Vanity (29 page)

‘Poppy …?' Jack looked at her as if to say,
Is this a good idea?

‘It's OK, Jack. I'd like to talk about her to somebody who knows her. It's Natalia, Pops. Natalia Evanovitch.'

‘
Natalia?
' Poppy couldn't have been more surprised if he'd said it was Hillary Clinton. ‘What the fuck? How on earth do you know her? Oh, tell me, please please please!!!'

‘We met in Saint-Tropez …' Ben took a long drag on his spliff.

‘Good start,' said Poppy approvingly.

‘If you're going to interrupt every five seconds, I'm stopping now …'

‘Oh, sorry, please carry on. I promise I won't say another word.' Poppy did a zipping-up motion across her mouth and Jack laughed, looking at her affectionately.

‘As I said, it started in Saint-Tropez …' And Ben told them the whole story, from the night he first noticed Natalia's beautiful back outside Bar Sénéquier, to his discovery that she was being blackmailed, to the sad little note that she had left him. When he came to this last bit, he reached into his wallet.

‘I carry it everywhere with me,' he said, handing the note over to Poppy, who read it in silence, before passing it on to Jack. Then she got to her feet and gave Ben a hug.

‘What a romantic story,' she said. ‘Bless you both. But surely you're not just going to give up on her? Haven't you tried to find her?'

‘Of course I've tried to find her, Pops, but she's completely disappeared. I've tried all the places she's likely to have gone: Ibiza, London, Paris, Rome, St Barts, Mustique, Necker …'

‘Oh, Ben, you great lumbering idiot – don't you see she's not going to have gone to any of the places you're likely to look. If she really wanted to disappear, she'd have gone somewhere totally different to her usual haunts …'

‘She's right,' said Jack, sitting up straight and looking at them both. ‘But can we go back a couple stages, please? You forget you both have a head start on me. For example, how do you know Natalia, Poppy?'

‘Well, I first met her at my friend Bella's art exhibition last year, and we became friends. She let me and Damian use her amazing villa in Ibiza for the after-party to our wedding.'

‘Wow. A yacht
and
an amazing villa. A woman worth blackmailing, huh?'

‘Oh, she's absolutely loaded—' Poppy started, when Ben interrupted.

‘What's her villa like, Pops?' He was desperate to know as much as he could about the woman he loved.

‘Unreal. Five levels of terraces, a tower, a moat around the main house that leads into an infinity pool. And – get this – there's an island in the middle of the pool with full DJ decks on it.'

‘God, she's amazing …' Ben went all dreamy-eyed for a minute, until Jack clicked his fingers in front of his face.

‘Yeah, yeah. If you want us to help you find her, we need you here with us in the present, not drifting off into some romantic dream-world.'

Poppy looked at Jack admiringly, and Ben said, ‘Sorry. Thanks, mate. You'll really help me? OK, so what else do you want to know?'

‘Well, for a start, what is she being blackmailed for?'

‘She used to be a hooker,' said Ben and Poppy simultaneously. They looked at each other and laughed.

‘Wow. O-kaaay,' said Jack. ‘She told you?'

‘It's not really that difficult to guess,' said Poppy. ‘No offence, Ben, you know I think she's great, but … She's Ukrainian, stunning looking, and has billions and billions of dollars. Rumours have been circulating around her for years.'

‘In that case, why would she pay money to somebody who could only really confirm what everybody else was thinking?'

‘It would be different to have it confirmed in the press. She's actually quite a private woman, and seeing her past splashed all over the papers would be quite horrendous for her,' said Ben. ‘And now she's been linked to me, she thinks that if anything came out, it'd be bad for my career. Lovely, selfless creature she is.' He drifted off into another soppy trance.

‘She's probably hiding from the blackmailer too,' said Poppy astutely. ‘I can't imagine he's a very nice individual.'

‘Then it's even more important for me to find her, and persuade her to go to the police. The sooner the bastard is behind bars, the better.'

‘Sounds like a plan,' said Jack, and the three of them shook on it.

Poppy was thinking hard. Something was lurking at the back of her booze-addled brain. It was a conversation she and Damian had had with Natalia, about how they first met, and – yes, it was coming back to her now, in detail.

