Bad Angels

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘I wash that now,’ he said severely. ‘It is deesgusteeng to leeck the spoon!’

  ‘Ooh, it’s the Christmas special of Devon in Paradise! I love Cesare,’ Mrs Dale sighed. ‘He’s so sexy. That Devon’s a lucky woman.’

  ‘As you can see,’ Devon was saying to the camera, frowning horribly at Cesare, ‘Italians are incredibly bossy and think they know everything, even when they don’t. And one thing they definitely don’t know how to make is Yorkshire pudding.’ She turned around and bent over, presenting her rounded bottom to the camera as she opened the huge oven and removed a tray of mini-muffin tins, each one containing a golden, puffed-up, perfect Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘She’s lost weight,’ Phil Dale commented appreciatively. ‘Looks great, doesn’t she?’

  ‘It’s Cesare,’ Sonia informed him. ‘He’s been teaching her about healthy Italian eating. Small portions and no snacking between meals. He yells at her if she tries to sneak down to the kitchen in the middle of the night.’

  Devon McKenna, the undeniably gorgeous TV cook, had been at the centre of a soap-opera scandal last year, when she had left her rugby-player husband and run off to Italy with an Italian aristocrat; the scandal had been compounded when her younger sister Deeley promptly moved in with and got pregnant by the discarded husband. All four parties seemed fine with the new arrangement, and however, Devon had been even more of a fixture on the pages of Hello! and OK! Magazine ever since – especially as her comeback TV series, Devon In Paradise, which featured her and Cesare squabbling viciously as he lectured her on how to cook Italian food properly, had become a ratings hit.

  ‘Ooh, Phil! Did we record this?’ Sonia asked anxiously.

  ‘It’ll be on Catchup, Mum,’ Ashley said, pulling a face. ‘Honestly, the way you lech over that Cesare’s a bit disgusting, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, your dad doesn’t mind,’ his mother said cheerfully. ‘He likes looking at Devon, don’t you, love?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Phil Dale said, unabashed. ‘But that Cesare’d better not ban her from licking spoons – it’s half the fun.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ His wife elbowed him, giggling.

  On screen, Devon had extracted a pudding from the tin, and, holding it in one hand, she filled the little dent in the centre with a dribble of rich gravy.

  ‘Here,’ she said to Cesare. ‘Open wide.’

  She winked at the camera. ‘Even fussy Italians like Yorkshire pudding!’

  As Cesare’s lips closed over Devon’s fingers, Mrs Dale sighed in pleasure.

  ‘God, I can’t,’ Ashley muttered to Melody, turning away. ‘It’s like watching your parents look at porn.’

  Mercifully for Ashley’s sensibilities, the doorbell rang just as Cesare was grudgingly pronouncing the pudding ‘not bad for your Eeengleesh food’. Melody, going to answer the door with her brother behind her, couldn’t help a brief flash of fantasy taking over – James tracking her down, turning up on her doorstep with a huge bunch of flowers. Melody knew it couldn’t be him, but still, her heart rose as she unsnibbed the lock and swung the door open— – to see, to her enormous surprise, a burly, squat Father Christmas standing there. A pair of big padded elf ears reared over one of his shoulders; Melody tilted sideways to see Andy’s face below them, smiling reassuringly.

  ‘Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas!’ bellowed the Santa Claus in a distinctly foreign accent. ‘I see you have your wreath on your door! Very nice!’

  He raised one he was carrying and jingled it furiously; involuntarily, Melody took a step back.

  ‘This is Mr Khalovsky from upstairs,’ Andy said swiftly. ‘The penthouse, I should say. He’s the one that kindly bought the wreaths I brought round.’

  ‘Oh yes! Of course! Um, Merry Christmas!’ Melody said, hoping that Mr Khalovsky wouldn’t blanch at the sight of her face; little did she know that Grigor was very familiar with the signs of plastic surgery damage from his wife’s various operations, and had instantly jumped to the correct conclusion as to why the young woman in front of him had two fading black eyes, a nose splint and more bruising round her chin.

