by L. S. Hilton
‘You don’t want to leave it too long. Once you’re over thirty, you can forget getting anything decent. Like, do you remember that model we met at that party?’
‘Help me out here.’
‘You know, in Italy. She was with that TV bloke.’
I hadn’t been all that focused on the company the time we dined with Steve on Balensky’s boat – I’d had other things to consider, such as not getting dumped overboard by his bodyguards for stealing information from his study – but I did recall a swimwear model hanging off the arm of an American producer.
‘Yah, so she was living with that guy, didn’t get a ring on it and he left her for some, like, seventeen-year-old. I think maybe it was even a guy. And then the IRS got her and she had to move home to Pittsburgh. Like, Pittsburgh. I saw it on Facebook.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Goes to show. You have to be more serious, darling.’
‘Noted.’
‘She’s doing, like, catalogues now.’
*
I did balk a bit when old Franz ordered an acid-yellow Riesling for the aperitif, but dinner was quite fun. Tomas, who turned out to be of a similar vintage to Carlotta’s husband, droned harmlessly about international real-estate prices, intercut with Carlotta’s running commentary on the Cecconi’s regulars. Proper white-jacketed waiters did some impeccable gliding, and the gnocchi al cervo were pillowy and delicious. Afterwards we piled back into the car to go to the Dracula Club.
Back when I’d tried to teach myself about the world I had believed I wanted to inhabit, the Dracula had seemed like a myth. The glossy magazines reserved a specially syrupy sycophancy for the parties in the secret mountain cave, accessible only to the members of the Cresta Run bobsleigh team and their guests. Franz had been a ‘ghost rider’ since before his current wife was born, so we were shown past a younger group of anxious blaggers to a narrow table near the bar. Black and red drapes hung from the high ceiling, and framed posters of the Cresta and its riders were dotted about, but dwarfs and dancing girls were in short supply. The DJ was spinning – Adele. Waiters carried magnums of Dom Perignon across the floor, sizzling with indoor fireworks, each delivery met with whoops and yells, at the next table a loud group was showing just how craaaazzzeee they were by bopping unsteadily on the banquette. I was only half surprised to recognise Stefania from Tage’s party on Ibiza. I gave her a nod and she flashed me a grimace of fake recognition. I hoped she was having a good season. The music was too loud for conversation, but Franz and Tomas seemed happy enough, bobbing their heads like a pair of old turtles, waiting placidly for bedtime. Maybe the Dracula had been wild once, but Gunter Sachs had been dead a long time.
After about half an hour I dragged my jaded carcass to the ladies’, locked myself in a stall and messaged Elena.
‘Any news?’
‘Balensky’s landed.’ Presumably at the private airfield at Cellerina further down the valley.
‘Where are you now? I’m at Dracula.’
‘Palace.’
Badrutt’s Palace, in the centre of St Moritz overlooking the lake, is one of the oldest and glitziest of the resort’s hotels. Elena had told me that Balensky always stayed there.
‘On my way.’
Our party had grown when I returned. I was glad to see Carlotta holding court, and equally glad that I couldn’t hear her. I was intercepted by an American called Jeff, listening impatiently as he tried to tell me about heli-skiing in Colorado, eventually dodging his high-decibel drone by the simple expedient of turning my back on him and climbing over Tomas to reach Carlotta.
‘What are you doing?’ she screeched. ‘That’s Jeff Auerbach. He’s the CEO of KryptoSocial!’
Jeff had disappeared into a crowd of more eager founder-hounders.
‘He seems happy enough. I told you, darling, I wanted to hang out with you. D’you want to go on somewhere else?’
‘Where?’
‘I thought we could take the boys to the Palace for a nightcap? Franz looks a bit tired.’
Franz actually appeared to be asleep.
‘Yah, sure, if you want.’ Carlotta poked her husband in the chest, perhaps slightly harder than necessary.
‘Baby? You want to go have a drink, play some backgammon?’
‘We can always sneak down to the King’s,’ I hinted. King’s was the other St Moritz club, in the basement of the Palace Hotel.
Everyone checked their phones as we drove down into town. I had three messages from Elena.
‘Still waiting.’
‘He’s here. Bar.’
‘Where are you?’
I replied, then messaged Timothy.