‘
It's so beautiful, Natalia, and so remote
,'
she remembered telling her.
‘
You could just lose yourself there for weeks on end and forget that the real world ever existed …
'

‘
It sounds wonderful
,' Natalia had said.
‘
Maybe I go there one day.
'

‘Ben,' she said excitedly, laying a hand on his arm. ‘It's just a hunch – in fact, it's a really long shot … I'm probably being stupid, but—'

‘Come on, spit it out …'

‘I think I might know where she is.'

‘
What?
Where? For the love of God, tell me, Pops!'

Poppy sat back on her heels and smiled at them both.

‘Bottle Beach,' she said. ‘I reckon she's hiding out at Bottle Beach.'

Late the following morning, Poppy was sitting at a white wrought-iron table in the pretty courtyard of her Chateau Marmont bungalow, eating a hearty breakfast of smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and bagels. Hangovers always made her absolutely ravenous. The studio did treat her well, she thought, looking around at the heavenly little whitewashed cottage, with its arched doorway, picture windows and terracotta-tiled, tropical-plant-filled courtyard.

She was feeling very pleased with herself. Not only had she won Best TV Newcomer, but there had also been talk last night of a follow-up series to
Poppy Takes Manhattan
, set in LA. If the last couple of days were anything to go by, she thought she could handle sun-drenched, fawning LA very nicely indeed, thank you. And it would be a perfect place for Damian to concentrate on his screenplay – both writing
and
networking. Marty was setting up several meetings for her, so she was going to be staying on a few more days.
Oooh, twist my arm, why don't you
, she thought to herself gleefully.

She was also thrilled that she'd remembered telling Natalia about Bottle Beach. Ben was going to use the studio spies to find out if she actually was hiding there, and if she was, he planned to fly out there himself and surprise her on the beach. He only had another week's filming and then he was free to travel as he pleased. Poppy reckoned he was looking forward to playing the romantic hero, and she couldn't blame him. It was funny how all her dislike for him had evaporated after he'd ‘rescued' her last night. Anyway, she was married now, and Ben was in love, and as far as Poppy was concerned it was all water under the bridge (though she just knew that Damian and Bella, with their thinner, more sensitive skins, wouldn't see it quite like that). It had been easy for her to slip back into the friendship they'd had before all the madness had happened the previous year. She had been genuinely moved by his story about Natalia, and really hoped that the two of them would be able to sort things out.

Her phone rang.

‘Morning, Marty, isn't it a beautiful day?' she said cheerfully.

‘Sure is, honey. Say – have you seen any newspapers yet today?'

‘Not yet, no. Why?'

‘You're front-page news, sweet cheeks!'

‘Really? Bloody hell, I can't believe it! But why? Best TV Newcomer was hardly the most prestigious award of the night …' She laughed, but was actually thinking,
Maybe it's because I looked so different to all the others in my minidress.

‘It's not only about the award, Poppy …' Marty took a breath. ‘There was also the stalker guy in the crowd with the “knife” …' She could hear him putting the word in inverted commas.

‘Oh, my God.' After the knife had turned out to be a crucifix, the incident had rather got lost in the excitement of the rest of the evening. Poppy mentally kicked herself. Of
course
it would make the papers – it had happened right under the noses of the assembled world press, for fuck's sake. And if they'd papped the nutter, presumably they'd also papped her dramatic rescue by … Oh,
fuck
.

‘OK, Marty, tell me. How bad is it? Pictures of me and Ben? Loads of speculation as we used to be lovers? Oh, Jesus Christ, there's not stuff about me going back to Jack's party with the two of them, is there? Oh, please, Marty, tell me there's not.'

‘There's pretty much everything you've just said, sweetie.' Marty sounded sympathetic: he'd witnessed Damian's jealousy first-hand back in New York. ‘But try not to worry. I'm sure he'll understand. I'd call him to explain just as soon as you can though.'

