Page 32

“I’ve been in the navy cadets, I don’t need help getting into a dinghy,” the voice, definitely not Italian, says.

It’s a cut-glass, up-itself voice that with every word spoken screams “I think I’m better than you.

” Wait a minute. It’s a Born In Buckinghamshire voice.

It’s…Sebastian. Only it’s Sebastian not in his standard get-up of cravats and chinos, but Sebastian with hardly any clothes on.

A Sebastian, if it wasn’t for the voice, and the clumsy, gangly, stupid way he just boarded this boat, I could get on board with.

Who knew he had that body under all of his usual tweed?

“You almost killed me!” I yell, determined to focus more on the fact he got into the dinghy like an entitled prick, rather than his washboard stomach with that distracting trail of dark hair leading to his spray-on trunks.

“I did not, you need to get a bit more robust, girl. God, women, why are you such drama queens.” That’s quite a claim from the bloke standing like Adonis, if Adonis had worn only lime-green Speedos, and flicking his very flickable hair like he’s shooting a shampoo ad.

“You did,” Mary says. We can both see the sand in the water beneath us, it’s waist height at best and not looking very lethal, but still, she backs me. “You can’t just be jumping into boats like that, there’s protocol to follow.”

“If there’s protocol to follow, then why weren’t you , up at the top, waiting to help your guests onto the boat,” he says, blustering.

His voice becomes even higher and mightier talking to Mary, which I hate.

He seems like a man that just expects people to serve him at any given moment.

That’s my main problem with this Monaco set, they’ve never worked a day in their life and they think that somehow makes them special.

The reality is, it makes them so much weirder as they have no grip on reality, manners, or the fact that if they broke out of their refined, moneyed bubble for even one second then they’d meet some of the nicest people around.

Though, maybe that’s for the best. The Sebastians of the world don’t deserve to meet the Marys.

“You,” she says, tapping her watch. “Were ten minutes late. Let me radio to see if there’s any more of you due.”

I cross my fingers. It can’t just be me and him .

Apparently this trip, being dinghied to the yacht, is only five minutes.

I know because when I arrived I had said to Mary, “I thought it would be bigger than this,” thinking that this tiny boat was the yacht I’d been promised.

I’d still have been happy, considering I can still jump in the ocean from here, but I might have been a little disappointed.

Mary had laughed and said, “I think I’m going to like you.

Not often I get to ferry normal people.”

There’s supposed to be a big group of us, guests of the vodka brand who have hired out the yacht for a big promotional party.

But when I got a taxi to the meeting point, I was waiting on my own for ages, until Mary decided she would whizz just me across to the yacht and then come back for the others.

“No point you missing out on the free drinks,” she’d winked.

“OK, so everyone else is running really late,” she says. “It’s just you two for now. Hold onto your hats.”

I do not hold onto my hat (because I don’t have one) but I don’t hold onto the side either, not realising yet this tiny boat could move so fast. But it does, flinging me back, right into Sebastian’s arms. “Steady there, girl,” he says, gripping my shoulders. His skin feels warm against mine.

“I’m not a horse,” I huff, blowing some hair out of my eye.

“You sure? You seem a fine filly to me.”

“I’ve not a clue what you’re talking about,” I say but, before I can get him to elaborate on whether this was a compliment, or an insult, Mary says the magic word.

“Dolphins!”

And there they are, gliding alongside us, close enough to reach out and touch, weaving in and out, under and over each other and then…

whooosh, one of them jumps in the air, sea water splashing onto my face.

I want to squeal but my breath is caught in my throat, the moment is too magical for words.

Or squeals. Even Sebastian can’t play it cool, whispering “wow” over and over again.

I can feel his breath in my ear and, call it biology, I can’t help but feel tingly at the sensation.

That and the fact I’m still wedged between his thick thighs.

We’re so fixated on the dolphins, who stay by our side for most of the journey, that it’s only when the yacht’s shadow blocks the sun on my face that I notice we’ve arrived.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the dinghy and it certainly wasn’t this.

What we’ve arrived at is less of a boat, and more of a floating hotel.

It’s this huge, three or maybe four floored thing, looming out of the sea.

We pull up at its rear, where three men dressed in navy blue and gold-trim suits are waiting for us. They wave and Mary waves back.

“Two very fine passengers for you, lads.”

“Hello, chaps!” Sebastian says, ignoring their outstretched hands as he steps off the boat, which proves to be a mistake, as he slips and falls back into our dinghy.

I, sensibly, took one of their hands. Why wouldn’t I, they’re handsome and sturdy!

So I’m safely on the yacht, watching Sebastian scramble and try a second time, this time taking one of their hands.

The annoying thing is, when he fell his Speedos slipped a little and there really is no denying his ass is as firm and tight as the rest of him.

“Did you not pack a shirt?” I ask, as he appears to have come in just the speedos.

I’m in my tiniest string bikini, it’s hot pink, with a little sheer black sarong tied on top.

But I’ve packed another layer in my beach bag.

Despite always going out in tiny dresses and priding myself on never wearing a coat, I’m nervous not knowing the dress code or what’s considered on trend.

I’ve got a tiny stretch-lace maxi in my clutch if I need to cover up, even if the lace manages to draw even more attention to what’s underneath.

“I had some lovely chaps ferry some things over earlier,” he replies.

“Yes, all eight bags arrived safe and sound, sir,” says one of the suited men.

“ Eight bags? For one day?!”

“Oh no, I’m staying on the yacht. Don’t tell me you’re one of the B-list guests, just onboard for the day?”

B-List! How rude! But then there’s no denying it, I didn’t know some people were invited to stay on the yacht, and I suspect other people are going to the Grand Prix itself, whereas I’m not going anywhere near the actual race.

This is something I’ve really noticed since I started existing in this mad, fame game world – you’ll be invited to drinks at a strange time and then when you get there, realise that a whole other group got dinner first. Or, you’ll be leaving and one of the PRs will ask, ever-so-sweetly, who’s list were you on?

And you reply and it determines which goodie bag you get.

Not that it really bothers me. The sign of a good night is that you’re more bothered about having a good time than bagging swag.

It’s stupid though, as it’s always the richest, fanciest people who get the best stuff when they could afford it already.

Though, now, I have to keep reminding myself – I am one of those people.

And it means that when I’m lucky enough to get gifts, I love it the next morning when my hangover finally clears and I can root through the goodie bag with Mam or Madison and share it all out.

The NuYu range sold so well and there are loads more deals in the pipeline, including my dream: a clothing range.

But it’s surreal, suddenly having money.

Unlike Sebastian, I didn’t grow up in this world so I don’t know the appropriate etiquette.

Should I have tipped Mary? She’s whizzed away now.

Should I tip these men? I don’t want to seem rude but I also don’t want anyone to act as though I’m above them.

We’re being guided through some narrow carpeted corridors and upstairs, and I keep seeing glimpses of the ocean through the port-holes, which are gilded and polished so smoothly, I can see my face in them.

Although I keep having to double check – it is my face, I’m just still adjusting to how it looks these days.