‘Talia.’ Georgiou got to his feet, smiling his horrible leering smile, gold teeth very much in evidence. He was wearing a shiny grey suit with an open-necked black shirt. The stubbly flesh of his thick neck bulged against a chunky gold chain. ‘I am sorry that this is not what you are used to.’ He spoke in Russian. ‘But in the old days this would have been the lap of luxury, yes?’

Natalia sat down and leant close to him.

‘Can we just get this over, please? How much do you want this time?’

‘Ten thousand dollars.’

‘Ten thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind? You must know I cannot withdraw that kind of money just like that …’ She was stalling and they both knew it.

‘I think we both know, baby, that you can do anything you like with your money. And I would like that money to be transferred into this account by midnight tonight.’ Georgiou thrust a piece of paper with some numbers written on it into her trembling hands.

‘And if I don’t?’ Natalia thrust her chin at him defiantly.

‘If you don’t, my sweet Natalinka, then the whole world will know what kind of a woman you really are.’

Driving along the freeway in the direction of Venice Beach, Ben drained his organic passion-fruit and goji-berry smoothie and looked up at the palm trees against the cloudless sky, more than content with his lot. Yesterday, he’d had his second audition for Beyond the Sea, the romantic comedy set in 1950s Saint-Tropez that Belinda had put him up for. It had gone brilliantly, if he did say so himself. He thought he’d imbued the British-lothario supporting-actor role with just enough boyish charm to upstage the stuffed-shirt all-American hero completely. Well, he’d had plenty of practice at charming his way out of bad-boy situations of his own making, he thought, chortling to himself. The part really could have been written for him.

To improve his mood still further, he was en route, and looking forward enormously, to his third training session with Jennifer Jackson, the mixed-race girl with the incredible arse that he’d met on the beach. He smiled as he thought of Jennifer. She clearly fancied him, even though she’d been playing ridiculously hard to get. He’d probably make his move this afternoon. Instead of training on the beach, as they had been up till now, Jennifer had suggested they use ‘my buddy Mel’s gym. They use it for Bikram yoga sessions so we can turn up the heat and really work up a good sweat.’ This would have been more than enough encouragement for him to pounce, had Ben been one to doubt his own allure.

And her ‘buddy Mel’ sounded intriguing too. Ben laughed. Melanie (or Melody?) was such an LA name – another perfectly honed gym bunny, no doubt. Tanned, blonde and perky, he guessed. Maybe they’d be up for a threesome?

The boardwalk at Venice Beach was swarming with scantily clad rollerbladers, sun-bleached surfers, obnoxious skateboarders, tie-dyed hippies, hip-hop bling kings, tattoo artists, buskers, jugglers and jesters, all jostling for position under the blazing sun. Overweight tourists licking rapidly melting ice creams gawped on. Tanned and fit locals sat at cafés, sipping organic juices under palm trees.