‘Thanks
,
boss, I'll do that right now.' Poppy looked at the time on her phone as she hung up: 10.35 a.m. They were three hours ahead in New York. With any luck Damian would just be getting up – he'd sounded completely trashed when she'd spoken to him the previous night, and he liked to lie in. She took a deep breath and clicked on his number.

In the pocket of his rust-coloured velvet jacket, which he'd left hanging over the back of a chair in the penthouse bar of the Gansevoort Hotel, Damian's phone rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang.

Damian, at home alone in his marital bed, was having a nightmare and pouring with sweat. As he woke with a jolt, he realized why he was so hot and uncomfortable: he was still wearing his jeans, shirt, socks and shoes, though at least he'd had the foresight to take off his velvet jacket before passing out. God, he must have been twatted last night – Lars's insistence on shot after shot of schnapps really was lethal.

He took his clothes off and went to the kitchen for a pint of water, looking for his phone on the way. He and Poppy hadn't bothered installing a landline and he wanted to call her and hear all about her big success again. For all their recent arguing, he really did miss her when they were apart.

It soon became apparent, in their minimalist warehouse apartment, that neither his jacket nor his phone were there. Shit, shit, shit. He had to stop getting so pissed. As he tried to piece together the events of the previous night, he remembered speaking to Poppy just before they headed to the final bar, the late one. That was where his phone and jacket had to be. But what the fuck was the bar called? Was it in a hotel? He had a vague inkling that it might have been on a roof somewhere.

Decisively – or as decisively as he could when he was feeling so rough – he sat down at the kitchen table and opened his laptop. Lars would know.

Hey buddy. Left my bastard phone and jacket somewhere last night. Don't suppose you could call the last bar for me and see if they're there, could you, before I have to start cancelling things? (What was the bar called, btw? Were we in a hotel? I seem to have a bit of an – erm – memory lapse). Cheers mate.

Then he emailed Poppy:

Good morning my darling. Congratulations again, you clever thing! You'll never believe it but I seem to have lost my fucking phone (hoping it hasn't been stolen). What a bloody nightmare – I'm dying to talk to you. Maybe we should have gone with the old landline after all. Will let you know how I get on finding it in a bit. Love you, Me xxxxxxx

Then, as there was nothing practical he could do until Lars got back to him, he decided to see what he could find out about Poppy's award online. As he typed
poppy wallace pluto awards
into Google, entry after entry flashed up at him, and a proud smile slowly crossed his face. He clicked on one of them.

Movie and TV fans were left gasping when Best TV Newcomer Poppy Wallace was threatened in the crowd by a crazed stalker brandishing a knife.

What? Damian read on, heart beating furiously – why hadn't Poppy told him?

In a moment of exquisite bathos, the knife turned out to be a crucifix, and the stalker a well-known ‘professional fan' (we all know what that means, don't we kids? LOSER!). But the real story was Poppy's dramatic rescue by none other than HOT HOT HOT Brit actor, Ben Jones – who stars in next year's sure-fire big hit
Beyond the Sea
, with new best buddy Jack Meadows, fact fans. Poppy, who has been married to unemployed British journalist Damian Evans for less than six months, spent the rest of the evening looking très cosy with Ben and Jack, even accompanying them both to Jack's villa for his legendary after-party. Sensationally, Poppy left her then boyfriend Damian (now husband – keep up, losers) for Ben back in London ONLY LAST YEAR, before their fling fizzled out. Is history repeating itself, we wonder? And what of poor Damian? According to friends, he has become something of a recluse since losing his job on failed Brit mag
Stadium
earlier this year, and some even say he is resentful of Poppy's success. We're betting he won't like this latest development one teensy iota. Watch this space, gossip fans …

The piece was accompanied by far too many photos. Numbly, automatically, Damian found himself clicking through them: several of Poppy on the red carpet, looking utterly gorgeous in her minidress and boots as she posed for the cameras; a few of Ben looking dashing and manly as he threw his dinner jacket over her head and swept her indoors. And then, obviously taken much later in the evening, and probably through a long lens, grainier footage: Ben and Jack reclining on sun loungers, with Poppy sitting on the floor between them, chatting animatedly; all three of them laughing about something, Jack sitting up straight this time; Poppy standing up
with her arms around Ben …