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‘What celebrities are going to be here this weekend,’ said Anton, still shouting, as two screaming models jumped into the pool behind them.
‘Loads of them,’ said Alex, forcing a smile as he felt spray all down the back of his chinos. He jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled a regretful face at the rum VP. ‘Sorry, got to take this,’ he shouted. ‘News never sleeps.’
Anton looked at him. ‘Has something happened? Is it big?’
‘Yeah, could be very big.’ He glanced around, then leaned close to Anton. ‘Beyoncé,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and find you later, tell you all about it.’ Anton gave him a big thumbs-up and Alex knew right then that Volcan rum would be committing to a hefty ad spend.
He pressed the phone hard against his ear, Alex immediately recognised Lara’s voice.
‘Hey. How are you?’ He moved to a quieter corner of the pool.
‘Bloody hell. Where are you? I thought there were no races on today?’ she shouted.
‘Pool party, which means I still need ear-plugs. Do you want me to call you later?’
‘I can go one better than that. How about we meet?’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I’m in Monaco.’
‘You’re in Monaco?’
Alex immediately felt his mood lift.
‘Couldn’t bear to be away from you,’ said Lara, deadpan.
Of course he was pleased to be in town. He’d much rather be sitting with a drink in the Casino Square, people-watching with his old friend, but it only took him a split second to realise what she was doing here. Jonathon Meyer had a yacht in Monte Carlo. It was surely no coincidence.
‘There’s some big advertiser party tonight I have to show my face at, but how about you come along? Then we can escape to the casino.’
There was a hesitation, then: ‘Sure, why not?’
‘Don’t get too excited,’ laughed Alex, although he’d expected some resistance. ‘It’s only the hottest party of Grand Prix weekend and therefore the entire year.’
‘No, I’ll come. It will be fun.’
Alex found himself smiling down at his phone.
‘Alex Ford, you dark horse. What are you looking so pleased with yourself for?’
He turned and was pleased to see his old friend Dominic Parker. Dom was an old colleague from his early days at the Chronicle. Short and stocky, Dom was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a purple tie so loud it hurt the eyes: Dom was an ad man through and through.
‘Just glad to see you,’ said Alex, embracing him. ‘Apart from the tie, obviously. What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I imagine. Advertiser love-bomb. Half of media and finance London is in a one-mile radius of this spot.’
Dom had started at the Chronicle on the same day as Alex and the pair of them had hit it off on their induction course. They’d lived a mile apart in Finsbury Park, and played five-a side soccer together on Sunday mornings. Their friendship had been short-lived when Alex was posted overseas within twelve months, but they’d stayed in touch, even though Dom hadn’t stayed long at the Chronicle, bouncing from job to job at an ad agency, a music publisher, a TV station, then back to an ad agency, each time climbing several rungs of the ladder, each time gaining more experience in different areas of the media. Dom was self-interested and ambitious, but he was sharp and wasn’t frightened about trying new things. In fact, thought Alex, Dom was exactly the sort of MD they needed at the Chronicle.
‘So how’s things in the cul-de-sac of print media?’ he asked.
‘Pretty good. I’m deputy editor, now.’
‘I heard – I rang you to congratulate you,’ he frowned. ‘Or didn’t I?’
‘Maybe,’ grinned Alex. ‘Possibly got lost in the haze of flowers and whisky.’
They spent a few minutes catching up on their news. It was good to speak to someone in the business without worrying about the politics. Back when Alex worked on the news desk, he would sometimes take Dominic along to parties and junkets. Dom’s smooth patter in the hotel bar was always an icebreaker with sources, attachés or celebrities. Dom could get anyone to tell them their story; he’d have made a fine reporter.
‘So what are you up to Dom? I heard you left the agency.’
‘The rumours are true. I’ve got a start-up.’