‘Time to go. Bar at the Palace.’ The hostel I had selected for him was about ten minutes’ walk away.
‘Ready.’
*
I was glad of the swagger of the thigh boots as Carlotta and I strode into the Palace lobby. Just now, they suited my mood. Elena was positioned on a chair in the lobby, apparently engrossed in her phone. Since Yermolov would be coming to St Moritz, she would not be permitted to stay at their home, so we had agreed that she would take a hotel, as she had done several times since their separation. I’d asked if Balensky seeing her would be a problem, but she’d scoffed at me.
‘Ha! I am old wife! Practically invisible. And it is quite normal for me to be in St Moritz at the start of the season. Besides, you have given him something else to think about, no?’
*
Elena was in full battle-dress, but seemed quite sober, though I suspected that the clear liquid in her glass was neat voddy. She didn’t acknowledge me, just nodded her head sideways in the direction of the bar. Carlotta was making her way through display cabinets of candy-coloured diamonds to the half-empty lounge where Franz, revived by his nap, was opening a backgammon board. I grabbed Tomas’s hand.
‘I’ve never seen the bar here. I’ve heard the view is stunning. Shall we have our drink there?’
Tomas followed me into the more intimate panelled space, with a huge picture window, through which the Alps gleamed again in all their indifferent majesty. I asked for a champagne cocktail, and while the barman mixed it I snuggled under Tomas’s surprised but not unwilling arm. Shielded by paunch and jacket, I peered over my shoulder. Elena had really missed her vocation. Balensky was ten feet away.
His gnome’s back was half buried in a Deco club chair, but I’d have known that hair weave anywhere. Looking at him, shrunken and wizened, it was difficult to believe that this man had basically been responsible for a series of minor wars. How many lives had he and Yermolov ended between them? Not that I was exactly in a position to judge.
*
‘Here you are, my dear.’ I asked Tomas if he had known St Moritz for long, and as he launched into a lengthy anecdote involving the good old days when a young buck could keep a sportsman’s cupboard at the Palace, I swivelled my eyes the other way, steering Tomas’s body towards me and turning my own for a clearer view. Balensky’s bodyguard was to his right, drinking a Coke, with an incongruous leather man-bag plumped in front of him on the low table. To Balensky’s left was Timothy’s competition, a slender, high-cheek-boned Slavic-looking boy with bleached blond hair and full lips that looked as though he’d been at the hyaluronic acid. Balensky was on the phone, ignoring both his companions, but his left hand lay discreetly on the boy’s knee. Tomas, obviously encouraged, was telling me about his own chalet in Kitzbühel now, suggesting that I’d like to see it this season.
‘Sounds gorgeous,’ I encouraged him, letting his hand brush the gap between my skirt and the dreadful boots as though by accident, watching Balensky intently. His shrivelled little head jerked round when Timothy walked in, wearing black jeans and a fine white cashmere sweater, a new padded jacket with a quilted leather collar slung over his arm, his gold Rolex flashing just indiscreetly enough beneath. He’d somehow faked the glow of a ski-tan, the tips of his perfectly tousled hair just brushing the ruddy flush on his cheekbone. I no lon
ger feared that Balensky would notice me – he only had eyes for Timothy, who ordered a drink before turning to survey the room and making a little mock show of surprise before approaching Balensky.
*
I had drilled Timothy on his lines on the plane to Milan, but it was crucial to me that I watch him in action. I had to be certain that he would do it right, it being make a date with Balensky in the presence of witnesses. He was to remind Balensky, who spoke French, that they had met before, in the company of Edouard Guiche, and spend a few moments commiserating over the shocking tragedy of his death. Steer the conversation to neutral chat, then mention that he was in the resort with a group of friends from Paris, implying that the ‘friends’ were throwing a similar sort of party to the one Balensky hosted in Tangier and suggesting that Balensky might like to drop by. Play sad and desirable, a little bit lost but not inconsolable, wounded but still naughty. Tempting. I had counted on Balensky having at least one bodyguard; it was essential that the man see the meeting and Balensky, hopefully, take Timothy’s number. Watching him, I was reminded of the Timothy I had met just a few weeks ago in Belleville, the same dirty insouciance, the easy promise of pleasure. I don’t know why people consider whoring to be unskilled labour. Within minutes he had claimed the pole position on Balensky’s left, leaving the blond in disgruntled silence. Soon Balensky was laying an avuncular hand on his arm and tapping Timothy’s number into his phone. Tomas looked rather disappointed when I told him I was feeling tired, but helped me politely into my coat, ready to join Franz and Carlotta. We hovered in the lounge, waiting for Franz to finish his game and Timothy to pass us as he left the Palace, before persuading them to call it a night. Elena was still at her post in the hall, empty-glassed and steady-handed. She held up one hand and a thumb as we crossed out to the waiting car. Six. Elena had informed her husband’s staff that she was in St Moritz and needed to pick up a few things from their home before he arrived. They confirmed that he was expected that evening, just as I had planned. So we had until 6 p.m. to set the stage.
