Page 99 of The Reluctant Billionaire
It’s the strangest sensation.
And suddenly I cannot wait to see Lotta.
‘How am I supposed to get there?’ I ask.
She looks up from her phone. ‘Jesus Christ. I’m trying to organise this fucking party. Don’t you have a jet on speed dial or something?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re awful for the environment.’
She rolls her eyes and returns to her texting. ‘You are by far the most disappointing billionaire I’ve ever met. Make some calls. Go on. Shoo.’
CHAPTER 38
Lotta
Not only am I at one of the most iconic restaurants the past seven decades have produced in France, but I’m being chatted up by an actual sex symbol.
Like, a guy who’s been voted GQ’s Sexiest Man Alive.
Davide de Luca, groom Josh Landers’ best buddy, Hollywood superstar and delicious male specimen from the top of his tousled dark head to the tips of his loafer-clad toes, is making it abundantly clear that the only dessert he’s interested in later tonight isme.
And what do I feel?
Not athing.
Fucking Aide.
Tomorrow evening’s ceremony and party will be under the stars at the beautifully-named Chateau des Anges—Castle of the Angels—but tonight, the great and good of the movie world have gathered at Le Club 55 on St Tropez’s famous Pampelonne Beach.
The sky is a gorgeous haze of azure melting into golds and pinks and peaches. The Mediterranean sea is still as a mill-pond, a sparkling, blush-coloured mirror broken only the enormous white super-yachts dotted around. Several of our guests have,in fact, arrived by tender this evening and will head back out to their floating gin palaces when the night’s festivities are done.
But I doubt that’ll be for quite some time. Beachy, abstract remixes of Françoise Hardy are playing overhead, and the rosé and champagne are flowing, except to our pregnant bride, Elle and those who, like Josh, are in recovery.
The throng of beautiful people is thick, and the conversation is loud. Le Club 55 has always had a low-key vibe—think Demi back in the day with a single button of Bruce’s linen shirt fastened over her bikini. But tonight, we’ve kicked it up a notch. The uneven wooden boards covering the sandy floor of the restaurant may call for flat sandals or bare feet, but the resort-wear people are sporting is nothing short of fabulous.
Still, I’m holding my own. My skin is glowing from the past few weekends spent sunbathing by The Saint’s pool, and my silk jersey dress is comfortable yet sexy, with a plunging neckline and a daring thigh slit. Its gorgeous, deep coral shade shows off my tan and matches my lip gloss. Mr de Luca is definitely eyeing my exposed skin with approval.
I’ve long held a view that real, A-list celebrities tend to fall into two camps. The coked-up ones who can barely hold eye contact, or the really good ones who make everyone feel like they’re the only person in the room.
Unfortunately for me, Davide is the latter.
Unfortunately for him, my only reaction is to muse that this guy would probably do well if he ran for office.
He’s not even up his own arse. His latest movie, the one that premiered at Cannes a couple of months ago, is tipped for an Oscar nod, but is he blathering on about it?
Nope.
Instead, he’s peppering me with thoughtful, intelligent questions about the top end of the residential property market in London. He even mentions he’s considering buying a pied-à-terre there. If I gave a single shit, I could probably sign him as a new client.
But I don’t give a shit, and it’s really fucking annoying. Obviously, I’m tickled to have attracted such a massive star’s attention. If it wasn’t for my fucking, do-gooder boyfriend, I would one hundred percent fuck this guy and enjoy every minute of the experience. Elle would be thrilled—she’s had me earmarked for Davide for months, and since the invitations went out, it’s been a bit of a running joke between us all that I should hook up with him. With Nora obviously besotted and off the market, I was Elle’s Great White Hope for a fellow Cambridge-Hollywood couple (or at least hookup).
It is no exaggeration to say I’ve been looking forward to this wedding for months.
Fucking Aide.
I’m not one to mope, though. Nor am I one to waste an experience this incredible on feeling a little heartbroken and a lot let down by a guy.
Even if the guy is the single most miraculous person I’ve ever met.
