Secrets After Dark (3 page)

My cheeks flush. It sounds ridiculous spoken aloud like that. ‘Well...’

James evidently doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to rain on my parade and destroy my dream, but I can tell he also doesn’t want to get my hopes up in case of the all-too-likely disappointment. ‘It might happen, I suppose. After all, he does work for Dubrovski – at least, as far as we know he still does. But don’t pin too much on it, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I won’t,’ I promise. ‘I know it’s not very likely. I’m not really thinking about it, to be honest.’ But I know the truth is that ever since Mark broke the news about the trip this morning, the hope has been growing inside me that somehow I’ll find out something about Dominic in France. Even Dubrovski just mentioning his name would make me feel closer to him. It’s the first ray of sunshine I’ve had in weeks. Even if it proves a false dawn, at least I can enjoy this hopeful moment while it lasts.

‘Let’s order you some food. You must be starving.’ James looks away to summon a passing waiter and I close my eyes for a moment to offer up a silent prayer that I might somehow make a connection with Dominic in France. I hardly dare admit to myself that in my very secret heart, I’m hoping that Dominic will actually be at the villa, even though I know it’s just a ridiculous fantasy.

I’ll be happy just to hear his name,
I tell myself firmly.
That will be enough for me.

‘It sounds lovely, dear. I’m very envious. Fancy that, a villa! Your life has got very glamorous lately. But have you got everything you’ll need for a trip to France? Will it be warm? What sort of state is your bathing suit in?’

That’s my mother all over. Two seconds and she’s worrying that I won’t be properly kitted out. Laura screamed when she found out, and bounced around the room chanting, ‘You lucky thing, you lucky thing, you lucky, lucky,
lucky
thing!’ My mother is anxious I might embarrass myself in a holey swimsuit.

‘I don’t think I’m going to have much time for swimming, Mum.’ While we’re talking, I’m taking clothes from my drawers and wardrobe and putting them on the bed, wondering what exactly I’ll need for a villa in the South of France. ‘It isn’t a holiday. I’m working.’

‘Wear your warmest things on the plane, just in case it’s cold,’ advises my mother, not hearing me. ‘That way you won’t need to pack them. It’s always tricky when you’ve only got a cabin bag. Put on two jumpers if you can. It is October, after all.’

I laugh again, as I imagine myself turning up dressed in half my wardrobe, a puffy Michelin man made up of sweaters, trousers and skirts. Just the thing to impress Mark, show him what a woman of the world I am. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that I won’t be flying on a budget airline to Nice, but rather on a small private plane from a London airport. If I want to take a case full of jumpers, I probably can.

‘How long will you be gone for?’ my mother asks, trying to sound pleased for me rather than worried, which I’m sure she is. She was so relieved when I decided not to go backpacking with Laura; she wouldn’t have slept the entire time I was away if I had.

‘Just a few days,’ I say comfortingly. ‘And I’ll be in touch – I’ll let you know where I am.’

‘That’s good. You must remember to enjoy yourself. Don’t work too hard.’ My mother only has a vague idea of what I do, even though I’ve explained it several times. I’m not sure she really thinks of it as work at all. ‘Now, would you like to speak to your father?’

While I’m chatting to my dad, I pull an old red bikini out of my drawer and, on impulse, add it to the pile on the bed. There’s bound to be a pool, after all. I might get the chance to use it, who knows? I’ve just said goodbye and rung off when I see a flash of colour where the bikini used to be and look down into the drawer. I gaze down for a moment, then take out the smooth blue silicone column with a little outcrop at the base. It is one of the few things that I brought from the boudoir, although I haven’t touched it since the night that Dominic used it with great effect. I remember how he ordered me to prepare it, oiling it gently until it shone slick and promising, and then, much later, how he let it come to life inside me, sending me into an orbit of starry pleasure as it drove me to an extraordinary climax. The memory makes me gasp involuntarily and feel a twitch of excitement. For the first time since that night, I wonder what it would be like to let that harmless-looking thing do the job it was designed for.

I try to damp down the tiny rush of bubbles that erupt inside me at the thought. I need to focus on getting ready, not being distracted by various erotic memories of Dominic. I’ve tried to close off that part of myself while I wait for him to return.

