by Faye Brann
Chapter Eleven
Somewhere on the other side of Wimbledon Common, Matisse was also otherwise engaged. She heard the buzzing of her phone on the nightstand and looked over to see that a message had arrived. From where she was, on all fours in the centre of the bed, she couldn’t see who it was from; she’d have to reply when they were done. Which wouldn’t be long. Matisse took a glance at her watch as Sacha’s great heaving lump of a body knocked into hers from behind. His ‘lovemaking’ was getting quicker and quicker as time went on. Not that she cared. She preferred things to be over, with minimal fuss.
Flashbacks of cheap, sticky leather and the thumping of Eurotrash dance music flitted into her mind as Sacha continued to pump himself into a frenzy; the memories of the nameless, faceless men she had danced for, sat for, laid down and bent over for crowding into her head. Sacha’s fat fingers grabbed at her still-slender hips and she thought about the girl she had been back in Paris: her body young and firm, writhing in unknown faces, her hands running down unknown bodies, her mouth closing around unknown cocks. She’d enjoyed it; enjoyed the anonymity of it all, enjoyed arousing the strangers who wanted her before they, and she, moved on. But when Sacha had come into the club the first time, and then the second, and the third, she saw a glimpse of an alternative way of life.
Sacha had eyes only for her. He found her amusing, thought she was smart, and she was happy to entertain this rich, important man, talking to him in Russian, whispering in French, and fucking him in silence, just how he liked it. Her boss didn’t like it – he thought clients who were attached to one girl were bad for business – but Sacha was an imposing figure who had money and power at his disposal, and, if he asked for Matisse, he got her.
He visited the club for nearly three months, every time he was in the city. His compatriots – other rough-looking men with dangerous faces and flexed muscles – threw money at a different girl each time; for Sacha it was always her. She was his property, and, in an odd way, he was hers. One night, while she was straddled on his lap in a quiet room backstage, he muttered into her ear that he would like to see her away from the club.
‘No,’ she’d said.
‘I will pay you. Name your price,’ Sasha replied, his greedy crotch rubbing against her. ‘What do you earn here that I could not give you ten times over?’
‘What if it’s not about the money?’ she said, moving her hand down to unzip his flies.
‘Of course it’s about the money,’ Sacha said, closing his eyes. ‘It’s always about the money.’
He asked her each time he saw her, while she was dancing for him, or while she led the way to the private suite, but she would always simply laugh and put a finger to his lips, knowing the fate of girls who fell for rich men in dancing clubs did not always turn out well. He wouldn’t stop asking though and finally, one day, she agreed to listen to what he had to say.
‘Matisse, you are a good dancer and I like fucking you. But I want someone loyal who I can depend on for more than just dancing and fucking. Am I wrong to think this is you?’
‘Are you in love, Sacha?’ She tweaked his nose playfully, but he grabbed her wrist, held onto it hard and stared into her eyes.
‘That’s not what this is about.’
‘Why do you need me then?’ She yanked her hand away. ‘Why do you need anyone?’
Sacha reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. ‘In my line of business, it is good to have a person to watch your back. Men can stand guard with guns, but women see and hear much that men do not. Plus, men are weak around a beautiful woman. That can be useful to me.’
‘And if you pay me enough, you get blow jobs whenever you want them.’
‘It was wrong to offer you money as if you were a common whore. I like you, Matisse, and I should have made it clear that this arrangement will be mutually beneficial. You will have a better life, with not just money, but security and status too. I will have a beautiful woman on my arm, who can keep her ears open and her mouth shut.’
‘I will think about it.’
He clipped the cigar, lit it, and exhaled heavily. ‘Matisse, experience has taught me that if someone offers you a better life that the one you currently live, you should take it. You are attractive now, of course, and if you look after yourself you will stay that way for a long time. But a few more years of this shithole and you will be all fucked out. And then what will you do?’
