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Andy nodded. Bella knew he was wary of marriage, but he needn’t be quite so fucking obvious about it.
Soon everybody was dancing in the sea to Groove Armada – singing about sand dunes and salty air – some more careless of their costly garb than others.
Mark had been right about the temperature of the sea, but the mood was infectious and it was ages before they all sat down to lunch.
The meal was typically Ibicenco and utterly delicious. Local ham with rustic bread, a?oli and olives, followed by huge paellas bursting with fresh seafood, peppers, rabbit and chorizo, served from big, hot pans at the tables. Bella squeezed a wedge of lemon over her steaming rice and wiped her fingers on a linen napkin.
She was sitting in the dappled shade of the Arctic camouflage net with Andy, Simon, Natalia, Mark and Sam. The bride and groom were sharing a table with Damian’s parents and Poppy’s mother. Poppy had been heartbroken that her father, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, was too ill to be at her wedding – whether it had been held in the UK or not. He wasn’t even aware she was getting married, poor old love, despite the happy couple’s repeated and increasingly desolate announcements, complete with ring flashing, at his care home.
The two hundred-odd guests sounded pretty happy with their lot as decibel levels rose with the rosе consumption. At the next table, Bella’s mother, father, Bernie and Jilly were already on their fourth bottle.
‘What a lovely day,’ she said, full of tipsy sunshiny happiness. ‘I just knew Poppy would get it right.’
‘I think she had a lot of help from her devoted friend, no?’ said Natalia, turning her slanting grey-blue gaze on Bella. The diamonds in her ears and scraped-back hair emphasized the height and acute angle of her cheekbones.
‘I guess so.’ Bella grinned, recalling the hours she and Poppy had spent poring over fabric swatches, menus and playlists. ‘But I enjoyed every minute of it.’ She glanced over at the bridal table.
Poppy was throwing her head back in peals of laughter at something Damian had just said. Bella was so happy they were back together. This time for real. Last year, she’d caught Poppy in flagrante with Ben Jones, Bella’s then boyfriend, an up-and-coming actor. At the time, Bella had hated them both with every fibre of her being, and, were she honest, wished them both dead. But Ben went on to cheat on Poppy, who subsequently OD’d on a cocktail of drugs, both recreational and prescription. Despite the Balearic sun, Bella went cold as she recalled finding Poppy unconscious in her flat, surrounded by narcotic paraphernalia. Thank God she’d found her when she had.
Everything’s worked out for the best, she thought contentedly, gulping back her delicious chilled rosе and turning her face up to the sun. She was happier with Andy than she’d ever been in her life. Eight months on, she was still waking every day with an idiotic grin on her face.
Impulsively she leant over and kissed him on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’ He smiled at her.
‘Nothing really. Just thinking how happy I am that everything’s worked out like it has.’
With the crema catalana came balloon glasses half filled with ice and hierbas, the potent local hooch made, as its name might suggest, from mountain herbs.
‘So how are things in the men’s magazine world?’ Andy asked Mark and Simon, who worked alongside Damian on Stadium, the men’s ‘style’ magazine that liked to think it had more substance than the rest. Simon and Damian were columnists, which involved churning out variations on a superiorly misogynist theme, month after month. Mark was the art director, which gave him so much opportunity to ogle naked female flesh you’d think (erroneously) that he could take it or leave it by now.
Andy’s career – he was an investigative reporter for one of the better respected broadsheets – earned him grudging respect from Simon and slight resentment from Damian, who had always harboured ambitions in that direction himself. Still, as Simon said, the perks and parties at Stadium more than made up for a little professional jealousy. Or at least they used to.
‘Not great, to be honest,’ said Simon. ‘It’s a bloody drag. Sales have been hit badly by the recession. The downmarket rags – Nuts and Zoo and now Front; did they really need another one? How many boobs does the Great British Public need? – are cornering the market.’
Bella nudged Andy. Stadium was not exactly what you’d call a boob-free zone, though the boobs it showcased tended, with the odd honourable exception, to be smaller. Classier, you see.
