Queen K, page 10
Oliver was thrilled to see Kata again. ‘What a stroke of luck,’ he said, more than once. He thought it called for champagne and typed the order in to a sort of iPad thing attached to the wall.
He had the exquisite manners which are the main calling card of men of his class, manners which to the uninitiated bespeak an intoxicating attentiveness but which, to those of a more cynical bent, show a uniformity of response very close to indifference. Kata basked in Oliver’s attention. She was asked question after question, her most bland and unremarkable reply celebrated by Oliver as if it were some fascinating and pithy witticism worthy of Oscar Wilde.
‘And is your husband going to put in an appearance?’ he asked. ‘Or is he too busy stoking the home fires? Or maybe he’d cramp your style?’
Kata giggled and fluttered over this but I thought I saw Tatiana shoot Oliver what looked like a warning glance.
‘Maybe,’ Kata said. ‘Sometimes, if he gets a break in work he comes. And where are you staying, Oliver?’
‘With a good friend of mine,’ Oliver said. ‘In fact’ – and I definitely did see him shoot a glance at Tatiana before he said this – ‘with a friend …’ – and here he shook his head as if to say to himself: ‘How funny!’ – ‘with a friend you’ve met. On the very same night that we first met. Do you remember your compatriot Valentin Kemerov?’
Coincidence upon coincidence upon coincidence, how very extraordinary!
This called for more drinks. Cheers! Tatiana fiddled with another of the iPad gadgets attached to the wall and the ubiquitous house beats piped into the room.
Oliver handed Kata his card. ‘A relatively new venture,’ he was saying, ‘but it seems to be going quite well.’
I leaned my body in order to look at the card: Spencer-Forbes: Lifestyle Consultancy. I said it a few times in my head so as to remember it.
Alex looked tired and bored. ‘Look at this,’ I said, showing her my phone. An Instagram video of a hamster, to all appearances putting in a Skype call to a duck.
Eventually it was time to leave, and we all stood up. Kata, Tatiana and Oliver were filling the corridor with their excited chatter as we headed back into the main part of the club, exchanging plans to meet again very soon, very soon, in the coming days. When we were back down in the entrance foyer, where the chance meeting with Oliver had occurred, Kata veered off to put in a call to Dmitri and Alex slumped down onto one of the sofas and stared at her phone.
For the first time that evening, Oliver and Tatiana were left to themselves. They stood some way off, talking intently, looking at Kata. There were lots of people milling about in the foyer. I could slink out of Oliver and Tatiana’s eyesight and circle my way closer to them. They didn’t register me anyway. Had they so much as spoken to me, up in that wood-panelled room? Over the course of what, two hours?
We were quiet in the back of the car. Kata and Tatiana were all talked out and Alex was almost asleep. The car purred a wide arc around the Port Hercule, the big and brightly lit boats. The nightlife of the harbour-front bars could be seen but not heard. The cold of the air con; the smell of the leather. I looked at Tatiana, at Kata and at Alex.
I might be lowest in the pecking order, I was thinking, but when it comes to information, I have the bird’s eye view.
Because I had managed to overhear part of Oliver and Tatiana’s conversation.
‘Why didn’t Valentin stay and join us?’ Tatiana had asked. ‘I thought that was the plan.’
‘One step at a time,’ Oliver had replied.
‘I told her my dad shot pheasant,’ Tatiana laughed. ‘They love that sort of thing.’
‘They certainly seem to,’ Oliver said.
‘Well,’ Tatiana replied, ‘you would know.’
What was she up to? On the clear road, the car sped up and the motion pinned me, held me back against the seat. I looked at them – Kata, Tatiana, Alex – like I was watching characters in a reality TV series, aware, as viewer, of over-arching plot developments in a way the individual characters were not. I was used to watching reality TV series, I watched them all the time. I’d watched all four seasons of The Royal Borough. It hadn’t yet struck me that, when it came to this particular show, I could use my viewer’s omniscience to alter the course of the plot, to change the direction in which things might go.