  ‘Mr K would like to invite you all to Christmas lunch!’ Andy announced cheerfully. He and Grigor looked so totally unselfconscious in their costumes that they might have been wearing them their whole lives.

  ‘Please!’ Grigor said expansively. ‘You must come! There is so much food. I look at my table and I think, we must have more guests for this feast! So I pop down, as Andy says, to invite you. I am the Father Christmas for the whole building today!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Melody began. ‘My family’s come to take me back to theirs, and I haven’t seen them in months, so—’

  ‘Mr Khalovsky? Grigor Khalovsky?’ His eyes so wide they looked as if they were held open with invisible toothpicks, his mouth equally round, Ashley elbowed his sister out of the way. ‘The owner of Kensington? No way!’

  Grigor beamed. ‘You like football, young man? Then you must join me for lunch! You would maybe like to meet Wayne?’

  ‘Wayne Burns?’

  Ashley’s voice had risen to such a high squeak that soon it would be only audible to bats and dogs.

  ‘Did you say – Grigor Khalovsky?’ Mr Dale had come up next to his son; Melody was being squashed against the side of the door, completely forgotten by her sports-crazed father and brother. ‘Sir, it’s an honour—’

  Shyly, he put out his hand: Grigor grabbed it with both his and pumped it up and down as if he were working an old maintenance handcar on the railways.

  ‘Grigor! Please! You will all come to lunch, yes? To meet Wayne?’ he added, smiling widely at Ashley.

  ‘Yes please,’ Ashley said devoutly.

  Melody had a split-second to decide how she felt about it: she didn’t know if she was ready for Christmas lunch with a lot of strangers. Ringing her family had seemed like a huge deal yesterday, and now the cosy reunion had turned, in the speed of light, into a major social whirl. But I can’t tell Dad and Ash that they can’t go to lunch with Wayne Burns! she realised, taking in their excited expressions. And besides, I want to audition for Beatrice as soon as I can – that’ll mean getting back into real life with a vengeance, letting everyone have a good look at me. This might be just what I need to toughen myself up a bit.

  And as these thoughts raced through her head, the chance to hold back her male relatives passed: they stampeded past her to follow Grigor down the corridor. She turned to look for her mother.

  ‘Mum? You all right with this?’

  But her mother, bright-cheeked with excitement, was already closing her phone and slinging her bag over her elbow, hurrying towards her, eager not to be left out.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ she said, words flooding out of her in a stream of consciousness. ‘I’ve texted Natalie and told her to take out the turkey when it’s done. The veggies are in the warming oven, and they’ll probably all be dried to a crisp by the time we’re back, even if she turns it off now, but who cares! I can make turkey sandwiches for dinner – if we’re hungry, which, let’s face it, we probably won’t be, after eating at a Russian oligarch’s! And there’s Terry’s Chocolate Oranges at home,plus a big Milk Tray selection box and a tin of Quality Street – lots to snack on tonight if we get peckish! Ooh! Natalie’ll be writhing with jealousy! Just imagine! Lunch with the owner of Kensington and Wayne Burns! I must say, Melody, I wasn’t over the moon about you wanting to be an actress, but we do end up meeting famous people whenever you’re around, dear!’

  She took a deep breath of excitement.

  ‘Melody, I never thought I’d say this,’ she continued with utter seriousness, ‘but this is even better than the time you took me to the BAFTAs and Daniel Craig backed into me and spilled my wine all over the carpet.’

  A sudden thought struck Mrs Dale.

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever get invited to anything with Devon and Cesare, do you?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Ooh, I think I’d die with excitement if I was in the same
room as him!’

  Jon

  He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do now.

  It would help, of course, he realised, if I had any idea of what I actually wanted to do.

  Aniela had been gone by the time he woke up that morning. That, in itself, was an extraordinary occurrence; he had no experience, naturally, of having a woman sleep over, but he was so highly attuned to his surroundings, even when asleep, that he was still amazed that she had managed to get up, dress and leave without his stirring in the slightest. God knew what time it had been: his internal clock, which woke him without fail at six-thirty, no matter what country he was in, had also failed him. He had slept almost till ten, which was unprecedented.