‘Well that whole bespoke ethos is a bit anachronistic at the moment, isn’t it?’ said Sam, one of the honourable exceptions, in her husky voice, earning a look of surprise from Simon. ‘You should see your face! I’m not that thick, you know, and I’ve been reading Stadium cover-to-cover ever since I first appeared in it. I like to keep up on Marky’s job.’
Sam had taken up glamour modelling to pay her way through London University, where she was studying philosophy and psychology. She and Mark had met on a shoot. Fond though Bella was of Mark, she reckoned Sam was streets ahead of him intellectually. But she was young and easily impressed and Mark was seriously sexy, in a brawny, doltish sort of way. Today he was wearing tight white jeans and a scarlet racer-back vest top, revealing rippling biceps, triceps, pecs and lats in all their worked-out glory. To say nothing of the vast packet. His head was shaved, his smile crooked. When Bella first met him (long before she experienced the full – ahem – thrust of his lust), she’d had her doubts as to whether he was Arthur or Martha.
As if to prove the point, he laughed and kissed Sam way more explicitly than manners dictated, groping her left tit and shoving his tongue down her throat. Bella remembered what it was like kissing him and reached for Andy’s hand, flushing suddenly.
‘Ugh, get a rrrrroooom, please,’ said Natalia, shuddering. Sam pulled away from Mark and laughed.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He does get carried away sometimes. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, surely all that handmade suit and expensive trainers stuff just doesn’t cut it when people can’t even pay their mortgages?’
‘It’s aspirational luxury though.’ Simon stuck stubbornly to his guns. ‘People need things to cheer them up when times are tough. Just look at the Busby Berkeley movies of the thirties.’
‘Are you comparing Stadium to Busby Berkeley movies?’ Bella laughed. ‘Not sure what your emphatically not gay metrosexual readership would make of that.’
Simon laughed too. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s too depressing to discuss on such a lovely day, anyway. Are you working on anything interesting at the moment, Andy?’
‘Interesting, yes, but not what you’d call uplifting.’ He smiled briefly at Simon and squeezed Bella’s hand, trying to reassure her.
‘Try me,’ said Simon.
‘Do you remember that piece I did on the Albanian people-traffickers last year?’ As Simon nodded, Andy muttered, ‘People-traffickers … fucking euphemism for what these animals do … Anyway, one of them has tipped me off about another, bigger gang, which controls half the underage brothels in London.’
‘Wow,’ said Simon. ‘That’s heavy stuff. Why didn’t he go to the police though?’
‘He’s seriously scared of the retributions if it got back to the big boss, who has his spies, even within the police force. He seems to think he can trust me though.’ Andy’s clever eyes were serious behind their glasses. ‘I suppose he can. Even though I still think he’s lower than scum, if we get this lot, hundreds of girls might be saved.’
‘Eees the big gang Russian?’ asked Natalia, who was watching and listening intently.
Andy smiled at her apologetically. ‘’Fraid so.’
‘I really wish you could investigate slightly less horrible and dangerous people,’ said Bella, trying to keep her tone light, though the thought of her beloved Andy in danger was tearing her guts to shreds. ‘Or start working for a tabloid, where the extent of your investigative journalism would be rummaging through minor celebs’ dustbins, or even a spot of phone hacking …’
Andy laughed and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Don’t worry about me, my love. You know I’m always careful.’
Chapter 2
The newlyweds stood at the edge of the cliff, looking over at the lights in the Old Town.
‘Shall we just fuck off to Space and get off our tits instead?’ asked Damian. The after-party was raging colourfully behind them. He was sure he could hear Bella’s dad shouting something inappropriate.
‘And leave behind the people we love, who’ve come a long way to be with us, to meet a whole load of strangers we don’t, and who haven’t?’ Poppy laughed and kissed him on the nose, standing on tiptoes to reach.
‘I know, I know, it’s just … if we were with a whole load of strangers, it would feel like it was just us, alone, amongst – well, strangers … But now we’re with people who know everything about us, and I want to feel alone with you, Mrs Evans-Wallace.’ He started to kiss her so hard that they both fell onto the scrubby grass, inches away from the cliff-face.
