‘A thousand people,’ said Tom, eyebrows raised. ‘Do we have that many friends?’
‘You don’t, no.’
Tom tutted.
‘You don’t have that many friends though, do you?’ she glared. ‘Then again, you don’t seem to like meeting people. You haven’t stopped complaining since you arrived and you haven’t made the slightest effort to talk to anyone, which is so rude because I could have invited dozens of friends in your place.’
‘Maybe you should have.’
‘Well, in future I will.’
‘Go on then.’
They glared at each other.
‘Look, just stop complaining and go and get me another drink from that turbanned chappie,’ said Serena finally. ‘I want Cristal. I’m parched.’
Tom strode over and snatched the magazine out of Serena’s hands. He brought his face down so she could see him under the brim of her hat. ‘Well there he is,’ he spat, pointing at a dark-skinned man with a tray of drinks. ‘Get off your backside and go ask him yourself.’
Serena Balcon and Tom Archer’s relationship was in the stage that most therapists refer to as terminal. Held together by familiarity and convenience, even the most innocent conversation quickly became a nettle patch of hostile banter. For Serena, the hostility was brought on by festering disappointment. Tom Archer had started off as a novelty boyfriend; he was cute and uncomplicated, and the complete opposite of the long procession of Serena’s former boyfriends – ex-Etonians, Hugh Grant-alikes and floppy-haired trust-fund banker boys. At first, it didn’t matter that Tom didn’t have pedigree – his mother worked in a factory, his father was a gardener: not a hint of good breeding anywhere in that family tree. But he was hot, the sexiest British film star since Jude Law, and he had increased Serena’s celebrity stock immeasurably.
Before she had met him on the set of a tiny British indie movie five years ago, Serena had been just a posh blonde who dabbled in modelling and importing pashminas. She was famous in the society pages for being one of the fabulous Balcon girls, but who wanted to be stuck in Tatler forever? She wanted a bigger stage, and at Tom’s side she got it. The media loved them – the unlikely but classy combination of Tom, the British-born movie star, and Serena, the sexy daughter of a baron, was potent and irresistible. Her impeccable sense of style wasn’t lost on the fashion press either. Within weeks of their party debut as a couple, she was US Vogue’s ‘Girl of the Month’ and within the year they were a huge Tom & Serena franchise that was like a golden VIP pass into the world of fame.
Five years later, it wasn’t enough. Yes, her family were titled, but much to Serena’s annoyance, the Balcons weren’t a grand English family like the Marlboroughs, the Wellingtons or the Balfours. Serena wanted a home to rival Blenheim, she wanted the tiny ducal crown on her headed notepaper and the state wedding with an engagement ring in the colours of her national flag, just like the one that Prince Rainier had once presented to Grace Kelly. And the fact that her bloody sister Venetia had managed to marry into semi-royalty tormented her even more. Put simply, Serena wanted more than Tom could give her.
She stretched out her long aristocratic legs on her sun-lounger and turned to look at Tom fuming at the rail on the far side of the deck. She smirked. It wasn’t all bad. There was no denying he was gorgeous. That square jaw, the cobalt blue eyes framed by jet black lashes, the mussed-up crop of dark hair and that incredible body peeking out from his open white Turnball & Asser shirt. Tom’s good looks could blend into any social situation. In a pub, he exuded a handsome-boy-next-door ordinariness. At a country house dinner with her father, Tom’s fine English features took on a rather noble, Brideshead Revisited quality. And put him on an LA film set and he glowed with that indefinable X-factor that agents the world over wished they could bottle.
Maybe he wasn’t so bad …
‘Sorry for being a bit cranky,’ she said softly, curving her pillow-soft lips into a pout. ‘Come here …’
Despite himself, Tom could not resist the sight of her stretched out suggestively in her Missoni string bikini. He moved sulkily to the sun-lounger. She straddled him, pulling off her bikini top and pressing her naked breasts against his chest. Tom groaned as she tightened her thighs against his.
‘How about we go back in the cabin and make up properly …?’ she purred in his ear.
‘Oh Serena,’ he said, struggling between two emotions – lust and anger.
‘Serena, Tom. Here you are, you lovebirds!’ Roman LeFey’s singsong voice pierced the silence. The biggest French designer since Yves Saint Laurent, he was a tall, black man with skin the colour of cocoa, his large belly hidden by a dark green kaftan. ‘What are you doing on the top deck in the mid-day sun? Mad cats and the English, hey?’
‘Mad cats exactly, Roman,’ said Tom, slightly abashed as Serena swung her feet onto the deck and slipped a tanned foot into a Manolo Blahnik flip-flop, tying up her bikini top without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
‘Roman, darling,’ she purred, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘I was just persuading Tom to be a bit more sociable.’
‘Looks like it,’ smiled Roman playfully. ‘Now lunch is about to be served, so stop hiding yourself and come downstairs,’ he said, leading them both towards the spiral stairs which snaked down to the boat’s mezzanine area.
‘Oh, I can’t go down in this tiny thing,’ moaned Serena. ‘I must go and change.’
She tip-toed across the top deck and slipped into her cabin, the welcome whirl of the ceiling fan cooling her skin and her mood. She threw open the wooden shutters of her closet and began flipping through a rack of chiffon, linen and silk clothes, thinking how exhausting it was to be known for your taste. An ill-considered outfit at even the most casual of gatherings – well, she shuddered to think about it.
Deciding on a tiny white Marni sundress, she stripped naked and pulled the thin fabric up over her long, lean, tanned body, accessorizing with a huge quartz ring and a copper bangle pushed high up her bronzed arm. She scooped her long layered honey-blonde hair up into a top-knot, patted her face with a towel and dabbed her cheekbones with a light, rose-coloured blush that accentuated her big aqua-marine eyes. At twenty-six she knew she was at the peak of her physical beauty: understated, stylish, stunning. Very Julie-Christie-on-holiday, she thought, looking at her reflection in the glass.
She fixed a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators over the bridge of her nose and walked to the mezzanine deck, taking slow, deliberate steps so that her entrance would be fully noted. She paused for a minute, taking in the scene. A crowd of people were drinking flutes of champagne and nibbling at canapés. The air smelt of cumin; a small band in fezzes played traditional Egyptian music by the bar. She moved through the crowd, away from where Tom was talking to a laughing crowd, and grabbed a martini.
‘What do you think of the dahabeah?’ asked Roman who had appeared by her side and taken her hand.
‘The what?’
‘My baby!’ he laughed. ‘A dahabeah is an Egyptian sailboat.’
‘It’s amazing,’ she said, giving him a playful kiss on the cheek and leaving a ring of pale pink gloss on his skin. ‘And I love our suite.’
‘I thought you’d like the Cleopatra Suite,’ he smiled knowingly, picking up a fig from an overloaded plate. ‘I should be in the studio finishing off the collection for Milan,’ he added, ‘but I can’t help being naughty.’
‘You’re so decadent, darling. That’s why I love you,’ sighed Serena generously, then instantly became businesslike. ‘Now tell me who’s here,’ she said, craning her long neck to survey the crowd. ‘I haven’t really been