Secrets After Dark (2 page)

It’s only much later, when I’m in bed, that I’m able to let my strength ebb away. I lie on my back, hugging myself for comfort, sending out my question to the universe:

Where are you Dominic?        

‘Beth, how are you?’

Mark
Palliser, my boss, greets me in his usual friendly way as I come into his office. He calls it his office, but really it’s such a beautiful room there should be some other kind of name for it, less personal than study but more appealing than office, with its overtones of fluorescent strip-lighting, filing cabinets and photocopiers. This room couldn’t be further from that. It’s circular, with a glittering chandelier hanging from an ornate plaster rose, and egg-and-dart cornicing that skirts the ceiling. Its three large windows, framed by voluptuously draped curtains, overlook a garden and in the bay sits Mark’s desk, a huge polished piece of Regency furniture inlaid with exquisite marquetry work. The floor is gleaming parquet covered with rich and elegantly faded Turkish rugs, and the room glows with the golden light cast by the lamps that sit on the desk and sideboards. Best of all, though, is the art that covers the walls: oils in intricately carved and gilded frames, watercolours, pastels, charcoal sketches, prints and engravings. The subjects are wide and varied: a beautiful oil landscape of a Scottish loch sits happily beside a glorious Renaissance sepia pencil sketch of an angel. A portrait of a melting-eyed spaniel is next to a dark engraving of a scene of Regency debauchery. Every now and then, something disappears and a new treasure takes its place, because Mark has found a home for it with one of his many clients. I’m beginning to learn how it all works. Only last week, I arranged for a tiny Impressionist oil sketch of a girl bathing to be packed up in Mark’s signature style: he has wooden frames to contain the works, protective sheets, specially designed boxing, pale green bubble wrap and acid free tissue paper, all stamped with his personal emblem, the letters MP in an oval frame. When the little picture was securely packed, I had it insured for a sum that made my mouth go dry when I read it, and then sent it to one of the most expensive addresses in the world.

All this is so far from the way I grew up, in a tiny Norfolk village, I can sometimes hardly believe that this is where I pass my days, and get paid for it too.

Mark is sitting behind his desk, as elegantly turned out as ever. He has thick dark hair sprouting from a low forehead, tiny but bright blue eyes, a long nose over a small mouth and a receding chin. He is not at all good-looking, and yet he carries himself with the air of someone who is distinguishedly handsome, and he is always so well dressed and perfectly presented that I can’t help believing somehow that he is.

‘Good morning, Mark,’ I say in response to his greeting. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you. Gianna brought me some coffee earlier.’ Mark smiles at me. ‘Now. To business.’

I sit down, as usual, in the leather bucket chair opposite his desk and take out my  turquoise ostrich-skin notebook – a present from James, my old boss, given to me when I started this job – to take down details of whatever Mark wants me to do today. The work is always varied and always interesting – I never know whether we’ll be going off to Sotheby’s, Bonhams or Christie’s for an auction, or visiting a client in one of their extraordinary homes, whether we’ll be travelling across the country to an estate sale or called to evaluate a new find. Mark is a respected and successful private art dealer – successful enough to have a Belgravia house, and some extremely valuable art in his own private collection.

I make quick notes, scrawling rapidly over the fine light paper of my notebook, as Mark runs through a few things he wants me to do. I’ve only been working for him for a few weeks but already I feel an important part of his team. There is also Jane, his secretary, who deals with a lot of the boring admin, which is lucky for me as Mark can barely type an email and prefers to write everything out longhand and have someone else transcribe it.  She comes in twice a day, in the morning to collect work in the dark green leather wallets embossed with gold MPs, and in the afternoon to deliver it back, as she works from her little Chelsea flat with her two King Charles spaniels for company.

‘So.’ Mark puts down his vintage Cartier fountain pen, and sits back in his chair. He fixes me with his bright blue beady look. ‘I’ve got something to ask you. Your passport. Is it up to date?’

