Sin Tropez by Aita Ighodaro Read Free Book Online Page B

dissimilar to her own. He was dressed in a pink shirt tucked into low-slung, pale blue jeans, with a chunky Rolex hanging loosely around his wrist.
    As if reading Tara’s mind, Henry winked and purred like a cat.
    ‘Who is he meeting? Oh please God, don’t let him have a girlfriend,’ she muttered.
    He sauntered through the restaurant and joined a dark-haired friend already seated with his back to the group. Abena had been studying him earlier, surprised that he was so casually dressed in
shorts and a beat-up white T-shirt at this exclusive restaurant. He was enjoying a glass of chilled Sancerre, completely at ease waiting on his own, apparently oblivious to the female waitresses,
each desperate to serve him. He rose to greet the blond newcomer and Abena found herself longing for him to turn round so that she could see the face above such promisingly broad shoulders. They
were both tall and even from the back had that lazy air of youths who are used to easily having whatever they desire. Now they were laughing loudly over something, still standing. Over his shoulder
the blond caught sight of the raucous corner table and ran his eyes briefly along it. He said something to his friend, who turned to glance briefly at their table and, noticing the girls
scrutinizing them with such intensity, directed a curious gaze at Abena. Jolted, she dropped her eyes hastily and studied her menu upside down. ‘I’m sure I know them from
somewhere,’ she said.
    As the bottles of vintage Bollinger gradually emptied and the night set in, the drunken group, buoyed up by the attention they’d been commanding, moved on to dance off their excited energy
at Les Caves du Roy, the chicest and most exclusive nightclub in St Tropez. Reza, who was well known there, led the group past the queue of impossibly pretty young women and pushed his way to the
entrance, stopping only to let Cameron Diaz enter before him. Once their table in the raised VIP area had been loaded with Grey Goose vodka and magnums of Cristal, Henry handed out glasses with a
theatrical flourish. A few extra glasses of champagne were awarded to the hopeful hangers-on who were circling their prey like killer-heeled vultures. Swept away by the charged atmosphere, Tara and
Abena started to dance on their seats, swaying crazily as they tried to emulate the sexy continental girls gyrating to the loud, catchy beats. ‘Ooooooh Yeeeeaaahhh!’ boomed the DJ with
a phoney American accent. ‘Welcome to Seeeaaaaiiint TRO PAY!’
    Natalya stared at Tara and Abena, laughing and fooling around as they danced. The duo had amassed a fan club of men who were cheering them on from the floor below. Suddenly a gorgeous young
Frenchman broke out from the crowd, vaulted over their table and landed behind them on the railing that separated the VIP area from the rest of the club. He hung upside down, swaying precariously
in time to the music, trying to impress Abena. They seemed so happy and carefree. Natalya wondered what it would be like to have a close girlfriend with whom she could gossip about boys and go
shopping. She felt pressure, constantly. Pressure to look after her mother and siblings. To secure a future for herself and to make sure she would never again know the kind of hardship she’d
endured in Riga. Friendship was for other people. All the while a bright smile never left her face and her hips continued to wind in time with the music. She fixed her blue eyes on Reza and moved
her body more slowly and sensually than before. Reza held her gaze, transfixed.
    From her elevated position, Tara could see across the entire dance floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed a pale, skinny man with peroxide blond hair flailing his arms and legs into a
cluster of sycophantic clubbers. Surely that wasn’t Dan Donahue of The Doctor, the hottest rock band of the moment and set to headline this year’s Glastonbury festival? St Tropez
didn’t seem like his sort of place. Tara