*
At eight the next morning I was swimming laps, naked, in the narrow slate-lined pool in Carlotta’s basement, pacing the order of my strategy with the beat of my arms through the water. I worked through the stages in my head, allowing, naturally, for time to select exactly the right outfit.
Showered and dressed in jeans and my heaviest sweater, I found Carlotta in the kitchen, where a maid was pulsing ginger-and-carrot juice and Franz was studying the FT.
‘Want to go skiing?’
‘Skiing?’ Carlotta asked, as though I’d proposed something deeply eccentric.
‘Yeah, I thought I’d get myself some gear and then go down to the ski school to see if I can book a lesson.’
‘Nah, I’m like crazy busy this morning. I’ve got Pilates and then Franz wants to have lunch at Trais Fluors. We’re going to Klara for fondue tonight though!’
‘Great. I’ll catch you later then.’
‘You’ll need some keys. Want the driver?’
‘No, I should walk. Ciao, darling.’
*
I pulled the loaned mink gratefully around me as I slithered down the hill, the thin mountain air delicious in my lungs. I messaged Timothy to join me at the ice rink at the Kulm and ordered us hot chocolates as I waited, watching three small, exquisitely dressed Italian girls practise clumsy pirouettes with a patient teacher, irrationally jealous of their little white skates.
‘Ça va?’
Timothy was transformed. The anxious lethargy of the past days had blown away and he seemed ready for anything. Or maybe it was the Kulm, and the view and the deferential waiters with their tiny yellow embroidered napkins and silver chocolate pots. This might be his future, if I came good. It was the kind of future I’d once imagined for myself.
‘Has Balensky been in contact?’
He made a hurt face. ‘What do you take me for? First thing, vieux schnoc.’ Old bugger.
‘Good. So you’re clear – if we have to do it?’
‘Yeah, of course, Judith. You’ve only told me about twenty times.’
‘It’ll hurt.’
He looked dismissive. ‘I’ve done worse.’
‘And if I don’t come, Elena will find you. She’ll give you the money. It’ll be OK, I promise.’
‘Don’t sweat.’
‘You’ve got something to wear?’
‘Yes!’
‘OK, I’m going to Elena now. Hopefully see you later. Start waiting at six and don’t leave the room, yes?’
‘Sure. I won’t. You told me. Good luck then.’
We embraced briefly, but I didn’t fool myself that there was any warmth in his touch. He might have needed me for comfort in his first shock of grief over Edouard, but from now on we were strictly business. I understood that.
*
I took a cab outside the lobby of the Kulm to a village called Pontresina, about twenty minutes along the valley. Elena had described the house as a kottezhi, a cottage, which in a sense was correct, in that the American millionaires of the Gilded Age had referred to their fifty-bedroom Newport summer houses as ‘cottages’. Three glass cliffs descended through the pinewoods, each a window about ten metres high, set in thick cherry-coloured plaster walls. A small funicular rose through the trees, to take goods to the house, with a narrow piste cut through below it, to allow direct access from the slopes. I imagined Yermolov must have had it made specially. I sent the cab off, but Elena was late and my gloveless hands were senseless even in the pockets of the mink by the time she arrived.
‘Elisabeth! How wonderful to see you, darling!’ she shrilled, for the benefit of the security camera installed in the stone wall which circled the base of the property. As she embraced me, she said, ‘I called and told them I needed to pick up a few things. That is permitted.’ I passed her a crumpled orange Hermès carrier I’d filched from the wardrobe of Carlotta’s guest room containing the phone and the leads. Jovana had given me a Huawei P9, the best for the job, in her opinion, and we’d gone over the connectivity set-up several times before I left the squat.
