‘Here.’ Dmitri, Grigor’s son, came over, taking a linen napkin from a passing waiter and handing it to Andy. ‘What’s happening? Dad, are you making Andy cry?’
‘No, it was me,’ Zhivana said, turning to him. Her light brown hair was done in a series of small plaits pulled into a loose bun at the back of her head, making her profile surprisingly pretty. ‘I am telling him the story of the Christmas song “The Cat And The Mouse”. It is my favourite. Because it tells the true story of Christmas, how Jesus is only born so that he can die in pain to save the world.’
‘Oh my God, Meryn Cadell!’ Dmitri exclaimed. ‘I love that song! It’s so totally poignant.’
Andy, very grateful for the napkin, blew his nose so vigorously that the big pointy elf ears he was wearing on a headband jerked back on his smooth skull.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, turning away and readjusting the ears. ‘No! It is not your fault!’ Grigor said, patting him on the shoulder and making the ears wobble again. ‘It is Zhivana who makes you cry.’
He frowned severely at his fiancée. ‘We are happy at Christmas,’ he said firmly. ‘It is a happy time.’
‘But, Dad—’ Dmitri pushed back the straggly of hair that fell over his thin face – ‘don’t you think that’s, like, really bogus? I mean, you can’t just declare that we all have to feel a given way at a given time. In my opinion—’
‘Pomolchi! Shut up!’ Grigor yelled at his son. ‘Christmas is more important than your opinion!’
‘Mr Khalovsky, you should be careful with yourself,’ Sergei said solicitously, zipping up behind him.‘You must not become agitated, not after yesterday.’
‘I’m fine,’ Grigor said impatiently. ‘The nurse who was here and the doctor who came this morning said I was fine, didn’t they? No one knows even why it happened.’ He gestured magisterially with one red-gloved hand. ‘I am in tip-top health!’ he announced. ‘And it is the most wonderful time of the year!’
His furious stare at his son rather belied his words; luckily at that moment the brightly painted sleigh-train chugged past, its open carriages filled with screaming, excited children dressed in Burberry and Gucci, waving madly at Father Christmas. It couldn’t have been a better interruption; beaming cheerfully, Grigor waved back at them. The train came to a halt, and the children piled out and descended on Grigor, begging for presents.
‘What do you say, Elf?’ Grigor asked, putting his hands on his hips and turning to Andy. ‘Is it time to give the children their gifts?’
Andy pretended to think it over.
‘Maybe just a few minutes more, Santa—’ he started, winking at the children.
‘No! Now! Now!’ shrieked a particularly demanding and entitled little six-year-old girl, the daughter of a footballer and a glamour model. Called Princess Chastity, she was dressed as Jasmine from Aladdin in a custom-made pale blue silk outfit, her nails immaculately silvered. ‘I want presents now!’
‘Okay! I like a little girl who knows what she wants!’ Grigor smiled down at her. ‘Gather round, children...’
‘Boys over here,’ Andy said loudly, to be heard over the screams and the Christmas music being played over Grigor’s sound system. ‘Girls over there.’
Dmitri clicked his tongue in disapproval as the small children thronged around. Both boys and girls looked like miniature versions of their fathers and mothers; the boys were in obscenely expensive designer sportswear and the very latest trainers, the girls done up to the nines in tight, shiny party dresses, their ears pierced, their nails done, their shoes sequinned and boasting heels of at least an inch.
‘It’s a real shame that the presents aren’t gender-neutral,’ Dmitri observed. ‘This would be a very good opportunity to strike a blow against the gender stereotyping our society seems so desperate to propagate—’
‘Capri! London! Stop pushing, you little horrors!’ screeched one mother, tottering over on her six-inch stacked heels, her bandage skirt only allowing her to take very small steps. ‘I can see you shoving Mitchell! She’s only four!’
Mercifully, Dmitri’s father was too busy chortling ‘Ho ho ho!’ and handing out presents passed to him by Andy to hear his son’s words. Dmitri turned away to see Zhivana climbing into one of the carriages, her small body fitting neatly inside. She smoothed down her dress over her knees and looked around her hopefully to see if the train was going to start again. Catching Dmitri’s eyes, she gave him a small, melancholy smile.
‘If I go round and round,’ she said, ‘I don’t have to talk to anyone.’
