As a prelude to the release of the paperback edition of Joan's exciting current novel on May 5th, here is an exclusive extract.. Order your copy at the following!
They gathered in the huge open
living room in which every surface was covered in glass and gold
Harry’s sound system was state of
the art and soon the CD of Mina’s amazing voice echoed throughout the marble
hall and carried down to the beaches. Her first ballad was a thinly disguised
tale of her problems with an abusive husband, who got her hooked on coke. It
brought tears to everyone’s eyes, except Sophie, whose eyes were boring jealous
holes into Mina’s back.
Several classic
standards performed in an innovative modern style were greeted with
appreciative applause, and then an upbeat eighties disco-style song brought the
normally blasé revellers to their feet; in classic Saint-Tropez style they
started dancing and waving their arms in the air.
Maximus fancied
himself as a cool mover and shaker, and in spite of his bulk, he shook his
massive booty in front of a slightly embarrassed Carlotta.
Fabrizio reluctantly
pranced with Lara, who always became a total exhibitionist on the dance floor,
waving her disastrously bingo-winged arms above her head in a wild yet
catastrophic facsimile of a teenybopper and flashing sun-damaged thighs in her
sparkly red mini-dress. The seven vodkas she’d consumed added to her lunatic
abandonment.
As the music became
more frenzied, so did the dancing, and Mina’s golden voice and her strong
backing singers even drowned out the relentless sounds of the cicadas.
Then, almost as one,
several of the dancing guests bent over, clutching their stomachs in agony.
Some of them ran into the garden to vomit into the azaleas, while the other
guests watched in horrified amazement.
‘My God!’ shrieked
Sophie.
‘It’s the plague,’
screamed Fabrizio, a total hypochondriac.
Running to the onyx
swimming pool, he threw up into it, then tumbled in.
Suddenly over half the
guests were in paroxysms of pain; those who weren’t tried to assist each other
with the help of the waiters who seemed unaffected.
‘Somebody call an
ambulance,’ yelled Harry.
‘We need more than
one!’ gasped Maximus, through a paroxysm of pain.
Lying on the ground, face up, Britain’s
favourite comic, Charlie Chalk, his white face now matching his last name, lay
completely still. His Australian lover Spencer cast himself, weeping, on to the
vast expanse of his lover’s inert body. ‘Are you alright, darling?’ he wailed.
‘Please don’t die, love.’ As if to set his mind at rest, Charlie let out a loud
burp and opened his eyes weakly. ‘Thank God! I couldn’t live without you!’
Spencer started laughing and hugging Charlie’s huge bulk, which made the
comedian break some fierce wind.
Half an hour later, a
phalanx of ambulances screeched to a halt as the retching and nausea reached a
climax, coinciding with the final wailing soprano notes of Mina’s CD.
At least everyone
thought it was the final wailing notes of the CD, until Khris noticed that the
music system had stopped and what could be heard was Mina herself, wailing in
some undetermined location accompanied by a chorus of cicadas.
They started to
search, but the young pop star’s injured moans had stopped. Then a paramedic
raised the alarm as he discovered Mina sprawled beside a lavender bush. He
started frantically administering CPR as the stunned guests rushed down the
incline to watch, then he shook his head gravely. ‘I’m afraid she’s gone.’
The assembled
partygoers gasped in horror.
‘Oh, my God!’
shrieked Khris Kane. ‘I’m ruined. What’s going to happen to my tour?(c) 2015 Joan Collins
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