9
Kata seemed particularly alert and expectant at breakfast the next morning. She asked Irina for a third espresso.
‘OK!’ she said, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘Alex, Melanie, off to lessons, let’s go!’
I saw her eyes flick shyly in Tatiana’s direction. Tatiana looked sleepy. She yawned.
‘What would you like to do this afternoon, Tatiana?’ Kata asked her.
Tatiana finished her yawn. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I really don’t mind, I’m happy to do whatever you like, to chill.’
Kata looked disappointed. ‘Well, we’ll discuss,’ she said.
Her hands stopped their drumming but then, a moment later, she danced them on her thighs. I saw her glance down at the empty cup of her third espresso somewhat regretfully. Where would her nervous energy go if all they were going to do that afternoon was ‘chill’? I think Kata had spent many, many afternoons of her life ‘chilling’. I think she was ready to do something else.
I went to the bathroom before the lesson and when I went into Alex’s room she was sitting at her desk hunched over her phone. A selfie of Kata and Tatiana.
‘Where’s that from?’ I asked, but I already knew: it was from Tatiana’s Instagram. I looked at Tatiana’s Instagram all the time. The photo was from the night before and the location had been tagged.
‘Look,’ Alex said, showing me a second photo, this time including Oliver.
I’d seen that one too. ‘Is that bad?’ I asked her.
She shrugged. ‘She shouldn’t have put my mum’s name,’ she said. She scrolled down. Chilling with — Tatiana had written out Kata’s name in full.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because my dad won’t like it.’
‘Is he on Instagram?’
‘No, not him,’ she said.
She played one of Tatiana’s stories: Kata and Oliver clinking their drinks together over and over again, boomerang effect.
When we emerged for our lunch break Kata had changed out of the tracksuit she wore around the house. She was wearing an ankle-length white kaftan with slits to mid-thigh, jewelled sandals, a Pucci bandanna and very large amber-toned sunglasses. Her lips were glossily and carefully painted.
‘Have some lunch quickly and then get changed, Alexandra!’ she said. ‘Maybe the nice white dress we bought for you. Oliver has invited us to spend the afternoon with him on a boat trip and maybe an early dinner in Antibes.’
Alex looked at me, but Kata quickly intervened. ‘I’m sorry, Melanie, but there is limited space on the boat. This time it’s a family trip. But please enjoy the apartment, use the pool.’
As soon as they left, I stretched myself out on one of the sunbeds. After about ten minutes I heard the glass doors sliding open and saw that it was Irina, the housekeeper, carrying a tray. There was a pitcher of what looked like fresh lemonade on it, a single glass, a bowl of fruit.
‘Is that for me?’ I asked her, but I was the only person out there, and she was setting it down beside me. ‘Wow, thanks!’
I ranked lowest among the people of the household, the family and their guests, that is, but I ranked highest among the staff, floating somewhere between the two groups and not really belonging to either of them. I felt on equal terms with Sebastian, but he didn’t have breakfast with the family like I did, and his bedroom was in the staff section of the apartment; he didn’t have a guest bedroom like me. If it had been Tatiana lying out here sunbathing, I thought, Irina would have brought her the exact same tray. I took my first sip, leaning back, feeling good. Just the taste of the lemonade, the heat of the sun on my body and the sound of the pool pump, splash, splash.
*
When I’d got back to my room the previous night I’d googled the name of the company on Oliver’s card. Spencer-Forbes: Lifestyle Consultancy.