If he ever does, I think grimly.

I frown at myself. I can’t lose faith. He will come back and if he doesn’t, I’ll just go and find him and damn well make him explain why.

And that’s why
this trip is giving me butterflies. Because there’s a little voice in my head that whispers:
you might find out more. You might find out where he is.

Chapter Three

This is like no plane journey I’ve ever been on.

It’s usually a long drawn-out process: travelling to the airport, checking in, getting through security, waiting for long hours in the giant duty-free shopping mall, then heading with the rest of the crowd to the gate for another wait, and then the scrum of boarding. That’s all before we’ve actually gone anywhere.

This time a sleek dark car collects Mark and me from his Belgravia house, our luggage loaded into the back by the shaven-headed sunglasses-wearing driver, and then we fly through the London traffic as though we’ve got some kind of special dispensation to ignore the speed limit, the red lights and the bus lanes. It seems as though we’re at the airport in only minutes. Mark takes my passport and at some point it’s handed over to someone else through the car window, and then we are driving again. When we get out of the car, we are, to my astonishment, next to the actual plane. We’ve skipped the airport terminal altogether.

‘Come on, Beth,’ Mark says, smiling at my evident amazement, even though I’m trying to act smart, sophisticated and unflappable. ‘Let’s get on board.’

The plane’s interior is immaculate and luxurious: the lighting is soft and welcoming, a thick pale carpet covers the floor and large butter-yellow leather seats face each other across walnut-inlaid tables. An elegant stewardess is waiting for us just inside the door and smilingly shows us to our seats. I’m loving every minute so far.
I could definitely get used to this.

‘We’ll be taking off as soon as you’re settled,’ says the stewardess. ‘I’ll be back when we’re airborne to check on you. Happy take-off.’ Then she heads off to a door towards the rear.

The seat is incredibly soft, and I’m almost absorbed into the buttery leather seats. I relax into it and snap my seat belt shut.

Mark leans over to me, fiddling with his rose-gold cufflinks as he often does. He’s smiling, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘You can’t say I don’t show you some of the high life, eh, Beth? Literally, today.’

‘You’ve done nothing but!’ I reply, laughing. It’s true. Ever since I started working for Mark, I’ve been allowed glimpses into a world I always vaguely knew was there, but not accessible to anyone from my way of life. Now, here I am, on a private plane. I shake my head. ‘It’s crazy.’

‘Enjoy
it.’ Mark leans back in his seat, fastening his seat belt across his lap. ‘The rich at play can be an excellent spectator sport. As long as you don’t get tempted to join in.’

A few minutes later, the little plane taxis along to its runway, jolting slightly over the uneven ground. Outside the October day is overcast and I can already sense the evening approaching even though it’s only lunchtime. The plane pivots into position and, after a humming pause, it begins its take-off, the engine revving furiously as we gather speed. The nose tilts, we begin to lift and then we’re airborne, powering upwards into the sky as the land retreats below us. A minute ago, I was safely on the ground. Now I’m so high in the sky that if anything were to go wrong, it would mean death. So little between safety and peril. The thought sends a strange kind of excitement shimmering through me. We’re alive. We’re in the sky. Tremors ripple in my stomach with something like arousal. How odd – a plane taking off has never done that to me before.

Perhaps it’s an added bonus of private plane travel – a bit of extra excitement thrown in.

The beautiful stewardess appears, her make-up so perfect it looks as though it is part of her actual face and not painted on at all, and asks us in her soothing way what we would like to drink. Mark asks for champagne for both of us.

‘I want you to have the full experience,’ he says as the stewardess goes off to fetch it. ‘I wouldn’t usually advise drinking at work, but just this once...’

Before long, we have flutes of cold champagne, the bubbles popping quietly against the glass, and lunch is served: a delicious light autumnal meal of cold roast pheasant with a salad of chicory, squash and pear, and cubes of thyme-scented sautéed celeriac. A tiny apple charlotte with Sauterne custard follows, and then a plate of creamy ripe cheeses with fresh-baked oatcakes. Mark and I chat as we eat, and I could almost believe we were in a luxurious restaurant rather than flying at 35,000 feet over the Channel and across France.