  And it must have been the sleep of the dead. Jesus. Anyone could have broken in, and I’d’ve slept through that as well.

  Jon cringed. Last night, he had been dozing on the couch when he’d heard her soft footsteps come down the corridor and pause outside his door; he’d been sure it was her without even knowing why. And once she was inside, he had let down his guard completely.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  It isn’t even as though I’m holing up here with no one knowing where I am but the medical staff, he thought. I have this whole Mr and Mrs Khalovsky mess to sort out, and I haven’t made a lick of progress on that. Which is insane, considering that crazy bitch is going to make a whole mess of trouble for me if she doesn’t hear soon that I’ve offed her husband.

  And I’m damned if I’m going to do that. I made a vow, and I’m not breaking it for some bloodthirsty Russian woman, no matter how tough she is.

  So why’ve I barely spent a minute trying to figure out how to get my ass out of this trap she’s put me in?

  Jon sighed. He knew the answer perfectly well.

  It’s her. Aniela. The moment she walked in here, everything went haywire. I only met her seventy-two hours ago, and I’ve done more stuff differently in those seventy-two hours than I have in the last ten years.

  ‘Stuff differently’? he repeated to himself. Nice euphemism, Jon. One day you’re fantasising about her, wondering what it’d be like to sleep over with her – the next day you’re doing it. All over the damn apartment. And then passing out after like she hit you over the head with a brick.

  In five minutes, she’s going to ring that doorbell. And what the hell are you going to do then?

  Aniela was a professional through and through. He had no doubt that she’d turn up for the scheduled appointment that she was contractually paid to keep. But what if she just checked his scar and left again? What if she thought it was up to him now to be the man and make a move?

  That sounded pretty reasonable, actually. It was how Jon had been brought up – that the guy should be the guy, and court the woman. Aniela and he might have got down to it without a lot of preliminaries; he realised ruefully that he was getting hard just remembering that. I can’t open the door to her with a hard-on! Or can I? Would a woman like that? Would it be a compliment? Or would she get really pissed instead?

  ‘Dammit!’ he said out loud, striding across to the Smeg freezer, dragging it open, pulling out the full ice tray and slapping it onto the back of his neck. The shock at least took the edge off his erection.

  Though really I should be jamming it between my legs, he thought, furious with his body. I train it, I feed it right, I work it out, it does whatever it’s supposed to. Until now.

  He’d actually considered trying to get in some flowers to give her, flowers or chocolates; Jon had absorbed that from popular culture, knew that you were supposed to give women bouquets and candy. But it was Christmas Day, and everything was closed, and though he’d have bundled up, wrapped his face in a scarf and gone out, he’d called down to the doorman who’d told him that nothing round here was open, nothing at all. It was the business district; he’d be lucky to find a corner shop, let alone somewhere to buy a bouquet or box of chocolates decent enough to give a woman you’d just had quite a lot of sex with.

  And though I’m sure the concierge could get me anything I needed, I’d be way too embarrassed to ask him to get me presents for a lady. Aniela’s the only female who comes to visit me – cause no one knows about Dasha Khalovsky. The concierge’d be bound to guess, and that’d be awkward for both me and her.

  Plus, even if a store was open, I’d probably just have got the wrong thing anyway, he thought despairingly. How the hell am I supposed to know what Aniela would like? Or, maybe she’s just going to want to pretend that nothing happened between us – in which case, thrusting a bunch of roses at her’ll go down worse than a bucketful of wet sick—

  The doorbell rang. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple thrust almost painfully against his throat. For a moment, he had an impulse to run and hide in the bathroom, lock himself in, not answer the door, wait it out till she left again...

  Jesus, Jon, pull yourself together! You’ve done some of the worst things a man can do – you can confront a woman you had sex with!

  Putting his shoulders back, he marched to the door like a private on parade, taking hold of the lock and wrenching it open so hard that he nearly slammed it into the wall behind.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, looking down at Aniela and swallowing again even harder.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, as poised as ever, her hair perfectly smooth, her uniform freshly ironed.