She left the club the next day. Sacha, true to his word, bought her an apartment to live in while he travelled between Moscow and Dubai, always returning to Paris, and to her. Within six months she had transformed from a girl massaging his crotch in a club to the woman he wanted to come home to. Despite what he said, Matisse was sure that Sacha had fallen a little bit in love with her, but she knew he was still holding back. There were things he didn’t tell her; meetings and money and men that he hid from her. And Matisse knew that, to be safe, she needed him to completely trust her. She needed a ring on her finger.
She resolved to make it happen through saying nothing. She didn’t ask questions about his money, didn’t comment on the stream of unsavoury guests coming and going from their apartment when he was resident, and kept quiet about the conversations she overheard. She focused on becoming a confidante rather than an inconvenience, a figure of strength, not subservient. She never complained, never did anything that would tarnish his reputation; she allowed him to use her as decoration for his arm, and his cock, whenever the mood suited him, but never flattered him enough to think he had complete power, either. Soon enough, she became the sort of woman he would like to marry, and so they did.
*
Pulling herself back to the present, Matisse looked at her watch again. It was time to wind things up. Stay silent for too long and he’d run into problems these days, which would just end badly for everyone. She adjusted their rhythm, made all the right noises and tossed her hair around, listening as the grunting got more intense and the pace of his thrusts quickened until finally it was over, and he slumped face down on the bed beside her. She turned herself around and pulled on a pale silk wrap, before heading for the bathroom, taking her phone from the table on the way.
She sat on the toilet, checking the message that had come in while she did so. It was Victoria, wanting to know about a playdate with Dmitri during half term. It suited her perfectly. Sacha was out most evenings, and Victoria had said she could even bring Dmitri home afterwards, meaning Matisse could ask Magda to let him in and not have to worry about being home either. She could spend an entire afternoon at the spa, or shopping, or maybe even a gallery and dinner.
She wiped, and stood up, a faint grimace of disgust as the remainder of Sacha’s juices spilt down the inside of her leg. She put her phone on the side by the sink and got in the shower, scrubbing him off as fast as she possibly could. He’d been right: in the end it was about the money. If she left, she’d be cut off from everything, and she was damned if she’d let him do that to her after all this time. She thought he’d be dead by now, from a heart attack or killed by some thug with a grudge; she thought she’d be able to walk away with the cash, and the house, and be free of his bullish presence for ever. But here he still was, larger than life, and apparently invincible.
She wrapped her towel around her. She had Dmitri to think about, of course. It was better for him to have stability, but the last thing she wanted was for her son to see Sacha as any kind of role model. Perhaps she was worrying needlessly, given the lack of enthusiasm Sacha showed for parenting most of the time. If he continued to stay at arm’s length from her son – the way they both preferred it – Dmitri would hopefully decide for himself what kind of man to be, and learn from the people around him what the best version of himself looked like. The only thing to do for Dmitri right now was let him live as normal a life as possible, let him make friends, and hang out with ordinary families like the Turnbulls. She thought of Victoria, and the comical stories she’d told while they were baking, about her husba
nd Chris, and their children. They seemed happy – not fairy tale exactly – but content. To her surprise, Matisse felt a little jealous.
But things weren’t always as perfect as they looked. She of all people knew that. She was sure that Victoria and Chris had their own share of problems and secrets that they kept behind closed doors. Chris didn’t look the type to have an affair, but maybe he had a mountain of internet porn stashed on his laptop like her own husband. Maybe Victoria was bored playing housewife. She was smarter than she let on, Matisse was sure of that. Matisse picked up her phone and started to reply to Victoria’s invitation, making it as clipped and formal as she could. Making friends would be the best thing for Matisse as well, but she’d learnt her lesson long ago and kept herself to herself. She trusted no one, was friends with no one; except, she was lonely. She craved a normal life too.
Chapter Twelve
‘I’m just dropping Dmitri home, Chris. I’ll be about half an hour, okay?’ Vicky grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Come on, Dmitri, get your coat on. I promised your mum I’d drop you back by seven.’
‘It doesn’t matter; she’s not going to be there anyway,’ Dmitri said.
