Free The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club by Joan Collins Page B

travelling to exotic climes.
    Gabrielle gently and casually started questioning Charlie and Spencer about the previous night as they sipped their kirs.
    ‘It was a nightmare,’ Charlie sighed, ‘insane – I’m still feeling queasy. Poor, poor Mina! Such a great talent.’ He sighed again, slightly more theatrically this time. ‘But in spite of all the horror, the south of France is still the best place in the world to live.
J’adore Saint-Tropez
,’ said Charlie, breaking out his execrable French accent.
    ‘Oh, Lord, why don’t you learn how to speak French properly?’ sighed Spencer in exasperation. ‘You’ve lived here long enough.’
    Charlie was so popular that he spent his days accepting – and very occasionally declining – the myriad invitations he received. This also guaranteed that Spencer would always be around for the fun. Charlie was the life and soul of every lunch, cocktail soirée and dinner, and the confidant of many of Saint-Tropez’s elite. When he wasn’t socialising or travelling, he spent his time cultivating beautiful English roses, a difficult task in a Mediterranean climate, particularly since nests of wasps lived in the old stone walls of his garden.
    ‘Don’t you miss England then?’ Gabrielle giggled, slightly forgetting the interrogation in her amusement. Charlie could make the most banal remarks entertaining with his theatrical delivery. Round and ruddy-faced, he was always beaming, and had a hearty laugh that announced his arrival at any gathering.
    ‘Darling, I visit the cold and depressing UK only occasionally for medical or dental work. In fact, going there is exactly like having root canal treatment!’ he guffawed.
    ‘And for your charity work,’ said Spencer loyally.
    ‘Ah yes, of course.’ Charlie smiled modestly, then wrinkled his nose. ‘Join us for lunch now, darling. This smell is getting to me. It’s all very fishy,’ he quipped.
    ‘I don’t have time for lunch,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I still have to interrogate the caterers and the rest of the vendors that provided food for Harry Silver’s dinner.’
    ‘Phew! I can still smell the fish!’ gasped Charlie, fanning himself with a copy of
Nice Matin
. ‘Let’s go to the Aqua Club.’
    ‘Sorry, I can’t.’ Gabrielle stood up to leave, then blew him a kiss goodbye and walked away.
    ‘Oh, I do love it here,’ grinned Spencer, eyeing up the cute young waiter who was serving the table next to them. ‘Oh look, here come the autograph hunters now, Charlie. Aren’t you the lucky one?’
    With that a portly mother and father from Yorkshire shyly shuffled up to Charlie with their two bored-looking children and asked if they could have their photo taken with him.
    ‘Of course,’ said Charlie benevolently, as he attempted to balance the rather overweight twins on his already overburdened knees. ‘My pleasure,’ he croaked.
    ‘We love your show,’ screeched the harridan mother, her stringy hair pulled back tightly into a ‘Croydon facelift’. ‘We watch all the re-runs.’
    ‘Thank you, my dear, you’re too kind,’ Charlie gasped, trying to remove the children, who insisted on clinging to him while the father snapped frantically away on his mobile phone. Charlie was sweating hard, but the six-year-olds had attached themselves to him like leeches, mugging and grinning for their dad’s camera.
    A couple of local paparazzi magically appeared and started snapping the happy scene. Charlie attempted an avuncular grin while shifting the kids in front of him to try and hide his tummy.
    Suddenly François, the young waiter, stepped in.
    ‘
Excusez-moi
,’ he snapped to the father, ‘Monsieur Chalk is on holiday, so please respect his privacy.’
    The children started to whimper as their mother pulled them off the puce-faced comedian, and in the struggle spilled his drink all over the front of his trousers. The eager snappers continued snapping furiously, to the amusement of the other habitués.
    The