Page 100 of The Reluctant Billionaire

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.

So I throw myself into it. I mingle. I drink. I enjoy the delicious canapés that are being handed around. I allow myself to soak up the unmistakable scent of the sea, and of the nearby pines, and of the incredible food being cooked up for us.

I revel in the atmosphere of this once-in-a-lifetime event at a place that has so much history. God, some of the guests here tonight probably decorate the walls along with Bardot.

I admire the understated perfection of the view, not only of the sparkling sea in the early evening sun, but of the restaurant itself, with its ancient, white-cushioned benches, its uneven wooden tables, and the faded white sheets that, when strung over the beams overhead, offer much-needed shade during the day. Tonight, those sheets are pulled to one side so we can feast under the stars as night falls.

Davide ushers me over to the edge of the crowd, off the boards and down onto the sand, so we can admire the view. I let my eyes drift closed and absorb the sounds, the smells. I’ve already referenced Aide several times in our conversation, but either he doesn’t think an absentee boyfriend is a problem for him or he’s genuinely happy to chat to someone who’s not available. Who knows?

‘Do you come here when you do Cannes?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, if I can,’ he answers. ‘I usually have someone take me on their boat.’

‘Makes sense,’ I say. Getting here by boat from Cannes takes under an hour, so it’s easily do-able. ‘It’s probably still a circus, though?’

‘The whole of the Cote d’Azur’s a circus in May,’ he says. ‘I’ve been here in September before, when all the Parisians have gone home but the beach clubs are still open and the heat is a little less intense—it’s beautiful then. I think it’s one of the most beautiful parts of the world.’

‘Not as beautiful as Italy,’ I say automatically, and he laughs.

‘Totally. Mynonnawould kill me if she heard me say I preferred France.’

‘Nothing scarier than anonna.Whereabouts is your family from?’

He’s just getting started telling me about his Neapolitan origins when I hear my name called behind me.

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