adore. Please – give it up for . . . Fabrizio Bricconni!’
‘Young!’ Khris the record producer snorted. ‘He could be Justin Bieber’s father!’
‘He’s twenty-nine,’ Maximus answered smoothly. ‘He has a big future; he just needs a little bit of training.’
A smattering of applause led by Lara followed Fabrizio as he strolled on to the stage and started crooning ‘
Volare
’ in his special Dean Martin voice. The audience, still milling about and drinking, was singularly unimpressed.
‘I don’t think Michael Bublé has to worry,’ Frick sneered to Sophie, who sneered right back. ‘Six bucks and my right nut bets he never even makes it to Moldova, much less Kazakhstan.’
Sophie was delighted to see Lara’s trumped-up gigolo making a fool of himself. ‘He’s a real horn-dog,’ she hissed to Frick. ‘You know, he even made a pass at me!’
‘Do tell,
cherie
,’ said Frick, expectantly.
‘Oh, it was a long time ago,’ Sophie said vaguely. ‘It was in Rome, twenty years ago.’
‘But,
cherie
, he would have been only nine years old then!’ Frick was usually careful not to upset his mistress, but this had knocked him for six.
‘Oh, well, it was someone who
looked
like him then,’ she snapped irritably. ‘All those Italian stallions look alike, you know,’ she shrugged.
As Fabrizio segued none too smoothly into a standard that had recently been re-popularised by Rod Stewart, Frick, Adolpho and Sophie started giggling and whispering amongst themselves as Lara hissed an angry, ‘
Shhhh
!’ from the next table.
Maximus was sitting between Carlotta and Lara, but he needn’t have worried about Carlotta, for, although she had mixed with the aristocracy of Buenos Aires, she was wide-eyed with wonder at the opulence of the flowers and the setting and the seemingly enormous combined wealth of the guests.
‘So many millionaires and magnates,’ she whispered to Max.
‘My dear, only a few millionaires here tonight. The majority of these capitalist pigs . . . ooh, I’m so sorry!’ he hiccoughed, realising that his pre-prandial cognac at his hotel and the two glasses of champagne at the terrace had made him a tad tipsy. ‘Most here tonight are billionaires, even a few multibillionaires.’
Lara was pulling at Maximus’s arm, annoyed that he was paying so much attention to the new girl in town, and by the fact that the dinner partner she had drawn on her left was an ancient billionaire wearing a bad brown toupee and too much orange Saint-Tropez tan on his wrinkled face. He had tried to engage Lara in conversation, but all she could see when she turned to him were several long black hairs cascading from his nostrils, not to mention the mat of grey chest hair peering out from his half-open Gieves & Hawkes silk shirt.
‘Isn’t Fabrizio absolutely fantastic?’ she whined at Maximus. ‘Don’t you just adore his voice? All those lessons were worth it! What do you think? Do you think he could have a shot at
The X Factor
in Kazakhstan?’
Maximus was now gently holding her hand, anxious to prevent her from picking up her fifth vodka.
‘He’s not bad, not bad at all,’ Max lied. If there was any time to sort out the pre-nup situation with the feisty Russian socialite, this was a perfect opportunity. ‘I think he has a good shot.’
Max was well aware that Fabrizio’s show-business sights were set a good deal higher than a gig in Kazakhstan. He had found out about the French TV show that had been secretly interviewing and auditioning Fabrizio for the Gallic version of
Dancing with the Stars
, which would be far more prestigious. Fabrizio had also been taking singing lessons in Paris and was trying to wheedle enough money from Lara to make a record.
‘I’m
so
glad you encourage him, Lara, my dear. You are so unselfish.’
‘Unselfish? What do you mean?’
‘Well, don’t you see? He is so good – I think he’s almost as good as Harry Connick, Jr.’
‘What do you mean
‘Young!’ Khris the record producer snorted. ‘He could be Justin Bieber’s father!’
‘He’s twenty-nine,’ Maximus answered smoothly. ‘He has a big future; he just needs a little bit of training.’
A smattering of applause led by Lara followed Fabrizio as he strolled on to the stage and started crooning ‘
Volare
’ in his special Dean Martin voice. The audience, still milling about and drinking, was singularly unimpressed.
‘I don’t think Michael Bublé has to worry,’ Frick sneered to Sophie, who sneered right back. ‘Six bucks and my right nut bets he never even makes it to Moldova, much less Kazakhstan.’
Sophie was delighted to see Lara’s trumped-up gigolo making a fool of himself. ‘He’s a real horn-dog,’ she hissed to Frick. ‘You know, he even made a pass at me!’
‘Do tell,
cherie
,’ said Frick, expectantly.
‘Oh, it was a long time ago,’ Sophie said vaguely. ‘It was in Rome, twenty years ago.’
‘But,
cherie
, he would have been only nine years old then!’ Frick was usually careful not to upset his mistress, but this had knocked him for six.
‘Oh, well, it was someone who
looked
like him then,’ she snapped irritably. ‘All those Italian stallions look alike, you know,’ she shrugged.
As Fabrizio segued none too smoothly into a standard that had recently been re-popularised by Rod Stewart, Frick, Adolpho and Sophie started giggling and whispering amongst themselves as Lara hissed an angry, ‘
Shhhh
!’ from the next table.
Maximus was sitting between Carlotta and Lara, but he needn’t have worried about Carlotta, for, although she had mixed with the aristocracy of Buenos Aires, she was wide-eyed with wonder at the opulence of the flowers and the setting and the seemingly enormous combined wealth of the guests.
‘So many millionaires and magnates,’ she whispered to Max.
‘My dear, only a few millionaires here tonight. The majority of these capitalist pigs . . . ooh, I’m so sorry!’ he hiccoughed, realising that his pre-prandial cognac at his hotel and the two glasses of champagne at the terrace had made him a tad tipsy. ‘Most here tonight are billionaires, even a few multibillionaires.’
Lara was pulling at Maximus’s arm, annoyed that he was paying so much attention to the new girl in town, and by the fact that the dinner partner she had drawn on her left was an ancient billionaire wearing a bad brown toupee and too much orange Saint-Tropez tan on his wrinkled face. He had tried to engage Lara in conversation, but all she could see when she turned to him were several long black hairs cascading from his nostrils, not to mention the mat of grey chest hair peering out from his half-open Gieves & Hawkes silk shirt.
‘Isn’t Fabrizio absolutely fantastic?’ she whined at Maximus. ‘Don’t you just adore his voice? All those lessons were worth it! What do you think? Do you think he could have a shot at
The X Factor
in Kazakhstan?’
Maximus was now gently holding her hand, anxious to prevent her from picking up her fifth vodka.
‘He’s not bad, not bad at all,’ Max lied. If there was any time to sort out the pre-nup situation with the feisty Russian socialite, this was a perfect opportunity. ‘I think he has a good shot.’
Max was well aware that Fabrizio’s show-business sights were set a good deal higher than a gig in Kazakhstan. He had found out about the French TV show that had been secretly interviewing and auditioning Fabrizio for the Gallic version of
Dancing with the Stars
, which would be far more prestigious. Fabrizio had also been taking singing lessons in Paris and was trying to wheedle enough money from Lara to make a record.
‘I’m
so
glad you encourage him, Lara, my dear. You are so unselfish.’
‘Unselfish? What do you mean?’
‘Well, don’t you see? He is so good – I think he’s almost as good as Harry Connick, Jr.’
‘What do you mean
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