I visualise my passport sitting in my knicker drawer where I keep it. The burgundy cover is pristine, it’s so unused, but it’s certainly valid. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. How would you like to go on a little trip with me? Nowhere too exotic, I’m afraid. Just the South of France.’

I gape at him.

He looks back at me, obviously interpreting my silence as reluctance. ‘I quite understand if you’d rather not, and I’m sure I can manage perfectly well on my own—’

‘No, no,’ I say hastily. ‘I’d love to. Really. I’ve been to France, of course, but only family holidays to Normandy and a school trip to Paris. I’d love to visit the south.’

‘It is very beautiful there.’ Mark smiles. ‘But I don’t know how much sightseeing I can promise. We will be working and so we’ll probably spend most of our time at the villa, but I’ll see what I can do about arranging a chance to slip away.’

‘The villa?’

‘Yes. We’re going to see perhaps my most prestigious client. Certainly the richest, if that’s how one measures these things. Andrei Dubrovski is an extremely successful oligarch – have you heard of him?’

The name almost winds me as I hear it drop from Mark’s mouth.
Dubrovski.
It’s the name I’ve been muttering in my mind while aiming strong kicks at Sid’s pads.
Take that, Dubrovski! And that!
It’s been a part of my life from when Dominic first mentioned him:
Andrei Dubrovski. My boss.
Since then, the mysterious Russian tycoon has been a shadowy yet important part of my life. It was his mission that sent Dominic to Russia just when our relationship hit its crisis.

It seems so long ago now, that warm summer’s night at a restaurant on the bank of the Thames, where the breeze blew fresh and briny across our faces. That was when Dominic and I agreed that he would initiate me into a world of excitement, pleasure and pain that I had only previously imagined. I was high with anticipation and giddy with a sense that he and I were taking this journey together. I was utterly bewitched by him. And for a while, the adventure was a beautiful one, taking me to places of extreme physical pleasure I hadn’t known existed. The joy lasted until the night in The Asylum, when he went too far and caused me real and desperate pain, both in my body and my heart. I forgave him, but he was devastated by what he’d done. He needed to sort himself out, he said. That was when Dubrovski summoned him to Russia on some project or other, and Dominic took the chance to put some space between us while he cleared his head. ‘Wait for me,’ he’d said. And I had.

For all the good it’s done me.

I’ve always known that Mark and Dominic worked for the same man, and I knew one day Mark would have dealings with Dubrovski. If I’m honest, it’s part of the reason I took the job as Mark’s assistant. Now it’s happened, and he wants to take me right to Dubrovski. I’ll finally get a look at this mysterious person who’s had such an influence on my life. Perhaps I’ll even get to understand a little more about Dominic himself.

‘Beth? Are you all right?’ Mark is leaning forward, concerned. ‘You look a little pale.’

‘I... I’m fine,’ I say, taking a deep breath. I’m feeling that odd mixture of pleasure and pain I’ve become so accustomed to since I first met Dominic. Just thinking of him gives me that delicious ripple of desire and excitement, but always accompanied by a bitter stab of unhappiness.
God, I miss you.
Then, sure as night follows day, I feel the bubbling anger.
How dare you leave me like this, after everything we went through together?
‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of Andrei Dubrovski. Who hasn’t?’

‘Then if you’re sure you’d like to come...’

‘Yes, I am.’ I sound like myself again, I’m sure of that. And I’m also sure that I want to go to the South of France with Mark. For one thing, it’s a connection with Dominic, and I can’t resist that.

‘Good.’ Mark looks satisfied that I’m on side. ‘When men like Dubrovski summon us, we go as quickly as possible. He keeps our bread well buttered after all. So we’ll be leaving tomorrow, and we’ll be gone a couple of days at least. Will that be all right?’

I nod. ‘Fine. You know me. My schedule is very flexible.’

‘Excellent. Don’t forget that passport. Now, shall we think about heading over to Bond Street? Oliver tells me that a real treasure has just come in that I really ought to see.’

‘Of course,’ I say, getting up. ‘I’ll just get my things.’

