‘Do you want me to come and retrieve her?’
Summer smiled that warm smile and nodded. ‘Would you?’
At 325 feet long, Bratsera was too big to dock at the harbour and instead had to join the other mega-yachts moored offshore like a flotilla of super-rich invaders. Erin and Summer took a tender to the yacht. As they approached, they felt dwarfed by the sheer size of the five-deck monster, towering over them like a floating office block. It was so large, it even had its own helicopter landing pad; the girls could see some of the crew playing basketball there as they climbed aboard. As soon as they stepped onto the first deck, the girls were handed cocktails from silver salvers. There were at least sixty people on the main deck, circulating and drinking champagne. ‘Who are all these people?’ hissed Erin from behind her hand.
‘Oh, billionaires, heads of state, Euro-celebrities; just your average Saturday evening party,’ smiled Summer.
Several women – all tall, slim and glamorous – were wandering around in bikinis.
‘… And there might be a few hookers as well,’ she added.
It was, however, far too crowded and dark to see Sarah.
‘Oh, where the bloody hell is she?’ groaned Summer, as they threaded their way through the crowd. It was 9 p.m.: Sarah was so late for the filming.
‘Wait here. What does Sarah look like? I’ve got an idea,’ said Erin, and disappeared towards the back of the ship. Standing at the side of the party and scanning the faces, Summer recognized Barry Nelson, the yacht’s owner, leaning against the rail in a pair of cream chinos and a green open-necked shirt. He was quite plain-looking, but there was an undeniable halo of power and confidence around the man, she thought. Amazing what $20 billion in the bank will add to a man’s allure.
Erin reappeared with a smile on her face. ‘I’ve just been sweet-talking those crew guys we saw playing basketball. One of them saw a girl who looked like Sarah going into a stateroom on the third level. Come on.’
The third deck was just a long row of doors and, after a brief knock, they peeked behind the first. Nothing beyond a beautifully panelled cabin with the finest cream linen sheets on the king-sized bed. The same at the next door. On the third, they found her.
‘Fuck. It’s you.’ Sarah was sitting on the end of the bed in a pair of coffee-coloured lace panties and bra. Her hair fell loose and tousled on her shoulders and her eyes looked glassy. She was wavering from side to side, trying to pour brandy into a tumbler. ‘What are you doing here, Summer? I know I said come, but you’d better clear off.’
Summer took the bottle from her friend’s wobbling hand. ‘Why would we do that?’ she asked.
‘Johnny will be back any minute.’
Summer picked up the dress that had been flung over a Biedermeier chair and handed it to Sarah. ‘Get dressed,’ she instructed, ‘we’re going back.’
Sarah flung the dress down and bared her teeth. ‘Don’t you fucking understand?’ she slurred angrily. ‘Johnny is Johnny Galanos. The Greek ship guy. He’s bloody loaded and he’s dead fit too.’
‘But Sarah, you’re supposed to be filming right now!’
‘Oh, we can do some tomorrow,’ said Sarah vaguely, waving her glass in the air. Suddenly Sarah froze. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, and bolted in the direction of the bathroom. ‘I’m going to puke.’
Erin had been standing at the cabin door watching it all. She pulled at Summer’s arm. ‘Come on, don’t bother with her. She’s wasted. Let’s go and find her producer and tell him his star presenter is a dead loss.’
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.’