making such an effort this weekend. I really appreciate it. You’re an angel.’

  ‘I’m doing this for you,’ he reminded me.

  ‘I know.’ I leaned against his reassuringly solid side, rested my head against his shoulder, and sighed. ‘I don’t think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be just now.’

  Nelson put his arm round me. ‘Me neither.’

  We stayed leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the ropes as the crew expertly docked the ship in a berth that must have cost more than my parents’ house. And I’d have happily stayed there, watching the Dior espadrill
es and gold jewellery parade up and down the marina, if Nicky hadn’t summoned us both to the jacuzzi. And for Leonie’s sake, of course, I went.

  21

  I don’t know what time Granny and Alexander returned to their stateroom but it must have been well after half one, since that was when we turned in for the night, and there was no sign of them then.

  They didn’t appear for breakfast either, which was laid out by the sun loungers – hot coffee in silver pots, warm croissants with fat pats of unsalted butter, sliced fruit, juice and home-made muesli – but when Granny did emerge, shortly after we’d put to sea for the day, she was wearing large sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell how worse for wear she was. Alexander followed her, positively bursting with cheerfulness, and after he’d greeted us, he excused himself to dive off the back of the boat for his morning constitutional.

  ‘I think he’s made a pact with the devil,’ observed Nicky, helping himself to another croissant. ‘There must be a painting somewhere of a very, very old man. With arthritis and lumbago.’

  I cast a look at Granny, sipping a black coffee. ‘We have one of those too,’ I said. ‘An old lady with embroidery and sensible shoes.’

  ‘Are those the paparazzi, then?’ asked Leonie, shading her eyes with her hand.

  We looked out to sea and, sure enough, there were a few little motor boats following in our wake. Little flashes of light glinted off what I guessed were camera lenses.

  I rushed off to get changed. When I returned, in the sundress and the gold sandals, with my blonde wig cascading over my bare shoulders, Nelson and Nicky both stared at me as if they’d never seen me before.

  ‘It’s only a wig,’ I said, very conscious of the attention, especially from Nelson, who was staring at me as intently as Nicky was.

  ‘Take it off,’ ordered Nicky coolly.

  ‘What?’ I squeaked.

  ‘The wig. Take it off.’

  ‘I can’t! You’re meant to be seen with an amazing blonde girl!’

  ‘So?’ His gaze was steady and knee-wobblingly sexy. ‘It’s far too hot, and besides, I can just as well be seen with an amazing brunette, surely?’