‘I’ll get it going,’ Dmitri said, and was rewarded with another small smile as he went off to find the console that sent the train chugging round its circuit. He threaded his way through a group of wives and girlfriends who ignored him completely, seeing his brown corduroy suit and mutton-chop sideburns and assuming that he didn’t have a penny to rub together; none of them realised that he was their host’s younger son.
The women’s cascading hair extensions, plumped-up lips and breasts, Hervé Léger dresses and Louboutins made them look like parodies of femininity. They would have fitted in perfectly at any drag club. Dmitri averted his eyes as he went past: they were the absolute pinnacle of the exaggerated gender roles to which he strongly objected on ideological grounds.
‘Happy Christmas!’ Andy said cheerfully to the children as he handed gift after gift to Grigor.
‘I want a big one!’ Princess Chastity shrieked, rather belying her name. ‘A really big one!’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ quipped the mother of London, Capri and Mitchell, making Andy give a snigger which he quickly suppressed. ‘Ooh, talking of big ones, look at you!’ she observed, noticing Andy for the first time and looking him up and down. His costume – a tight green jerkin with a big white collar, belted over equally tight red trousers, the hems and cuffs pinked into sharp points – showed off his well-set shoulders and slim figure very well, and his chestnut skin was not washed out by the bright colours.
‘I never thought I’d fancy an elf, ’ she went on. ‘First time for everything, I s’pose.’
She looked over at the group of WAGs.
‘Oi, Chantelle, look at this hot elf!’ she shrieked. Chantelle, Wayne Burns’s long-term girlfriend, her strawberry-blonde locks done in a ‘Kate Middleton’ – smooth and voluminous, with the ends tonged into loose curls – glanced over. She was wearing a dark pink stretch satin dress with a mullet hem, more suitable for a night out at one of the London clubs footballers frequented, Mahiki or Bunga Bunga, than a daytime party with children present. Diamonds gleamed in her low-cut neckline and in her ears; her skin was an even, glossy tan and her teeth blindingly white. She noticed Andy and broke into a very sweet smile.
‘Ooh, Corinne, he’s lovely,’ she cooed. ‘You know what they say – big ears, big... heart!’
She burst into giggles, turning to the rest of the women to pass on her witticism; they all turned to stare at Andy, looking him up and down as if he were a Chippendale dripping with baby oil. He writhed in embarrassment.
‘Don’t get too close to him,’ shouted another woman. ‘You don’t want to be reported to Elf and Safety!’
Andy had heard, and used, the expression ‘fall about laughing’ many times before, but he had never actually seen it happen. Chantelle and the second woman found this wisecrack so hilarious that they actually collapsed with laughter, staggered on their heels and had to grab at each other for balance.
‘Elf and Safety!’ spluttered another one. ‘Louise, that’s fucking hilarious! Oops!’ She slapped one hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she said guiltily. ‘Trying to watch it round the kids.’
‘It’s not like they don’t hear it round their dads all the time,’ sighed Louise, staring out at the terrace, on which most of the footballers were gathered, smoking cigars with Mr Fyodorov, drinking cognac or beer, and roaring with laughter. ‘When they’re bloody home, that is.’
‘Mum! Look!’ Princess Chastity rushed up to
her mother, her eyes blazing with acquisitive delight. She was so excited she was hyperventilating, her breath coming in frenzied pants; with her bulging brown eyes and heavy breathing, she resembled a chihuahua in blue harem pants. ‘Look!’ She waved her unwrapped gift frantically at her mother.
‘Omigod, it’s one of the Loub Barbies!’ her mother exclaimed, taking the box. ‘Well, I call that really nice of Mr K.’ ‘It’s Dolly Forever!’ her daughter gasped, barely able to speak with excitement.
The Barbie, one of a limited edition designed by Christian Louboutin, had copper-coloured locks and wore a safari dress that laced up the front. But the pièce de résistance was the pair of thigh-high, pink suede boots, entirely covered in fringe, with miniature five-inch heels: a Baltimore street-corner prostitute would have rejected them as being a little too overstated. All the WAGs, however, cooed over them, Chantelle declaring that they were the prettiest things she’d ever seen in her life and that she was gagging for a pair.
‘Look what Mitchell got!’ Corinne, Mitchell’s mother, showed off her daughter’s present. ‘Another of them Loub Barbies! I think all the girls have ’em.’