Elena entered a code into the panel set in the wall. A pause, then what I had assumed to be a service door opened to reveal a small lobby and a waiting lift, cut right into the mountain.
‘We will need to be quick,’ she muttered as the door closed once more and we glided upwards. ‘The cameras turn every three minutes.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve been doing your stretches.’
In reply, Elena lifted one booted foot from the folds of her sable and raised it slowly and effortlessly level with her chin.
‘Grand battement,’ she explained with satisfaction. I couldn’t help feeling exhilarated.
‘You can wait in the hall, darling,’ she called theatrically as the lift opened, ‘and then we’ll go meet Carlotta. I’ll just be a moment.’
We were standing in a circular room with a domed wooden ceiling. A mounted row of stags’ antlers set off a series of Chinese Gansu-style horse statues jutting out on plinths, beneath the huge, intricate Bean chandelier I had seen in the magazine when I was researching Yermolov’s collection. Constructed of more bone and what appeared to be bronze swords, it fell a menacing three metres, the delicate natural forms of the ivory contrasting with the brutal efficiency of the forged metal. It was the chandelier which had given me the idea. We were going to film my encounter with Yermolov and Balensky, but we had to install the device before Yermolov’s own cameras picked it up. I hadn’t cared for the inclusion of Elena in this, but I couldn’t think of a more convenient way to get smoothly onto Yermolov’s premises and get it installed. I’d promised her that I was going to push Yermolov into handing over the prize of his collection, namely the Jameson Botticellis, but right now she seemed delighted less about that than the chance to show off.
Elena disappeared up a staircase to the left of the lift and re-emerged moments later, coatless, on a mezzanine gallery that encircled the hall’s upper fl
oor, doorways leading off it. Aside from the sound of her boot heels on the wood, the house was eerily silent; I could feel rather than hear the hum of a generator deep within it. This place must gargle fuel.
‘I’ll just throw these down to you!’ Elena paused on the landing. Opposite, a grandfather clock with a porcelain face showed only seconds before noon. I caught her boots, then a flutter of clothes descended, floating slightly on the house’s invisible thermals, to land at my feet, all except a flimsy white silk blouse which had unfortunately become impaled on the lighting feature.
‘Oh, I am stupid!’ cried Elena dramatically. The minute hand moved to noon and the clock began to strike.
Elena hopped neatly over the balustrade with her back to the lamp, holding the rail with both hands like a barre as she extended one leg towards the chandelier. Arabesque. I counted the seconds under my breath. Her boot caught the antler and pulled the chandelier towards her like a swing as she twisted her supporting leg through a hundred and eighty degrees, drawing her knee bent as she did so, opening her arm over the extended leg. Second position. She lifted herself en pointe on the impossibly narrow ledge, the rest of her weight suspended by the tense support of her crooked arm as she bent gracefully forward from the waist, pulling the chandelier tight with the flexed leg. The muscles of my core tightened in sympathy; if that thing swung she would break her neck. Holding the lead in her teeth she clipped the phone into place with her free hand, turning the screen face down towards the hall floor. One minute thirty. With agonising slowness, she detached her toe from the tangle of ivory and bone. If her strength failed, she would be whiplashed to the flagstones. I hoped to Christ she hadn’t had a drink. I closed my eyes, waited for her to cry out, couldn’t bear it, blinked into the sight of Elena vaulting back to the safety of the mezzanine. Two minutes.
‘It’s stuck!’ she called down, not even out of breath. ‘I will have to get someone to fetch a ladder!’ The wisp of silk was almost invisible against the pale ivory, but from above the phone was concealed.
‘Prada,’ announced Elena as she came, re-sabled, down the stairs. It crossed my mind that if Balensky or Yermolov killed me, which was a definite possibility, the canopy to my demise would feature a designer label. Somehow that seemed very funny. I don’t know what Elena was thinking, but as she caught my eye she started to smile, and in a moment we were laughing so much we had to hold each other up, tears of hilarity melting into the plush heat of our furs.