‘Well, Mr Wallace-Evans …’ Poppy panted, fumbling at the crotch of his linen trousers, ‘I don’t know about you, but I think we’re pretty alone here.’
She started licking the top of his cock, and as he moaned, she murmured, ‘Move away from the edge you silly sod, I don’t want to be widowed on my wedding night.’
They both laughed and rolled backwards together away from the edge. Poppy started licking his cock again and he moaned some more, then stopped. He gently pulled her head back by her silky long blonde hair.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nobody turned down Poppy’s blowjobs, let alone her husband on their wedding night.
Damian pulled her up so they were eye to eye.
‘Nothing’s wrong, my dearest Poppydoodle. I just don’t want to consummate our marriage like this. I want to be inside you, like …’
‘Like this?’ Poppy grinned wickedly and, in an impressive display of agility, manoeuvred herself on top of him, pulling her flimsy wedding dress up and equally flimsy Myla boy shorts to one side. Soon she was groaning too, biting her lip to stop shouting so loudly they’d be heard by all the guests. Just as she was about to come, Damian withdrew, threw her over, whipped the pants off altogether, then lunged back into her with such force she thought she might explode. Then she did cry out, but he shoved his hand over her mouth.
‘Shhhh, Mrs Evans-Wallace. You’re all mine now.’
As Poppy came to her senses she grinned again. ‘Well, Mr Wallace-Evans, if this is what being married is all about, I think I could get used to it. Shall we gaze up at the stars like lovestruck teenagers for a bit now?’
Damian smiled and kissed her again but she pulled away and forced him to look at the stellar landscape above their heads. ‘I always thought that Ursa Minor sounded like a poor little boy being bullied by someone like Flashman at a horrible Victorian public school …’
The villa was like nothing Sam had ever seen in her life. The vast, modernist, starkly white edifice seemed to grow organically from the hillside. How could that be possible? How could something potentially so incongruous, definitely so gratuitous, look so at one with the landscape? Sam, who’d read up on Ibiza thoroughly before coming to the wedding, assumed it was because the lines followed those of the hill and that the white building, while modelled on a far larger and more glamorous scale than those traditional cuboid cottages, kept the Ibicenco essence.
There had to be at least five levels of asymmetrical terraces, all of which were occupied with Poppy and Damian’s guests, whose laughter and chatter filled the air. Or perhaps not quite filled, thought Sam, ever precise. She’d surprised and delighted her parents by getting 12 A*s at GCSE and 4 A*s – Maths, Biology, Chemistry and English – at A Level. She’d always been clever, but her mum and dad worked so hard keeping their small catering business afloat there had never been a huge amount of time for things like parents’ evenings and helping her with her homework. And looking after her little brother Ryan was a full-time job in itself, of course.
The reason the guests’ chatter and laughter didn’t quite fill the air was the insistent hum of cicadas that served as constant background noise, and the deep thudding bass line of some classic house that emanated from whichever balcony one of the island’s numerous obnoxious DJs was playing. Every other plant, from pines to palms and bougainvillea, was lit up with fairy lights, and candles in jewel-hued Moroccan glasses illuminated every path.
It was all breathtaking, but what really made it, in Sam’s eyes at least, was the pool. It actually went all the way around the house, like an enormous turquoise moat, with waterfalls gushing down in stages from the back, where it was higher up the hill – and according to Bella, the coolest place to escape the fierce midday heat. At the front, the infinity pool seemed to stretch right to the edge of the cliff. Sam, who’d come up from the beach with the others after dark, imagined that in daylight it would be difficult to know where the pool stopped and the sky or sea began. In the middle of the pool was an island with a bar on it, and three palm trees, now silhouetted gracefully against the horizon.
The view, even at night-time, was phenomenal. Bella had told her you could see Formentera from here too. She was looking forward to taking the ferry to Formentera with Mark. She’d read that the water was unbelievable there and that there were loads of nudists. She was happy baring her body, as she’d done it for the cameras enough times, and thought it would be really sexy to be skinny-dipping with her gorgeous hunk in the beautiful sea. She felt happiest with him when they were both naked – that was when she knew he loved her. Even though she thought she was probably as clever as he was, he and his friends seemed so sophisticated that she always felt a bit out of her depth in their company.