‘What’s that one?’
‘Amen – Amen – no, that’s not right—’ Corinne puzzled over the name.
‘Sound like you’re in church,’ Louise giggled.
‘Yeah, right. Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Corinne said sourly. Her long-term boyfriend, Patrice, was happy to have children with her but so far had refused to tie the knot: she’d snagged an engagement ring off him last year, but was finding it harder to seal the deal than she would have done to run a mile in high heels.
‘Anem – fuck, what is this?’ Chantelle took the box, looking at the Barbie, who had the same copper hair, and was wearing a lime-green satin evening dress with an oversized satin bow attached to the back that swept into a train. A diamond bracelet glittered on her wrist, and her lavender shoes were tied around her ankles with big bows.
‘Anem – it’s a bloody tongue-twister!’ Louise made an attempt.
‘It is A-nem-oh-nee,’ said Zhivana, riding past in the carriage, her posture as straight-backed and perfect as if she had just come from a Swiss finishing school – which, in fact, she had. ‘Like the flower. Anemone.’
The train carried her away, across the room, and all the wives turned to stare after her crossly.
‘Who the fuck is she?’ Louise, on whom copious free champagne did not have a calming effect, asked with an angry scowl. Chantelle wriggled over and spoke swiftly and urgently in Louise’s ear.
‘Oh,’ Louise said. ‘Oh.’
Zhivana’s carriage had completed the loop at the far end of the room, and was traversing back, past the Christmas tree. ‘Ta!’ Louise called, waving the Anemone Barbie at her. ‘Anemmy-whatsit! Got it!’ She handed the Barbie down to Mitchell, who promptly ran off to join the group of feral little girls on one of the sofas, tearing their boxes open and arguing viciously about whose doll was best.
‘Stupid bloody name for a Barbie, though,’ she muttered, turning back to the WAGs.
Andy drew a deep breath. The avalanche of children had abated; they had all retreated to various areas of the gigantic apartment to gather over their spoils, leaving a ragged, shiny pile of paper and ribbons behind them.
‘I’ll clear this lot up, Mr K – erm, Santa,’ he said gamely. ‘Thank you, Elf !’ Grigor said jovially. ‘You are a big help!’ He leaned into Andy.
‘And when you are done, would you like to go downstairs? To the second apartment?’ he asked sotto voce. ‘Some of the men here have been already for a quick visit, and they say the ladies are very good at what they do. I am pleased to hear that.’ ‘Oh!’
The offer of an encounter with the escorts whom Grigor had installed in the secret second apartment below the penthouse came as a total surprise to Andy.
‘Well, Mr – Santa – that’s a really nice offer and I’m very grateful,’ he said carefully, ‘but, to be honest, it really isn’t my kind of thing.’
‘No need to tip!’ Grigor assured him, patting him reassuringly on the back. ‘It is all taken care of. Very beautiful girls!’ ‘Thanks,’ Andy said, ‘but—’
Grigor’s expression changed from jovial to fierce in a split-second. It was at moments like this that one could clearly tell that behind Grigor’s happy, charming façade was still the oligarch who had made billions through very unsavoury practices in the Wild West environment of post-glasnost Russia. ‘Andy, I must ask you something,’ he said, and the very few hairs on the back of Andy’s neck stood up in fear, as if an icy wind had blown through the room. Grigor’s hand closed on Andy’s shoulder, a firm grip, and despite the fact that Grigor was in a red Santa suit and Andy in a green felt elf outfit, Andy wasn’t fooled in any way about how serious the situation had suddenly become.
‘You do not have any plans to do anything with one of those ladies, do you, Andy?’ Grigor asked, jerking his head towards the giggling cluster of WAGs. ‘I hear what they say about you. They are very pretty, and they think you are very handsome.’ ‘I—’ Andy started, but Grigor cut right across him, his voice quiet and vehement.
‘But they are not for you. You understand? I do not care what they do, how drunk they get, what they say to you, how much they shake their tits at you like cheap prostitutes. They are not for you.’
Andy’s face was a picture of shock, his mouth open to a near-perfect O.
‘Mr K, I would never,’ he babbled with the utmost sincerity, his voice shaking. ‘Honestly. It hadn’t even entered my mind. Cross my heart and hope to die!’
Grigor looked at Andy’s horrified face and nodded several times, each nod a weighty bob of conviction.
