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Simon went pink. If it had been a cartoon, steam would have come out of his ears.
‘Menton?’ he shrieked, ‘what frigging good is she to me in Menton? We’ve only got about ten minutes of film so far and most of it is shit!’
Simon’s researcher, a pretty blonde girl with her hair in a pony tail, coughed discreetly and offered a solution.
‘Maybe we can just get a lot of colour?’ she suggested. ‘You know, film everyone going into the casino? Try and get into Harry’s and so on. Do we really need a presenter on film all the time?’
Simon looked as if he was thinking about it and then shook his head. ‘No, I wanted the grand prix segment to kick off the show. This is the start of the season. If we ever needed the presenter, it’s here.’
‘Maybe we could do more filming with her tomorrow?’ asked the researcher.
‘Has to be tonight,’ said Simon, rubbing his eyes. ‘We’ve only got permission to film in some locations today. Plus, there’s a massive party going on tonight at the Sporting Club. Diddy is going to be there.’
Simon turned to Summer. ‘Just how ill is she? Is it worth me going round and kicking her arse in a cab?’ he asked hopefully. ‘We’ve got a make-up artist if she’s looking too green.’
Summer winced. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Last time I saw her she had puked about half a dozen times. I don’t think a dab of foundation’s going to fix it.’ She didn’t like to add that her friend was also so loaded it would probably take her until this time next week to come down.
Simon swore under his breath. He’d suspected something like this might happen. Sarah Simpson had been a royal pain in the arse from the start: constantly late for production meetings and a complete diva to boot. What they really needed was a no-name presenter who would do exactly what she was told. Suddenly a light went on in his head and he looked Summer up and down. ‘You’re another model, right?’
‘I saw you in Elle this month,’ said the eager-to-please researcher, ‘in that Karenza swimwear advert.’
Summer flushed a little. It was only the second time she’d been recognized. ‘Yes, that was me,’ she smiled shyly.
‘Ever done any TV? Any presenting?’ asked Simon hopefully.
‘No, sorry. I’ve only ever done print work.’
Undeterred, Simon muttered some instructions to the cameraman, who trained his lens on Summer. Simon leant over to watch the digital image playback.
‘Talk to me,’ said Simon, looking intently at the picture. ‘Tell me what you’ve done this evening.’
‘Oh no, come on, this isn’t my sort of thing …’ Summer could feel her cheeks redden and had no idea what to say.
‘Just relax,’ coaxed Simon. ‘Tell me where you’ve just come from.’
Summer shrugged. ‘I’ve just spent two hours on Adam Gold’s yacht, aka HMS Gold-digger,’ she smiled. ‘Lakes of Krug, herds of Cavalli, hundreds of innocent ostriches slaughtered to make handbags for old women whose faces don’t move.’
She could see Simon’s face beaming behind the camera. This girl was dynamite. When she started talking, that gorgeous face lit up and the megawatt smile flashed, words flowing fluidly. He couldn’t believe that this shy, polite girl in front of him had transformed into a glorious witty live-wire. She was just what he needed.
‘Why the fucking hell have you never done telly before?’ he asked, smiling.
Because it’s always the pushy girls like Sarah that get put forward for the TV gigs, she thought.
‘Dunno. Why do you swear so much?’ she replied playfully. Simon laughed.
‘Well, right now would be a good time to shut the fuck up because I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. Luckily for you, the commissioning editor of the channel is in town and I’m going to get him down here to see what he thinks of these clips; but if he thinks what I’m thinking, I don’t think we’ll have any problems.’
Summer’s head was reeling. ‘Sorry,’ she asked, ‘what exactly is this offer I can’t refuse?’
‘Fuck me, girl!’ laughed Simon, ‘I’m asking you if you fancy being a household name, a star of the small screen, the next big thing. I’m asking you if you would like to replace your deadleg friend and take over presenting the show?’
The Villa La Vigie was one of the most beautiful properties on the whole Côte D’Azur. A primrose-yellow jewel perched on a hill just outside the principality, it had once belonged to Karl Lagerfeld and had also featured in the film Tender Is the Night. With its manicured, sweet-smelling gardens bursting with bougainvillea, it summed up the Côte D’Azur elegance. Tonight the villa was the venue for one of the most exclusive bashes of the grand prix weekend. Lynn Hanson, wife of the Texan billionaire William Hanson, was hosting a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party and the entire villa had been swathed in silver and white especially for the occasion. Karin and Christina walked out into the gardens and smelt the honeysuckle-infused air. It was a beautiful warm night and the Italianate gardens had been lit by flickering torches, but not even the sound of a famous Italian tenor singing heartbreaking melodies from the candlelit temple at the bottom of the lawns, or the free-flowing grand cru champagne could lighten Karin’s mood. She was feeling as if her world was falling around her ears. It was now way past midnight and there was still no sign of Adam, or anybody else from the Midas party, in fact. She had phoned Erin to find out where everyone had got to, but had been put straight through to message. Besides which, she thought with a shiver, if Adam didn’t want to be found, his assistant wasn’t going to be able to do much about that, was she?
‘Are you sure this was where everybody was coming?’ asked Christina, craning her long neck to survey the crowd.
‘Not everybody, no,’ said Karin. ‘Lynn and Bill’s is strictly invitation only. Molly has arranged for “everyone” to go to Jimmy’z, but when I spoke to Erin earlier, she said Adam was coming along here.’
‘He can’t still be at the casino, can he?’ said Christina, waving to someone in the distance.