His friends at lunch today had been lovely, of course. Bella had always been particularly kind to her, and even that weird Natalia didn’t treat her like some kind of tart.
But loads of the guests today, just like other friends Mark had introduced her to, looked her up and down in two very distinct, and very obvious ways. The blokes looked as if they just wanted to shag her, and she could deal with that, really, because blokes had wanted to shag her ever since she hit puberty. What peed her off was the way they nudged Marky and came out with their not-so-subtle innuendos, just as if, because she had big tits, she wouldn’t understand a bloody word they said.
It was the women who were the worst though. Sam was savvy enough to realize that women in their thirties felt a bit threatened by her young, nubile body, but all she wanted to do was scream at them, ‘I don’t want your bloody boyfriends! If it wasn’t for Marky, I wouldn’t be here anyway and he’s more than enough for me.’ But she just had to smile politely at their bitchy comments and get the odd bit of satisfaction at their looks of surprise when Mark boasted about her philosophy and psychology studies. Though one particularly hatchet-faced old bag did mutter something about ‘dumbed-down Britain’ and ‘of course, everybody has a degree these days.’
She wished Mark would hurry up with her drink. Three blokes had already tried to get her into the pool, saying she’d win any wet T-shirt contest going, and she felt a bit of a pillock, really, standing around on her own in her uncomfortable glittery platforms.
Andy and Bella were floating on blow-up armchairs towards the infinity edge of the pool, which was so brightly lit that the people swimming naked underneath could be seen in all their glory. Sadly for Bella, her father was one of them, but she’d seen it all before; for as long as she could remember, he’d been partial to swimming and sunbathing in the altogether.
‘Daddy, can’t you put your willy away?’
‘What’s that, sweetheart? Sorry, water in my ears, can’t hear you.’ And he went back down to ogle a bit more.
‘Don’t worry about him, darling,’ drawled Jilly from the bar on the island, wiping white powder from her nose. ‘He’ll never change.’
‘But it’s so rude to you, Jilly. He makes me so cross – why do you put up with it?’
‘Your father is what he is, sweetheart. We have a damn good giggle, he’s kind to me, unlike some of the arseholes I’ve known, and he’s never promised me anything. Besides, Jorge here is far more handsome, don’t you think?’ She guffawed and, as Bella refocused her eyes, she realized that Jilly was fondling the barman’s tanned and muscular naked buttocks. All the barmen were wearing g-strings and little white aprons.
Natalia, who was perched on one of the island’s white linen upholstered bar stools, long legs elegantly crossed, winked at Bella. She had changed out of her Pucci minidress into a Schiaparelli pink high-cut swimsuit and a crystal-embossed, rainbow-hued sarong.
‘You want some naughty dust?’
Finding Poppy nearly dead from a cocktail of coke, ecstasy, Temazepam and vodka last year had put something of a dampener on Bella’s enthusiasm for the hard stuff. But in such a ridiculously bacchanalian setting, who could say no, really?
‘Yes, please.’ She suddenly sounded embarrassingly jolly-hockey-sticks, as though Joyce Grenfell had been her favourite teacher at Malory Towers or St Clare’s. She looked at Andy. ‘Darling?’
‘Well, I have never been in a pool with an island and a bar before, so I think, yes, please, too!’
Taking advantage of one of her beloved’s rare moments of frivolity, Bella manoeuvred her floating armchair towards his to kiss him. As she reached out she accidentally launched herself into the water, knocking Andy out of his chair too. They were both laughing as they re-emerged and hauled themselves up onto the island.
‘What an amazing place you have here, Natalia,’ said Andy, handing her back the silver-plated coke straw. She put it onto the mirrored bar top, next to the absurdly over-the-top silver coke urn, and Andy went to the edge of the island to look out at the view, shaking the water out of his short black hair.