‘Well, I know, but I’m sure Magda will be waiting for you.’
Evie was getting her coat on too.
‘Oh – no, Evie, you can stay here.’
‘Why? Dmitri is my friend. I want to come.’
‘I’m only running him up the road, Evie. You can say your goodbyes now and stay with Dad.’ A manufactured playdate was one thing, but she had never intended her daughter to be around when she got down to the real reason for arranging it.
Evie frowned and threw her coat on the ground. ‘Fine.’
‘Evie, don’t be like that. You’ve had a lovely afternoon—’
‘Is there a problem?’ Chris appeared at the top of the stairs. He’d got home early for once, and was up on the PlayStation with Ollie.
‘I wanted to go in the car with Mum, but she’s saying I have to stay here.’
Vicky caught Chris’ eye, imploring him to take her side. He got the message. ‘It’s just a quick car journey, sweetheart, and you need to start getting ready for bed. Say goodbye to Dmitri.’
‘Bye, Evie. I’ll get that game and give it to your mum, okay?’
Evie smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She turned to Chris, still cross with Vicky. ‘Dmitri has this Harry Potter game for the PlayStation, he says it’s really good and he’s going to let me borrow it over half term.’
‘That’s kind of you, Dmitri. Thank you.’ Vicky opened the door. ‘Come on, off we go.’ She ushered Dmitri out into the orange glow of the street, before calling back to Chris. ‘See you in a bit.’
‘Night night, Mummy, I love you,’ came a little voice from the top of the stairs and she saw James wandering into view, clutching two toy cars. Vicky blew a kiss at her smallest boy, her heart full with love. He waved, farted and disappeared again, giggling. She turned to Evie and gave her a kiss. ‘Don’t be mad. I’ll be home to read with you before bed, okay?’
Vicky and Dmitri got in the car and made their way to Wimbledon. The traffic was light, thanks to the school holidays, and Vicky was glad she didn’t have to spend half an hour staring at brake lights in every direction.
‘Did you have a good afternoon?’ she said, trying to make conversation.
‘Mmm,’ came the response.
‘That game sounds good. Do you like Harry Potter?’
‘Yes, I do.’
More silence. She would be recommending to Jonathan that he recruit more eight-year-olds into the Secret Service from now on. They were very good at limiting the flow of information.
They reached the house and Vicky buzzed the intercom and waited for Magda to see them on the CCTV and open the gates.
Dmitri undid his seatbelt.
‘I can go myself from here,’ he said. ‘I have a key.’
‘Oh no. It’s dark, and I promised your mum I’d see you to the door,’ Vicky said, glad for once that she was telling the truth. The gates opened and she drove through and parked up at the front door.
Dmitri sprang out of his seat as soon as the car drew to a halt.
‘Bye. Thanks for having me.’
‘Wait!’ Vicky hurriedly undid her own seatbelt and got out of the car. ‘You need to get me that game for Evie, remember.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
Vicky silently thanked her daughter for giving her a legitimate reason to spend a few minutes in the house. It would make what she had to do much easier. She followed Dmitri to the door, who ceremoniously unclipped a keyring from a beltloop on his jeans and let them in. He flung the key down on the table by the door, and chased up the stairs.
‘Won’t be a moment! I just need to find it in my bedroom.’
‘No rush, Dmitri. I’ll wait here.’
Vicky heard footsteps from below. She leant on the small table where Dmitri had thrown his key and casually scooped it into her fist just as Magda’s head peeked out from around the corner of the stairwell.
‘Dmitri has gone up?’ she said, climbing farther up the stairs towards the hallway.
‘Oh, hello, Magda. Yes, he’s gone to get a game to lend to Evie … sorry, I won’t be long.’ She paused. ‘Actually, could I just use the bathroom? Do you mind?’
‘As you wish,’ Magda said. She was a woman of few words.
