Chapter 8: Cannes 1991 continued...

Angelika stood numbly in the corridor staring at the emphatically slammed door.  “Wow... I thought that went really well.” she said sarcastically to herself while bending down to put on her shoes. Fucking Shelly! Unbelievable, she thought angrily, and then peered in confusion down the long hallway, which converged with another and which then veered off into two separate directions.

               “Great.”  muttered Angelika, who was feeling uncharacteristically helpless,  “Eeny, meeny, miney...”

               Suddenly, a tall, male figure appeared at the end of the first corridor from out of a guest suite and who then closed the door behind himself. Angelika waved girlishly,

               “Excusez moi! Pardonnez moi! Ou est le phone?” 

               The figure turned. It was JC, the DJ from the ‘Raving’ party and he spoke glorious, perfect Londonese.

               “This way, darlin'. You alright?”  His azure eyes were smiling and he seemed extremely amused by Angelika.

               Angelika looked down and blushingly realized that she was still wearing the fateful Hotel Du Cap bathrobe. She hastily removed and discarded it and then attempted to walk coolly towards JC. “Oh hi!”  she said, as nonchalantly as possible, considering her heart was thumping visibly through her dirty Gucci gown. “You were at the party last night. JC right? You played some amazing shit.”

               JC looked even better close up. He had great style and he smelled incredible. She breathed in his sexy, musky scent and found that her insides had miraculously liquefied.

               “I dunno,” replied JC, who was obviously very serious about his job, “the sound system sucked.”

               “It did? I didn't notice.” simpered Angelika.

               “Trust me.” said JC, brooking no argument. “Are you staying here?”

               “Er, no. Just had...a er.. meeting.” stuttered Angelika, looking away.

               “Successful?” asked JC  who seemed genuinely interested.

               “Um...taking the fifth on that.” Angelika wasn’t quite ready to discuss that particular debacle, not just yet. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really do need to make a call.”

               JC grinned and handed her a huge mobile phone unit. “You can use mine.”

               Angelika eyed it with wonder, as she’d only heard talk of these Space Age contraptions. “Cool...” She dialed Shelly’s hotel number, while smiling at JC; it was eventually answered by their somnambulant concierge.

               “Le chambre de Shelly Kleinman, s'il vous plait?”  Attempted a struggling Angelika, “Not there? OK, no, that's OK, no message, I'll try again later. Merci. Shit. Merde.”

               Downcast, Angelika then handed the phone back to JC who looked deep into her sad silvery eyes and shyly asked, “Hey, if you're not busy, I'm going to hang out on my friend’s boat. You're welcome to join me. C'mon, it's a beautiful day.”

               Angelika’s heart leapt, but she couldn’t continue sporting the bloody Gucci column another moment. By now, the dress held some seriously bad clothing karma.

               “But I've got nothing to wear.” she replied, embarrassed to be uttering such a girlish cliché.

               JC grinned warmly and replied,  “Don't worry, my friend's a designer.  We'll find you something. C’mon, live a little.”

               Angelika said ruefully, “Famous last words.” She then smiled and put out her hand and JC took it gently in his, “Hi, I'm Angelika...”

‘I must be getting really spoilt,’ thought Angelika, while determining that the Veuve Cliquot that she was currently drinking was not nearly of the same caliber as the vintage Dom Perignon that she’d been guzzling with such innocent gusto, mere hours earlier. But, she had to concede, the view was much, much better.

               It was late afternoon and Angelika lay stretched out on a womb-like chaise-longue on the highly polished wooden deck of a fin de siecle three masted schooner that was anchored somewhere off the coast of Nice. She was wearing what was probably the most miniscule bikini ever created, and which had to have been hand sewn by diminutive elves wielding enormous magnifying glasses. JC’s designer friend Herve was a sweetheart and a flamboyant genius, but as is the case with most gay male designers, he didn’t acknowledge that women came in any sizes north of 2.