‘Yes, it’s just fabulous,’ said Bella, following his lovely tall body with her eyes. He wasn’t excessively muscular (Andy had far more important things to do than waste time in the gym), but he still made her weak at the knees with his long legs and broad shoulders. All at one with the world, she tried to focus on the view too. ‘Isn’t that Formentera over there?’ She pointed in the direction of the Old Town.
‘No, no, sweet Bella, that is Old Eivissa,’ said Natalia.
‘Bugger, I’ve never been any good at directions.’ Bella laughed. ‘But this really is out of this world, and it’s so great of you to do this for Poppy and Damian.’
Natalia waved her bejewelled hands around impatiently.
‘Pouf, I haf money and small villa! What use is it for me on my own?’ Then she looked at Bella curiously. ‘Anyway, do you not think it is great for you to do this for Poppy?’
‘What?’ For a moment, Bella hadn’t a clue what she was on about. ‘Oh, you mean the Ben stuff. Well, he was an absolute wanker anyway, and I’m happy with Andy now, so …’
‘So …’ Natalia patted her on the shoulder. ‘You are a good and strong woman, like my old mamushka.’ She looked sad, and Bella was torn between sympathy, curiosity and an unedifying desire to be compared to something more glamorous.
Mark, Sam and a load of people she didn’t know, but who all seemed to know Marky, were lounging in Natalia’s rainbow chill-out room, which wasn’t as awful as it sounded. An enormous, circular area, half open to the sea a long way beneath, with every bit of floor covered in cushions of all colours, fabrics and sizes, at least three layers deep, it gave new meaning to the concept of chilling out.
The only pieces of furniture were several low white stone tables, essential for the balancing of ashtrays and glasses. The expanse of semi-circular whitewashed wall was hung with around fifteen vividly coloured, apparently abstract paintings. Once you got closer, you could see that they were more impressionist than abstract, all depicting the same view at different times of day, night and year. Individually, each painting would have been nice to have on your wall, thought Sam, but all bunched together like this they were incredible.
‘Bella really got lucky when she met old Nat.’ Mark laughed, drawing on a badly rolled spliff.
‘Don’t be nasty, Marky!’ said Sam, then snuggled up to him again, not wanting to put him off her. ‘Bella’s a brilliant artist.’
‘Oh, I know she is, babe. Who’s the one who keeps giving her freelance illustration work?’ Mark puffed up his huge chest and pointed at it, making Sam giggle.
‘I asked you a question, babe! Who?’ He started tickling her and, even though she thought she might die from lust, she eventually managed,
‘You are, Marky!’
He kissed her, using his tongue.
‘That’s better. Remember who’s boss around here, gorgeous.’ He took another draw on the spliff. ‘But you gotta admit Bella’s fucking lucky – finding someone as cunting loaded as Natalia, who’s fucking obsessed with mad colours, to buy them all at her first exhibition? That’s what I call bollock-busting luck.’
‘Are you talking about my daughter?’ asked an amused and very posh voice.
Mark looked over lazily in the direction of a beautiful older woman whose kaftan suited the surroundings so much he thought she’d be just perfect for a Stadium shoot, if they ever had a granny-fanciers’ edition.
‘Oh, hi, Olivia. Yeah, just saying how great for Belles that old Nat bought all her paintings.’
‘Yes, that was certainly a lucky break. Well, I just came in to see how they looked in here, and I must say I think Natalia’s done her proud.’
‘Hi,’ said Sam. ‘I’m Sam.’
‘Oh, how lovely, Bella’s told me all about you. I’m Olivia,’ said Olivia, extending an elegant hand. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Sam got up and fussed around with some cushions, trying to make it comfortable for her, but Olivia brushed her off.
‘Thank you, darling, but don’t be silly. It’s absolutely fine as it is.’ And she sat down, cross-legged in her kaftan, opposite them. Catching sight of the spliff burning itself out in the ashtray, she added, ‘You young things nowadays seem to have no idea how to roll joints. Give that to me, please – I can hardly bear to look at it.’
Momentarily terrified with dope fear, Mark passed Olivia the ashtray.
‘D’you have any more skins?’ she asked, and he reached into his pocket for a packet of Rizlas. Deftly, she tapped off the burning end and tore the silly thing open.