  For a moment Jon wondered crazily if he’d hallucinated it all; could he really have kissed this woman, ripped her tights and her panties off, pushed her up against the wall and thrust into her? It seemed inconceivable, something that could only happen in a parallel universe. The distance between them was huge, terrifying; but he was backing away to let her in, making even more of a void between them. Why was he doing that, when what he really wanted to do was step towards her?

  He turned and walked towards the living room, totally confused, and all too aware that his erection had popped up again just at the sight of her. No more talking, it yelled at him impatiently. You know what you want. Just do it.

  ‘How is your head today?’ Aniela asked him politely, settling down her bag on the coffee table.

  Jon had no idea.

  ‘Uh, fine. I think,’ he said at random.

  ‘Shall I look at it?’

  She stood there with her hands folded in front of her, demure and composed. He wanted to reach out for her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. To sink into her, to feel her warmth and softness wrap around him, to fuck her and to fall asleep with her again.

  Jon wished, with every fibre of his being, that she’d do something, give him some sort of hint, one way or the other. At least put him out of this misery.

  Surely she knows I need some help here! I was real honest with her about my past. If she wants me to do something, act in a way she wants, she should help me along a bit—

  He stared at Aniela, trying desperately to read her mind. When the doorbell rang, he honestly didn’t know how he felt; relieved or impatient at the interruption. Or on high alert, in case it’s that mad psycho Russian come back to threaten me all over again—

  ‘Who is it?’ he yelled, not moving; there was an internal wall between him, Aniela and the door. If someone started shooting, God forbid, they were much better off here. Plenty of kitchen furniture to use as a shield.

  ‘Hello! Mr Jordan?’ called a man’s voice. ‘It’s Andy, the concierge. I’m here with Mr Khalovsky from upstairs. He was wondering if you’d like to pop up for Christmas lunch – he’s inviting everyone in the building—’

  Aniela had jumped back, because Jon had dived towards her as soon as Andy had identified himself, snapping open her medical bag and rifling through it. He dragged out a wide roll of elastic bandage, swiftly wrapping it twice round his head, from his crown around the base of his chin and up again, covering his tell-tale scar; then he flipped it, binding it round his forehead, and then the sides of his face. In a mere thirty seconds, he had concealed most of his featu
res; he kept going till he had used the entire roll, tucking the end in, dashing towards the door as he finished. By the time he had reached the door, he looked as if he were playing the Invisible Man in a game of charades.

  A quick glance through the peephole, and Jon was opening the door, his eyebrows rising as much as they could at the sight of Grigor’s looming bulk in a red Santa suit. Andy was too well-trained to exclaim at Jon’s bandages, but he did stare at them, momentarily struck dumb, as Grigor trotted out his invitation, complete with wreath-jingling.

  ‘You are all right to come?’ he asked. ‘My chef will make you soft food if you have problems to chew—’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good,’ Jon said, making a snap decision. ‘Well, it’s very kind of you, Mr Khalovsky. I’m very happy to accept your invitation. I’d just need my nurse to come with me. Aniela?’ he called.

  She emerged into view at the end of the corridor.

  ‘You okay with—’ Jon started.

  ‘Of course! Of course! A nice nurse to come too! Very nice!’ Grigor clapped his hands, the wreath jingling, his beard waggling. ‘Miss Nurse, you are invited to lunch with us!’

  ‘Cool,’ Jon said smoothly, gesturing to Aniela to join him.

  Well, this was good improvising. I get Aniela with me, so I can take some time to figure out whatever the hell is happening with her. Plus, I can scope out Grigor’s situation, his security, the penthouse layout... get a sense of what kind of man he is. Work out how to finesse this whole damn mess, how I can get out from under Mrs Khalovksy’s ultimatum without killing her husband.

  ’Cause though all I can think about is Aniela, this whole Dasha Khalovsky situation is the only thing I should be focusing on right now. It’s way more urgent.