               JC was currently playing Massive Attack’s Blue Lines album on the yacht’s sound system. It sounded hauntingly beautiful with its combination of dark foreboding undertones, trip-hop beats and sensual female vocals. Angelika realized that she still had more than a vestige of last night’s mingled hallucinogens floating around her blood stream and the soundtrack was perfect; the hypnotic dub beats were taking her back to that delightfully relaxed, expansive state of the previous night; plus she found herself feeling undeniably horny.

             Angelika stretched out her limbs, elongating her long, slim legs for full effect as she caught sight of JC padding back towards her on his tanned, hairless feet. He had sexy feet! This was something, indeed. Angelika had a real issue with men’s feet, as mostly they were gross, smelly, calloused things replete with gnarled toenails; but not JC’s - his feet were yummy.

             His body was pretty fucking perfect, too. That flash of hard stomach from the night before was a mere precursor to the beauty that was the rest of him. He was tall and slender and he had the type of physique that could not be attained in any gym; he was elegantly muscled in the way that surfers are and people who regularly climb trees. All natural sinewy lines with no discernible body fat and his skin was tanned and deliciously smooth. His chest was entirely hairless and there was no evidence that it had been shaved or waxed. Angelika had once endured an unenthusiastic roll in the hay with a drunken TV actor who’d depilated his, and that stubbly sensation was not one that she was overly inclined to re-visit any time soon.

             JC sat down beside Angelika and refilled her glass, then his with champagne. The icy wine overflowed onto Angelika’s bare stomach and she felt her nipples springing to attention. At least she thought it was the wine. JC then lay on his side next to her, and supported himself on one elbow as he looked lazily at her. They’d been discussing the Herbie debacle before he’d gone to change the album, and JC had been fascinated.

             “So you won't be working for Everest Pictures any time soon, then.” he asked, smiling at her with empathetic eyes.

             “I somehow doubt it.” responded Angelika, who’d had enough distance from the Hotel Du Cap and the delightful Herbie by now that the “meeting” seemed like nothing more to her than just another hilarious anecdote. JC laughed, sipping the champagne.

             “That's fucked up. Does that happen a lot?”  Angelika tried her damndest to concentrate, as JC’s musky scent was seriously distracting her.

             “The casting couch?”  she asked, then continued, “Generally, the tone is a touch more subtle, but I do seem to be waging a constant battle to retain my fragile integrity.”

             JC gently pushed a stray lock of hair away from Angelika’s mouth and then he looked deep into her eyes. “Is acting your passion?”

             JC’s touch had sent inadvertent shockwaves through Angelika’s body. Her nipples were rock hard now and they were straining against the flimsy fabric of the microscopic bikini top. She was trying her best to be an interesting conversationalist, but damn, it was hard. All she could think was, kiss me, you bastard! but she found it helped if she gazed enigmatically out at the horizon and not at his gorgeous, ripped abdomen and that line of delicate hair that led down below to...

             She finally pulled it together. “Yes. Well...it was. I appear to be stuck in B movie hell, though. I play the same stupid femme fatale role over and over, ad nauseum. The money's good, but I don't know...maybe I'm at a crossroads. What about you? You really had the crowd eating out of your hand last night.”

             JC smiled, “Well, obviously the drugs they're taking help...but yeah, I love it, man. It's really exciting, really immediate...”

             From somewhere below deck, a pinkish-white, rodent-like  bespectacled guy who was unsuccessfully attempting to bite JC’s unparalleled style, suddenly appeared in front of them and he was practically frothing at the mouth, 

             “JC, man...you're a god! You got inside my head, man, that tune that goes 'wah wah wah, bleep bleep' totally changed my life, man...”

             Angelika, surreptitiously smirked and had no option but to turn away to admire the view again. But the geek was unstoppable,

             “Where are you spinning tonight, man? Can I carry your record boxes?”

            JC graciously replied, “Nice, man, I appreciate it. It's a killer tune, catch up with me in a bit, yeah?”

             The geek lit up and performed one of those complicated urban handshake things involving finger clicking of some sort. “Yeah, no probs. I'll be back in an hour...yeah?”  JC smiled indulgently as his newly minted slave disappeared below deck.

             “Hey...you have groupies!” laughed a surprised Angelika, “That must feel really good. Weird, but good.”

