18
At 7 a.m., the morning after her showdown with Adam, Karin had packed her bags and left for the airport. She didn’t leave a note; she just wanted to be out of there. Waiting in the queue at check-in, she called Christina Levy. Years of experience in these matters told her that Christina was a woman who believed that no crisis was insurmountable and that anything could usually be solved by a therapeutic trip to Hermès or a weekend in a Mediterranean hot spot. As luck would have it, C
hristina wasn’t in London, but escaping the grim British winter on her husband’s 250-foot yacht, the Big Blue, currently anchored in St Barts’ Gustavia Harbour. Within minutes, Karin had bought a flight ticket to St Barts, and by lunchtime she was on board the Big Blue. Well, she reasoned, as she stretched out on the top deck with a cocktail, if she was going to drown her sorrows, she might as well do it on one of the most luxurious yachts in the Caribbean.
‘I knew Adam Gold was too good to be true,’ said Christina, sitting back on a day bed in a tiny white bikini, stroking the rim of her cosmopolitan. ‘He’s disgustingly handsome, but his manners are appalling. Skinny dipping with a stylist on your photo-shoot? I mean, who’d believe it?’
Karin knew her friend was trying to make her feel better, but she was still fuming. She felt tricked. Humiliated. Adam’s lavish gifts, the nonstop attention, his cute ‘Let’s play hookey and spend a few extra days in St Barts’ spiel – well, it obviously counted for shit. The second her back was turned he was like a dog on heat.
‘Still, I guess you knew that he might not be the settling down kind of guy,’ said Christina, trying to sound kind. ‘So many successful men are commitment shy these days. Divorce laws can be so punishing, you can almost see their point, can’t you?’
Perhaps, thought Karin, but she wasn’t defeated yet. Every instinct in her body told her never to see or speak to Adam Gold again – he was a two-timing shit who clearly didn’t give a damn about her feelings – but she hated being beaten. Karin was always the hunter, the femme fatale who made her man beg for more, but now Adam had clearly shown her that he was the one with the power, the one who could take or leave the relationship, and she hated feeling so out of control. But damn it all, she still wanted him. And she wanted all this, she thought, looking around the top deck of the Big Blue and letting the soft, salty Caribbean breeze blow against her skin. She wanted the best – and Adam Gold could give it to her.
Christina caught Karin’s wistful expression, and clapped her hands.
‘More drinks!’ she said sternly, summoning the waiter with a wave. ‘I think that’s enough moping about Adam, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘You are here to forget about him, not to spend hours obsessing about him. Listen, there are bigger, better, richer out there, Karin. Adam only just made it onto the Forbes list this year, for goodness’ sake, and unless the Midas Group has a seriously good twelve months, he might not even stay on it.’ She shook her chestnut mane over her shoulders and laughed. ‘When I suffered at the hands of Flavio’s betrayal, what did I do? I fought back.’
Christina’s actions after her fiancé, tycoon Flavio Mendes, had run off with her best friend Maria two months before the wedding, were the stuff of Belgravia legend. Within weeks, Christina had hooked up with Ariel Levy, whom she had met at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition party. At Christina’s behest, Ariel had acquired Flavio’s company in a hostile takeover and Flavio’s standing in the business community had dropped like a stone. He had tried to claw his way back, but every investment he made seemed to turn sour. It was whispered that Christina had been instrumental in making sure they did. Now Flavio and Maria were rumoured to be living in a three-bedroomed apartment in Alicante, while Christina had the run of twelve homes around the globe, use of a yacht, a private jet and two helicopters. For someone who had been a mediocre model, failed singer, and an actress with a non-existent CV, Christina was a world-class operator in the art of men and marriage.
Karin looked around her and suddenly felt depressed. She wondered if it had been a good idea to come to St Barts after all. Karin might have a fat inheritance sitting in the bank and her company might be turning over millions of pounds a year, but compared to this – walnut decks, helipad, Picassos in every stateroom – her life seemed decidedly parochial. She wanted this lifestyle so badly, she could feel the pain knot in her stomach. She felt lonely, wretched, powerless. She wanted to get off the yacht, quickly.
As if reading Karin’s thoughts, Christina lifted her lithe tanned body off the white day bed and threw on a fine silk kaftan, which slithered down over her bronzed curves.
‘What you need is a distraction,’ she announced, motioning to the waiter, who sprang forward with her Hermès crocodile Birkin and jewelled flip-flops. ‘We’re going to Nikki Beach for lunch and then we’ll do some light shopping,’ she said, walking down the steps to the middle deck. ‘Whatever you fancy: Ariel’s treat.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ called a baritone voice from the far end of the deck. Ariel Levy was sitting at the table reading the Wall Street Journal. He had thick, grey curly chest hair, a small head with thinning hair and a powerful aquiline nose. He reminded Karin of old pictures of Aristotle Onassis.
‘Karin needs cheering up. We’ll only be a few hours,’ said Christina, bending over to kiss Ariel’s cheek. ‘Do you want to have a late supper on board or shall we go down to Le Yacht Club?’
‘I’m sure we will do whatever you choose to do in six or seven hours’ time,’ he said flatly, rustling the pages of his newspaper. ‘Have a lovely time, ladies.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Karin as the girls climbed into the tender that would take them to shore.
‘Just his grouchy, lovable self,’ smiled Christina. ‘Can’t get enough of me, that’s his problem.’
Nikki Beach was on the other side of the island on St Jean Bay, just across from the Eden Rock hotel where Karin had stayed many times for the St Barts New Year celebrations. They settled into a couple of white directors’ chairs and ordered mineral water and salads.
‘Who can I commission to do some nudes?’ mused Christina.
Karin smiled. Her friend’s conversation was like a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next, never settling too long on anything.
‘And we are talking what? Photographs?’
‘Of course,’ said Christina sharply. ‘I haven’t the patience for anything else. Anyway, it’s Ari’s birthday soon. When we were first married I had a set of myself done by Helmut Newton, but now he’s dead I need another genius who can capture me in the same way.’ She ran her hands across her body. ‘Although I must get some work done first, of course. I’m feeling a bit blobby.’
Karin gave a low laugh. ‘You have an amazing figure.’
‘Do you think so?’ she replied eagerly. ‘I’m doing this incredible work-out at the moment.’
‘Oh yes? Which one?’
‘I’m fucking the gardener,’ giggled Christina.
Karin coughed on a crouton and Christina had to slap her back. ‘Tina!’ she spluttered. ‘How? When? WHY?!’
Karin was genuinely shocked at Christina’s confession – it was so completely out of character. Her friend had often told her about what she called ‘Christina’s Charter’, which had only two rules. Rule one: the way to get a rich man is to give incredible head. Rule two: the way to keep a rich man is never, ever screw around. Christina was nothing if not pragmatic and, as a learned scholar of the minutiae of international divorce law, she had decided that fidelity was the foundation of a successful marriage.
‘So – which gardener? Town or country?’ asked Karin, referring to Christina’s vast Mayfair home, one of the few detached private residences in W1, the Surrey mansion they had recently bought from an oligarch, or their vast shooting estate in Yorkshire.