The home page had unfurled across my laptop screen: London at night, a glittering lightscape, all the monuments: the London Eye, the Shard, the high-rises of Canary Wharf, twinkling with promise. I’d clicked enter and a menu had appeared on the left-hand side of the screen. It had sub-headings like ‘The London Season’; ‘Glamorous London’; ‘Historic Houses’; ‘The Arts’; ‘Sports’. Each section brought up images. There were aerial views of stately homes and badly lit photographs of canopied, four-poster beds. There was centre court at Wimbledon, polo matches, members of the royal family at Chelsea Flower Show. There were pictures of guests in smart, summery clothes sipping champagne outside famous London cultural institutions. There were stags on Scottish mountainsides, pheasants, opera singers, ballet dancers. There was the facade of Eton College, in the section titled ‘Education’. The English elite live the most exciting, exclusive and agreeable lifestyle in the world, the website told its readers. ‘Agreeable’ was a nice touch. But English high society has its own, very specific social etiquette and tradition of ‘good form’. Spencer-Forbes could help you with this. Spencer-Forbes was all about connecting, introducing, facilitating. What were some of the services Spencer-Forbes actually offered? I browsed through. They would propose you for membership of exclusive members’ clubs. They would arrange for you to stay the night in a historic aristocratic stately home and enjoy dinner with your distinguished hosts. They could offer introductions to some of the UK’s most highly regarded business professionals in the areas of accountancy, tax, banking and legal matters.
So, this was the kind of racket with which Oliver, Kata’s English earl, attempted to shore up his dwindling, aristocratic coffers. Well, I thought, he’s struck gold with Kata. She’s a sitting duck for this sort of thing.
It didn’t quite add up, though. If it was in fact that simple – if Oliver was just trying to recruit new clients and had enlisted Tatiana to help scout them – then why all this subterfuge? The fabricated accidental meeting. Was this how he normally brought people on board? Surely not. Surely he’d just call up or email prospective clients? Straight-up offer them his services. Surely some posh young intern in his ‘office’ had access to a database of rich, non-dom London residents and it would be a simple matter to post glossy newsletters through the doors of their Knightsbridge and Belgravia mansions? Scatter some additional newsletters round the waiting rooms of Harley Street, and you were off. No, Oliver’s whole approach to Kata had been too circuitous. I was convinced that something else was going on.
*
I had half drowsed off in the sun when there was a rustling on the sunbed next to me. I opened my eyes to see Sebastian sitting there, lighting one of his slim Vogues. I smiled at him and closed my eyes again. I could smell the smoke and then I couldn’t. I found myself on my side, hugging my bunched-up towel, saw that Sebastian was still there, lying on his back, his eyes closed now too. Asleep in his suit, I thought, slipping back into sleep, both of us in the shade of the umbrellas. Then came voices, the sound of something sliding, the glass doors. ‘Sebastian,’ I heard a voice say. A pause and the heat of the sun, just on my calves and feet, the rest of me shaded by the umbrella.
‘Sebastian.’
We both sat up and then Sebastian was on his feet. I whipped up my towel and wrapped it around me.
Ivan was standing there, some three steps from the glass doors. Anton and Vova were behind him.
*
‘I am not taking the rap for this,’ Sebastian said, in the kitchen. He was putting together a tray of cold drinks. ‘Nice of Kata to let me know. We don’t have the food he likes. And the guys’ apartments haven’t been prepared!’ His voice was rising. ‘I bet she’ll make out like she told me and I’m the one who forgot.’
Irina was at the kitchen table writing a list. ‘I’ll go to Carrefour,’ she said. ‘I’ll get everything.’ Her phone lay in front of her, on loudspeaker. She tutted and shook her head as it went to the voicemail of Etienne, the chef.
I was still in my bikini and towel. I hadn’t yet braved the long stretch of corridor back to my room. Sebastian shouldered open the swinging doors of the kitchen and headed to the sitting room with the drinks. While they were all gathered there, I seized my opportunity; I pulled the towel tighter around me and padded down the corridor. A door opened up ahead and Ivan came out.
‘Oh, hi, hello,’ I said.
‘Greetings,’ he replied. When I had passed him, he said, ‘My wife. Do you know what time she will be back?’
‘Um … I’m not sure; they’ve gone on a boat trip and then I think they were planning to go out for dinner afterwards, so I’d say quite late, maybe around nine, ten?’
He nodded and walked in the direction of the sitting room.
I ran a bath and sat on the edge of the tub, testing the temperature with my hand.
When the bath was full I took off my bikini and got in.
Why had they suddenly shown up here?
I thought of Alex’s response to Tatiana’s Instagram post: ‘Papa won’t like that.’