             JC looked away and distractedly replied, “Yeah.” then said, “Angelika, look at the sunset.” The dusk’s ravishing display was vibrant with pinks, golds, violets and emeralds, all clashing joyously in the darkening sky beyond the polished prow of the yacht.

            Angelika smiled and exhaled, finally relaxed and murmured, “That is so beautiful.”

            JC delicately leaned over and kissed her lips softly. “It’s nothing compared to you.” he whispered.

            Angelika then looked up at JC and she dreamily touched his face, tracing it’s lines and bringing his lips close into hers, but suddenly, their designer sunglasses clumsily collided.  “Something's coming between us.” said Angelika, in mock seriousness.

            “So soon?” replied JC.

            Laughing, they both removed their shades and looked deep into each other’s eyes. And then they kissed, passionately, their mouths and lips in perfect liquid sync.

            Angelika panting, suddenly pulled away and asked, “How long till your friend gets back?”

           JC, who was delicately kissing the tender flesh of her long neck, murmured, “Don't worry, I'll have the crew throw him overboard.”

           They both laughed at that and then Angelika grabbed the back of JC’s head, pulled his mouth up to hers and replied, “Forceful. I like that.”

            JC gently stroked Angelika's body, and then he expertly untied and removed her bikini top. She gasped at his sensitive touch as JC stared in awe at her beauty.

            “Oh my God...” he whispered and then they proceeded to devour each other.

It was dark by now and Angelika and JC were still making love under the magically starlit sky. Suddenly, fireworks exploded high in the heavens above the Croisette and they both started to giggle.

            “Did you arrange that?” asked Angelika.

            “But of course, my darling...” replied JC, doing his very best Cary Grant.

            “You're good,” answered Angelika, ”they'll never believe this one in Kansas.”

            Then JC thrust deep into Angelika and they both started to come.

            “Oh my God!” she panted, “He is risen...”

            “Sorry?” asked JC, who was momentarily put off his stroke.

            “Nothing...don't stop.” begged Angelika, pushing her hips up to meet his.

            JC then stared into Angelika’s eyes and quietly replied, “Never, darlin'.”

            Multi-coloured fountains flared high into the firmament once more as Angelika and JC both tried without success to be serious as their sweat-slick bodies simultaneously shuddered together.

The following day, Samantha, who was shaded by a glamourous, oversized straw hat, sat reading ‘Vanity Fair’ on a lounger by the Hotel Majestic’s kidney-shaped pool, which was lousy with g-string trussed, blonde and oily goddesses who were being insincerely attentive to just plain old oily men. Samantha wasn’t exactly thrilled to be surrounded by so much perfect pulchritude when she was heavily pregnant, but her rationalization was that at least she had a fucking life, which didn’t rely on the arbitrary whim of some mottled, toupe’- sporting septuagenarian.

            Luke, who was sitting beside Sam sporting Oakley snowboarders’ shades and his striped Dr. Seuss hat, was swigging a beer and pretending to read “American Psycho” by Bret Easton Ellis, while furtively ogling the topless honeys. Samantha and Luke had discovered that they actually had a great deal in common, and they had subsequently forged an amicable truce. They had just ordered some overpriced sandwiches des salmone fumes’ from the sweating waiter, when they suddenly caught sight of Angelika who, still clad in her grubby Gucci and high silver heels, was gingerly picking her way towards them through the lewd mountain range of naked glistening bottoms.

            Angelika finally made it without a lawsuit, an embarrassing fashion disaster or a career-ending trip into the pool, and she stood before them grinning inanely.

            “Fuzzy!” said Luke, happily.

            Samantha lowered her sunglasses and gave Angelika a thoroughly disapproving look as she said, “Nice of you to show up.”

            Angelika then flopped down next to her pregnant friend, sighed deeply and gave her an amicable hug.

            “Oh, Christ. What now?” admonished Samantha, unused to any public displays of affection from her best mate. Could Angelika be tripping again? It was a bit early in the day, even for her.

            Angelika then grabbed Luke’s beer, took a long, thirsty slug and beamed, “I'm coming to London...”