Chapter Two

I don’t have time to think about my forthcoming trip to France during the morning, and it’s only when Mark and his colleague Oliver decide to have a quick lunch together at Mark’s club that I have some time to myself. I head for the café in Sotheby’s, a place I’ve become quite familiar with in the weeks that I’ve been working for Mark. While I’m standing at the entrance, looking for a likely table, I hear a familiar voice.

‘Beth, over here!’

Looking across the crowded room, I see James sitting at one of the tables, a newspaper on the table in front of him. I feel a rush of affection for him; he took a chance on me and gave me my first job in the art world. When he heard that Mark, an old business associate of his, was looking for an assistant, he recommended me for the position and Mark took me on just when I needed a job. I owe him a lot. He waves, a big smile on his face, beckoning me over. ‘What brings you here, darling?’ he asks, putting big kisses on my cheeks as I bend down to greet him.

‘Mark came to see Oliver. Do you know him? He’s head of nineteenth-century art here.’ I sit down in the empty seat on the other side of the table. ‘Now they’ve gone off for lunch. What about you?’

‘I came in to inspect some bits and pieces that are coming up for sale soon.’ James folds up his newspaper and looks at me over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles in that certain way he has, as though he wants to examine me properly and understand what I’m really thinking. ‘How is life?’

‘Fine, fine...’

‘Come on, Beth. You look nervous. What’s up?’ His expression softens. ‘Any news from Dominic?’

James is one of the few people who know almost the whole story of what happened between Dominic and me. There is no one else I can imagine telling – not Laura, not my mother, not Celia, my wise old friend and my father’s godmother. It’s strange that the only person I can confide in about my relationship is my gay, gallery-owning ex-boss whom I’ve known for less than a year, but that’s how it is. He’s kind, broad-minded and not inexperienced in the sort of world I found myself in over the summer. And he cares about me in a platonic way that makes me feel safe and looked after.

‘No, no news.’

‘How long has it been now?’

I stare down at the tabletop. James’s teacup sits there, half full of cooling tan-coloured liquid and I examine the reflections in its surface. ‘I’ve heard nothing since the day he left me. He sent me a text that night but since then, zilch.’

‘And have you contacted him?’

I shake my head slowly. ‘He knows where I am. He said he’d be in touch.’

James sighs, as if he’s saddened by my stubbornness and by Dominic’s vanishing act. Then he frowns. ‘But there’s something else?’

I laugh despite myself. ‘James, how do you know me so well?’

He smiles back, his thin face unexpectedly cheery-looking. ‘Darling, you’re an open book to me. You’ll never be a woman of mystery as far as I’m concerned, no matter how veiled and impenetrable you are to everyone else. I can read it all over you – and you’re practically trembling like a little aspen leaf. What’s happened?’

I lean forward, my eyes sparkling. ‘I’m going to the South of France with Mark,’ I say excitedly, and tell him about the planned trip. Even as I speak, I can hardly believe it’s actually going to happen.
Tomorrow. Oh my God.

James doesn’t seem particularly enthused. I’d assumed he’d clap his hands, and congratulate himself at getting me this job with Mark, the kind of job that means I can travel and see the world, and not exactly budget-style either. But he’s looking more concerned than anything else.

‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’ I ask.

He pauses before answering and then says slowly, ‘I’ve heard a lot about this Dubrovski character and from what I can make out, he’s not a particularly pleasant man. Now I don’t suppose that anyone rises from the slums of Moscow to unimaginable wealth as a commodities trader without having a bit of an edge to him. But nonetheless, he’s not someone I would want to come into close contact with. I don’t like the idea of you near him.’

I smile at James’s protectiveness. ‘I’m not going to have anything to do with him. He’s Mark’s client. I’ll just be there to help Mark.’

James narrows his eyes. ‘Then why are you in such a state?’

‘You could have a very successful second career as a criminal psychologist,’ I say, trying to sound jokey, ‘with your ability to read minds.’

In that instant, he understands. Realisation fills his eyes and he looks at me with an expression of sympathy. ‘Oh, honey. You think he might give you some clue to where Dominic is.’