Vicky turned and headed into the cloakroom. Once the door was locked, she uncurled her hand, placed the key on the side of the sink, and quickly opened her handbag. She dug around until she found what she’d been looking for: an unopened rectangle of green clay. To the untrained eye, it looked like playdough, kept in her bag for a pre-schooler emergency diversion. However, sliced precisely in half and covered in baby powder, it wasn’t intended for James. Vicky unsealed the clay and opened it up, before placing the door key inside and clamping down firmly. She released her grip and looked at the result. A perfect imprint, ready to make a copy of the Kozlovsky’s front door key.
She flushed the toilet, washed her hands and came out clutching Dmitri’s key inside her coat pocket. Magda was waiting, and Vicky, glancing at the clock on the wall by the stairs, gave a pointed sigh and made it clear she too was being massively inconvenienced.
‘If you can’t find it, Dmitri, don’t worry; we can do it another time,’ she called, stepping towards the stairs.
‘I will get him.’ The tone of Magda’s voice told Vicky not to follow.
‘Of course.’ Vicky stepped back again in acknowledgement of the unspoken instruction. She waited until Magda was out of sight and then gently placed the key back on the table. Moments later, Dmitri came thundering back down the stairs.
‘Here you go,’ he panted, passing her the disc. ‘I couldn’t find the case, sorry.’
‘That’s alright. Thanks. We’ll bring it back to school on Monday, okay?’
‘Bye, Mrs Turnbull.’ Magda came back down the stairs to see them out. ‘Thank you for dropping Dmitri home.’
‘No problem at all,’ Vicky said, ‘I can do it any time.’
And now, she really could.
The next morning, she headed to make a dead drop. Ollie was at home and Evie was with her best friend Isobel getting a pedicure. Vicky fundamentally disagreed with the concept of children in spas, but wasn’t about to say no to the free time it provided her. James was at the oversubscribed holiday camp at his nursery, thanks to a last-minute cancellation. Vicky wasn’t sure if Jonathan had orchestrated it, but, either way, it bought her the time she needed to hand the key cast over without having to drive all the way to Gilbert House to deliver it.
It was a beautiful late autumn day, the sun low and bright, the trees lining the roads shaking off the last of their leaves to join the swirl of plastic bags and fag butts. The pub she headed into was quiet, but not completely empty, and a fire was lit in one cosy corner. Despite the temptation to take a seat inside, she ordered a lime and soda and a burger at the bar, checked
her phone and went into the beer garden. It didn’t raise any eyebrows – the pub was kitted out with patio heaters, blankets and fur-lined seats, all waiting outside for the great British smoking public.
She sat down in the corner that backed on to the rear wall of the pub, got out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, a book and took a sip of her drink. There was no one else in the garden, but she picked up her book anyway, lit a cigarette, and lodged it in the ashtray. If anyone came, they’d assume she was smoking it.
After a few minutes, she glanced at the toilet windows that opened on to the courtyard. She’d heard someone lock themselves into a cubicle as she’d lit her cigarette, and now she heard a hand dryer. She waited until the bathroom door opened and closed again, the muffled sounds of the pub growing louder and then dimming. Then, taking the clay mould from her bag, she took a final sweep of the beer garden before hiding it carefully behind the planter next to the wall, where the trellis met the brickwork. Satisfied it was in the right place, she drained her drink, stubbed out the cigarette and went inside to eat her burger by the fire.
Wiping the last of the grease from her mouth, she looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly time to get James. As she did up her coat ready to face the outdoors again, she called home to check on Evie and Ollie.
‘Hi, Ollie,’ she said as her son answered the phone. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, Mum. Everything’s fine,’ he replied. ‘Evie’s just got home. She wanted to go on the iPad so I said it was okay. I gave her a biscuit too, she said she was starving ’coz Isobel’s mum had made them eat quinoa for lunch.’
‘Thanks, Ollie,’ she said, proud that, for once, her son had been responsible rather than winding Evie up and causing a row. ‘I’ve just got to get James and I’ll be home in about half an hour, okay?’
‘Okay, Mum. Hurry up, though. I don’t know how long I can bear being nice to Evie.’