Ah Monaco – that bastion of capitalism, wealth, fancy cars, mega-yachts and countless Russian girls, sorry hookers, who dressed as if they were rich but had to work the clubs and hotels in order to fund their high-maintenance lifestyle.
It was my strategy to get out there as soon as my stint in New York finished, although as I was now two years over my planned stay, Daddy might have forgotten that I’d said I would only do NY if the next ‘posting’ was to Monaco.
I love Monaco. It drips wealth. Even the cops are dressed in clothes which make them look like male models. The sidewalks, sorry pavements, are remarkably clean given the number of lap dogs which wander about crapping everywhere. It’s the ultimate big brother society – CCTV cameras everywhere, monitoring everything from the said dogs to people gathering in cafés and on street corners, not that there was much of that in the Principality.
The problem was that even a one bedroom apartment was over $1 million and anything resembling a duplex needed the GDP of a small nation to be deposited with the realtor. One could rent of course, but what sort of status was that for a guy like me.
As I sat in my Madison Avenue office one morning looking out of the window at nothing more interesting than the back of another office I thought of the harbour view in Monaco which almost doubled the price of an apartment, and if you were lucky enough to have both a harbour and a palace view, man, you were made.
My mind wandered. The Wall Street Journal could wait. I got a coffee and closed my eyes.
I arrived in Nice Airport. I was just out of Cambridge and Daddy had suggested I attend a conference in Monte Carlo. Some sort of financial jolly and all I had to do was make sure that the guys he’d sent from Barclays were actually doing their job.
The weather was fantastic as you would expect in the South of France and as I wandered out to the taxi rank I glanced skywards at the brilliant blue sky – Côte d’Azur – was this for the sky or the sea?
The Mercedes worked its way along the rocky coastline. Had the driver decided to take the longer scenic route to earn more money or was it really the quickest way as he’d said? No worries, Daddy had said to enjoy myself and I intended to.
The driver stopped at the entrance to the Loewes Hotel (pictured) where the conference was being held and I stepped out into the warm sunshine. It immediately struck me that this was the iconic Loewes Hotel around which the Grand Prix drivers slowed down before hurtling through the tunnel which ran under the full length of the building. It was truly magnificent perched as it was above the lapping waves of the Med.
I checked in and changed into linen trousers and a Lacoste polo shirt – when in France and all that.
I had a quick lunch and then headed off to the exhibition area where Barclays had a stand. I found it quickly. It was in a prime spot, just inside the main entrance doors and not far from the delegate’s coffee area. Someone had done their homework.
Not wanting to spy on the guys who manned the stand, I introduced myself to the three bankers, watched them work the delegates for ten minutes and then suggested we all got together later that night for a meal and a few drinks.
As I was leaving the Barclays’ area I noticed a woman watching me. She was on the Honeybull stand. Quite old but extremely well dressed and well preserved by the looks of it. She smiled and I smiled back before I wandered off to have a look at the casino which was situated on the ground floor of the hotel.
Later that evening, the ‘Barclays crowd’ headed off into the hills behind Monaco for an authentic Italian meal which, I have to say, was a total disappointment – I’d had lasagnes in London which were better!
The next morning I was back on the stand trying to understand the financial products we were selling when the lady from the previous day wandered over and without any introductions suggested we go for a coffee. I was intrigued and agreed. She suggested the ‘Club Room’ which she had access to, saying it would be quieter.
I followed her into the lift and along the corridor of the 7th floor to the Club Room where she poured herself a coffee and asked how I liked mine. It was only now she was sitting no more than two feet away that I could study her more closely. Definitely in her 40s she was slightly built but had good boobs from what I could see. She had laughing eyes and a very sexy mouth. Her name was Christina, she was Austrian but lived in Paris and because her husband had died a few years ago, she’d had to take a job with Honeybull as a sort of ‘ambassadress’ as she called it. Her job was to identify the high net worth (or rich) individuals and get them onto the Honeybull stand. And from what I could see, she was very good at it.
We chatted for about 30 minutes and then she suggested we have dinner later on – at her hotel, The Mirabeau.
That afternoon as I soaked in the bath, I wondered what was going on. Ok I’d had a ball at Cambridge but it still felt strange being the pursued rather than the pursuer - if that’s really what was happening.
I arrived in the reception of the Mirabeau, a short walk from the Loewes and asked for the restaurant. Once
there, I didn’t need to ask for my fellow diner, not that I knew her surname in any case, as I could see her sitting at a corner table.
I wandered over. She remained seated as I reached for her hand to shake it and was quite taken aback to find her offering the back of her hand for me to kiss which I did. I remember thinking the perfume she wore was exquisite.
As soon as I sat down a waiter appeared with two menus. Christina ordered a half bottle of white wine, put her menu down and said, ‘Nigel – I’d suggest you have a light meal.’ ‘Why’, I responded. ‘Because I want you to make love to me all night and you won’t be able to do that on a full stomach’. I nearly spat out my wine but as she’d only ordered half a bottle I thought better of it.
It was extremely difficult to have a conversation after her opening gambit. I studied her face and she became more and more attractive as the minutes passed. She had a Caesar Salad whilst I took her advice and had a salmon pasta dish.
As soon as we’d finished, she got up to leave and I followed her like a partially trained puppy.