As we approach Nice airport, I remember James’s warning words about going into Dubrovski’s orbit and wonder what exactly I’ve let myself in for. Am I going to be sitting down to dinner with the Russian mafia tonight? I imagine Dubrovski like a Russian Al Capone, big stomach straining behind a waistcoat, and a dinner table lined with men in dark suits, pistol handles bulging at their armpits, chewing gum and staring implacably from behind sunglasses, all on a hair trigger, ready to start a firestorm if someone coughs out of turn. Maybe I’d better practise a few of my kick-boxing moves when we land, just in case. I smile to myself. I already appear to think I’m in some kind of Bond movie... I’d better rein in my vivid imagination or I’ll give myself nightmares.

And my mafia scenario is not the only thing I’m imagining. As we begin our descent, I tell myself sternly to get a grip.
All secret inner fantasies banned! Dominic won’t be there and I probably won’t even hear his name. In fact, it’s bound to be tedious and I’ll long to be home again. I’ve probably had the best bit with this flight
.

I yawn, just to show myself how very grounded and realistic I am.

Evidently, for Mark, all this is familiar. When we’ve landed and the pilot has brought us to a halt by the terminal, he calmly unbuckles his seat belt and tells me that our car will be waiting for us.

I don’t know how the usual customs, security and passport control is bypassed so easily but once again, a black car with shaded windows is waiting for us on the tarmac, and within minutes we are gliding on to the French roads and away. Mark hands me back my passport. I never even saw it being returned to him.

‘That’s the way it works when money is involved,’ he says, seeing my expression. I can’t help thinking that it makes a bit of a mockery of the laws the rest of us have to abide by. I could have just smuggled anything I liked into the country, but I keep quiet. That’s going to be my modus operandi on this trip.

The weather is hotter and brighter than it was in London. The October day here is a bright shining blue, the sun low and dazzling in the sky. The cashmere sweaters that I brought already seem redundant and my red bikini more enticing.

‘How far away is the house?’ I ask Mark.

‘About an hour or so,’ he says. ‘It’s in a very beautiful place. You’ll love it.’

‘How long have you worked for Dubrovski?’ I ask, curious.

‘About five years now. Ever since he began to make really serious money. It’s impossible to have the kind of art habit that he has without it. He wants old masters and famous names. He wants to be like Francis I – with the
Mona Lisa
hanging in his bathroom. A Rembrandt in the hall; a Titian in the boot room. For him, it’s the ultimate way of expressing his success. And that is where I help him: I’m always on the lookout for the kind of work he’ll appreciate, and he calls on me for my expert opinion when he finds something he likes. It’s a good arrangement, as I understand his taste and he trusts me completely. He pays me a handsome retainer so that I can be at his beck and call, and of course a healthy commission too, on everything I purchase for him.’ Mark smiles happily. ‘Like I say, a good arrangement.’

It sounds it. Is that something else about the world of the rich? I wonder. Vast sums of money changing hands for what seems like not much effort? Perhaps when you’ve got lots of it, money changes its character and value, and you start thinking that huge sums are really not much at all. That’s why wealthy people start tipping waitresses in the hundreds, and paying for meals in the thousands.

‘Do you like him?’ I ask boldly.

‘Of course,’ Mark returns. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I read somewhere that he’s got a shady past.’ That’s what James hinted at least.

‘I don’t concern myself with that, and nor should you,’ Mark says a little strictly. ‘Our clients are accepted for themselves, and for their dealings with us. He’s always been very fair to me.’

And to Dominic?
I can’t help asking silently.
What kind of a boss is he to him?
I never knew much, just that Dominic’s employer is a very rich and powerful man. Mark isn’t aware of my connection to Dominic, although he knows Dominic himself. James went to visit Mark on business the day that he saw Dominic in Mark’s house. No doubt Dominic was sorting out something to do with Dubrovski’s affairs with Mark, and James overheard him telling Mark he was leaving for Russia that evening. When James passed this information on to me, I knew I had little time to see Dominic again, and I summoned him to the boudoir that afternoon – it was the last time we saw one another.