I lowered my head under the water, then brought it back up. I thought of someone I hadn’t really considered before. Dmitri, the driver. I remembered the ugly scene between Ivan and Kata in the restaurant that time in Courchevel. How Ivan had known about the man coming on to Kata outside the club. ‘You know that man, the one Dmitri had to tell to go away? Do you know what he thought you were? My darling, he thought you were a whore.’
Did Ivan have spies everywhere?
10
Anton was hot. He was as hot as I remembered. It was an assembly of physical features I could not help but respond to. The tall, lanky frame; the big nose and hands. A particular quality of forearm: wiry and elegant, veined.
‘What’s the deal with Anton and Vova?’ I asked Sebastian as we stood down in the parking lot, smoking. ‘Do they have lives of their own, or do they just follow Ivan around like dogs?’
Sebastian looked around, as if scared one of them might be loitering nearby. Anton, Vova, Dmitri, Ivan – it seemed suddenly camp and comical, our world populated by sinister and inscrutable men.
‘They own their own apartments in the building,’ he said. ‘And they have their own houses in Moscow. They are in Moscow most of the time but they go with the boss when he travels, yes. They work for him but they are also old friends. They all grew up together, in the same part of Russia. These mega-rich Russian guys. The most important thing to them is to be surrounded by people they trust.’
We speculated on why they had arrived just as Valentin had made his appearance. ‘God,’ I said. ‘Better not go near any sushi restaurants. Watch out for Polonium-210!’
I looked at Sebastian, expecting him to be careening merrily along with me down this line of conjecture, but he didn’t seem interested. He was looking at his phone. ‘Oh, who knows, honey,’ he said. ‘And to be honest, who cares. I don’t think it’s anything exciting like that. It will be something to do with business. It’s always to do with business. I do my job but, apart from that, I try to have my own life.’
‘I think Anton’s really sexy,’ I said.
‘Not at all. He’s like a scarecrow. Vova’s way hotter.’
‘Gross. Vova looks like a cube.’
‘Coming?’ he said, moving towards the lobby doors.
‘I’m going to stay here for a while, in case Anton comes down for a cigarette.’
‘He has his own apartment and a balcony to smoke from.’
‘Oh yeah. Well, I’m going to stay anyway. It’s not like I have anything else to do.’
After Sebastian had gone, I walked out further from the building, looked up and wondered which apartment belonged to—
‘Fucking hell,’ I said, and sped back the way I had come. Then I sidled out again. Anton was right there, two balconies up, striding up and down with his phone to his ear. He saw me standing there looking up at him and gave me a preoccupied wave. Taking courage, I raised the hand holding my cigarettes. ‘Come on down!’
‘You like westerns?’ he asked five minutes later when he emerged from the building.
‘Um, yes?’
‘I like them.’
His hair was longer than when I’d first met him; a curl fell over his forehead. ‘Have you settled in?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘Sure.’
A woman from the apartments was exercising a tortoise on the circle of grass that formed the centre of the parking bay. We watched. Her hair was red. She was stout and old. The tortoise raised a wrinkled foreleg in the air, held it, held it, then began to bring it down. Anton threw his butt away and looked back at the tortoise. He shook his head. ‘The people in this town are insane,’ he said.
‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘There are some good restaurants. It’s a good place if you like to look at cars. But no, I don’t really like it. There are too many stupid people. I like it better back home.’
‘Aren’t there stupid people in Moscow? Is Moscow where you mean by home?’
‘Nowadays it is. There are as many stupid people in Moscow as there are in Monaco. Maybe more. But I don’t see them as much. I have my own places to go.’
‘By stupid you mean …’
‘Ridiculous.’
I wondered how much Anton was worth. Nowhere near as much as Ivan but he probably had multiple properties, multiple cars. He didn’t look rich but then Ivan didn’t either, apart from when he got dressed up to go out with Kata.
Anton turned and looked at me. He stared steadily, without self-consciousness.
‘Come by my apartment sometime,’ he said. ‘For a drink. The next few days will be busy, but after that. We can … do something.’