Her suite was on the 5th floor, and once inside, it was like a replay of Mrs Robinson in the film of the same name when she lit a cigarette, got herself a drink and sat on the edge of the bed. I desperately tried to remember what Dustin Hoffman had done – had he shagged her? How cool did he play it? Did he just dispense with the formalities and rip her clothes off?
It was all taken out of my hands when she slowly started to undress whilst taking sips of her vodka tonic. Once down to her knickers and bra (and she did have great boobs) she sat there, looked at me and said, ‘well then – are you going to join me?’
I stripped off as coolly as I could but still made a fool of myself when my foot got caught in the bottom of my trousers and I nearly fell over. I left my boxer shorts on and climbed under the sheets. The bedside lamp was switched off but there was still enough light coming in from the street lamps outside for me to see her lying there.
I kissed her. She moaned and took my boxers off with her feet. I removed her bra and kissed her delicious breasts. She removed her pants and the rest, they say, is history.
At 7am, I did what they do in the movies. I quietly dressed and left before Christina woke.
I returned to my room in the Loewes, had a long shower, had breakfast in my room and then walked around the streets beside the hotel thinking about the night just gone. It was incredible. What an amazing lover she was. And I still didn’t know her surname!
At 9am sharp, I was on the Barclays stand eagerly awaiting Christina to appear opposite, but by 11am there was still no sign of her. At the coffee break, I asked one of the other people on her stand where she was and was shocked to be told that she’d finished at the exhibition – she wouldn’t be returning. I’d been a one-night stand!
‘Put it down to experience Nigel’, I told myself. ‘After all you’ve done it many times yourself.’
When I returned to my room later that afternoon, there was an envelope behind my door. I opened it and my heart skipped a beat as I read, ‘Dearest Nigel – Please come to Paris this weekend.’ It was signed Christina Schiltz and gave a Paris address in Neuilly.
I went straight down to the travel office and changed my Friday night BA flight and then returned to the exhibition although my mind definitely wasn’t on financial services for the rest of the day. I also had the distraction of having to change hotels as the Loewes had originally only booked me in for two nights. I’d forgotten this but the fact that I was now moving to the ultra-swish Hotel de Paris was quite a consolation as was the fact that that night I could get into the famous casino located alongside and reserved for high-rollers and guests of the hotel.
The following 24 hours were a blur as I desperately looked forward to seeing, and screwing Christina again. She was the oldest woman I’d ever had, by quite a few years but there was something about her. A certain sophistication. A hidden sexiness. And pure lust when she was beneath the sheets!
Friday evening arrived and I headed back to Nice airport. I dismissed the thought of taking the helicopter service from Monaco despite the fact that it would only take 6 minutes and would cost the same as a taxi – it just wouldn’t look good on expenses. Neither would a night at The Hotel de Paris but I had a good excuse for that.
Once at Orly, I gave the taxi driver the address and about 40 minutes later I was alongside the River Seine and quite clearly in Neuilly sur Seine as the signs confirmed. The driver stopped at a simple block of townhouses overlooking the river and strained to see the numbers. ‘Monsieur – Vingt et Un’, which I reckoned was him telling me I’d arrived.
As I paid the fare, the door of number 21 opened and there in a loose housecoat stood Christina, looking absolutely radiant.
She kissed me and led me upstairs to the lounge where I deposited my bag and grabbed her in my arms. We kissed and as we did so, she manoeuvred backwards until she fell on the bed.
For the next two hours we rediscovered every part of each other’s bodies. She may have been in her forties but she had the stamina of a 21 year old and did things none of my previous conquests had even come near to doing. She was absolutely amazing.
At a quarter to eight, she rolled out of bed and suggested we have a shower together. She wanted to go to a particular restaurant and it tended to get busy on Friday nights.
This was most definitely a first for me – washing and being washed with soap going absolutely everywhere!
I dressed and wandered around her apartment whilst she put her make up on. On the wall in her small hall was a painting which looked remarkably familiar. I looked at the signature and it said ‘Picasso’. ‘Wow’ I thought. I looked at the painting more closely this time and finally came to the conclusion that it was Christina’s face I was looking at.
‘Ah – you’ve found my painting’, Christina said as she wrapped her arms around me.
‘Is that ....’. ‘Yes – Picasso painted me – he was a friend’, she said.
I was still reeling at this when we arrived arm in arm at the restaurant. I had no qualms about linking arms with a woman who was old enough to be my mother. With each passing hour, she became more and more gorgeous.
At the restaurant, a long queue snaked along the railings outside and around the corner. It was obviously a popular place. ‘Have you booked?’ I asked Christina. ‘No’ she said, ‘no need’. And with that she guided me to the front of the queue where she was greeted by the receptionist. The maitre d’ arrived and kissed Christina on both cheeks – ‘your table is waiting Countess’, he said.
When we sat down and I’d waited for the wine to arrive and I’d taken a gulp, I asked what was going on. ‘I’m an Austrian Countess – Countess Christina von Schiltz and I’ve got this PR type job at Honeybull. Despite the title, I need money to pay the bills but I do have some nice friends – last week Henry Kissinger was sitting where you are now.’
Later that night as I made love to royalty - again, I thought that life was indeed strange.