‘I see that,’ he said, and Andy let out a sigh of relief that was almost a squeak. ‘Good. Good. I believe you, Andy.’ ‘Honestly,’ Andy babbled. ‘I would never.’
The hand on his shoulder released, became a pat of approval. ‘Very good,’ Grigor said. ‘You understand, they are the women of my men out there.’ He nodded to the footballers on the terrace. ‘I know that some of them behave worse than the ladies downstairs, okay? But they still belong to men who work for me.’
‘I totally get it, Mr K!’ Andy said fervently.
Grigor patted him once more.
‘I see you looking at Melody yesterday, many times,’ he observed. ‘You like her? You like Wonder Woman? She is too thin, but very beautiful.’
‘Oh, she is,’ Andy agreed instantly. ‘I mean, she is too thin, but they all have to be nowadays. She’s got that real Old Hollywood glamour, though, don’t you think? Reminds me of Ava Gardner. Or a young Liz Taylor.’
Grigor, seeing Andy’s eyes light up as he pronounced these iconic names, smiled at him tolerantly.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said, ‘to dream about a beautiful actress. Very romantic. You are a pure boy, Andy. I see that I can trust you completely with the women of my men.’ He patted Andy once more in approval and reassurance. ‘Soon we will put on It’s A Wonderful Life,’ he said, the cheerful Santa once again.
‘Oh, lovely!’ Andy’s body was still shaking from that moment when he had felt in real danger from Grigor, but the prospect of one of his favourite films perked him up. ‘I’d much rather watch It’s A Wonderful Life than pop downstairs, to be totally honest.’
‘Hah! This is why I like you so much, Andy!’ Grigor called. ‘I agree! Me too!’
Andy was very grateful to drop to his knees and start piling the wrapping paper into a series of big black rubbish bags; his legs were wobbly. It’s one thing sort of being aware that he could have you shot as soon as look at you, he thought, looking down at his trembling hands. It’s another to actually see that look in his eyes.
‘Want a bit of help, mate?’
Andy would have jumped if he hadn’t been on the floor. Turning, he saw the friendly, freckled, slightly spotty face of Wayne Burns at the same level as his own; the footballer had knelt down too and was collecting stray flowe
rs of shiny ribbon, handing them to Andy.
‘Um, yes! Thanks! That’s very nice of you,’ he said weakly. ‘You all right?’ Wayne’s brow was creased. ‘You look a bit peaky.’
‘Oh yes,’ Andy said quickly. ‘Or no. I mean, I’m fine. There’s just a lot to do, that’s all.’
‘I bet. Major party, this is,’ Wayne said. ‘Here.’ He took the black binliner from Andy and opened it wide. ‘I’ll hold this, you stuff. We’ll go quickest that way.’
‘Ta.’ Andy flashed him a smile. ‘You having fun, then?’ Wayne shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I get a bit tired of hanging round the lads, though. I mean, we’re together a lot of the time, you know? It’s not like I need to see them in my time off too. It was better yesterday. You know, different people. Bit of a laugh.’ ‘It was fun yesterday,’ Andy agreed. ‘Lots of drama, too.’ ‘Chantelle was sorry she missed it,’ Wayne said, looking over at his girlfriend. ‘She loves a good fight. But I dunno, maybe it was for the best. She doesn’t do classy when she goes out, you know? I mean, there are limits to how tight your dress ought to be. She can’t ’ardly walk in most of hers. I ask ’er to cover up a bit sometimes. It doesn’t seem respectful, specially for Christmas.’
‘She does look very – smart,’ Andy managed, looking at Chantelle in her pink satin dress.
Wayne sighed.
‘It’s like, when they all get together,’ he said, glancing around the group of bosomy, rake-thin WAGs, ‘they have some sort of competition to see who can get their tits out most. You know what she calls ’ers? Baby ’eads.’
Andy gaped at him.
‘You what?’
‘Yeah. Baby ’eads. Like there’s two bald ’eads sticking up over the top of ’er dress.’
Andy looked over at Chantelle again, at the two melon-sized mounds rising majestically above the low-cut square neckline of her stretch satin dress, her diamond necklace wedged into the lavish cleavage.
‘They are a bit like—’ he started, and then he started to laugh. ‘Sorry!’ he managed to say.
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