The Yacht Party (Lara Stone)

‘Melissa? I am Lara.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Lara.’

Another surprise: a cut-glass English accent, home counties, certainly. Lara immediately imagined Melissa wafting around Pony Clubs before sidling off to the hayloft with an Argentinian polo player: or perhaps she had read too many Jilly Cooper novels as a teenager.

‘I ordered tea and cake, I hope that’s alright?’ said Melissa as she poured Darjeeling from a bone china pot.

‘You’re a friend of Tom’s, I understand?’ she asked, passing Lara a cup and saucer. Lara nodded, hoping not to give too much away.

‘Tom’s fabulous,’ said Lara smoothly.

Melissa would not be pushover, not in her business. Even if Tom hadn’t filled her in, Lara knew that the woman would have already Googled ‘Lara Stone’ and would know she was a journalist. And yet she had still agreed to meet. That told her something – that Melissa had something she wanted to say.

‘Did Tom mention why I wanted to talk to you?’ asked Lara.

The other woman shook her head. ‘Something about the Pandora?’

‘Yes. Sex trafficking,’ said Lara.

There were many tools in a journalist’s tool-box. Sometimes you had to chip away with a source for weeks, months, sometimes years, persuading them to talk. Other times you just had to go for the throat in the hope of catching them off-guard. She watched Melissa’s face. She had expected outrage and denial, but the woman simply threw her head back and laughed. Full and fruity, a laugh of genuine pleasure.

‘Well, I appreciate you getting straight to the point,’ she smiled. ‘I spend far too much time being achingly polite, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who cuts the crap.’

Even the word ‘crap’ sounded pretty coming from Melissa’s lips. She was a class act.

‘So I’ll return the favour and do my best to speed things up,’ said Melissa. ‘The answer is no.’

‘No?’

‘No sex trafficking. Not on the Pandora or any other yacht in Monte Carlo that I am aware of.’

Lara frowned. She hadn’t expected a tearful confession of orgies with women groomed for the ordeal, but she had anticipated evasion. This flat denial was a surprise. Melissa looked at Lara over the rim of her cup.

‘You think I’m a madam, don’t you?’

Lara shook her head.

‘I don’t want to make assumptions.’

‘You shouldn’t.’ For the first time Lara saw a hint of the steel under Melissa’s polish. Just a flash, then it was gone.

‘Let me make some important distinctions,’ said Melissa, her perfectly buffed nails toying with a silver fork. ‘A madam provides sex workers. I do not. I run a companion service, an escort agency if you prefer. They are not prostitutes, they are more like extras in a movie. They are paid to fill out party scenes, chat to the party goers, laugh at their jokes.’ She spread her hands. ‘That’s it.’

‘No sex at all?’ Lara could hear the disbelief in her own voice but Melissa was polite enough to ignore it.

‘If there is sex, the girls do it on their own time. It’s not part of the job.’

‘But why did Jonathon want to pay for female company? Why did he have to? Surely they’d jump at the chance to meet rich men.’

‘Because the last thing a rich man at a party wants is someone looking to be his wife.’

She sipped her tea and put it back on the table.

‘These are bold claims, Lara. Why are you making them?’

‘A friend told me that Jonathon was involved in trafficking.’

‘A friend? Well, Jonathon was my friend; I actually knew him personally, so forgive me if I find your accusations hurtful and offensive.’