Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy

by Faye Brann

  They had only been married for only a few weeks when Sacha decided they should move permanently to Dubai. A haven for crooked Russians, he had spent increasing amounts of time there over the previous few years. He’d gone straight there from their honeymoon in the Maldives, while she’d flown back to Paris alone, but he’d called her after a few days to say he missed her; he didn’t like them being apart. It would be better for them both to start fresh somewhere new, he told her, and ordered her to pack up and get the next flight out. She didn’t argue. Dubai was an exciting adventure, a millionaire’s playground; it was a place where Sacha could operate without scrutiny, and where she could live a life of luxury with her new husband, where no one knew or cared about her past.

  Dubai was still a building site when she arrived. She wondered if it would ever be finished; they had been building non-stop for a decade already, but showed no signs of stopping. High-rise blocks jostled for space along the highway, with concrete skeleton neighbours waiting to be adorned with mirrored flesh. Cranes lined up along the skyline, twitching and twirling to the beat of some unheard drum. Street level, in contrast, was dark and motionless. It wasn’t a pedestrian city. Matisse took it all in, as if systematically stamping the images into her memory would somehow make it seem more like home. But it didn’t feel like it.

  Their newly purchased villa was a true display of the wealth Sacha had at his disposal. The house was palatial. In the daytime it was flooded with light by the floor-to-ceiling windows in every room; at night it was lit by the huge chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings, like glittering demolition balls. She’d never seen anywhere so big. But, like everywhere else in Dubai, it didn’t matter how big or grand the house was; great dusty bowls of sand blew hot and heavy over everything, and there was never any respite. Matisse grew tired of the view and wished she could walk down the vibrant Parisian streets instead of pacing the artificially lit shopping malls. And as summer turned to autumn the heat raged on, and still she knew no one save for her housemaid, driver and gardener, who barely acknowledged she was there.

  She divided her time between the shopping mall and the house, waiting for Sacha to appear, and then disappear, his life full of meetings and client dinners. Matisse’s days were silent in contrast, punctuated by brief exchanges with shop assistants and deliverymen. The beautifully cut marble floors lining the opulently sized rooms echoed the sound of her footsteps as she wandered about the place like a lone sailor washed up on a desert island.

  As winter approached, Sacha began to treat her as less of a confidante and more of an inconvenience. There were arguments, and tears; she was desperately homesick for Paris, and her friends. The passion leaked out of their relationship and he became irritated by her neediness and bogged down by her moods. It was cool enough that Matisse could get out of the house now, but she didn’t know what to do and without Sacha’s attention she found herself increasingly wanting to seek someone else’s.

  When Sacha was home, she hosted dinners and parties for his associates, and tried to seduce them with sly glances and the soft brush of her feet under the table, where Sacha couldn’t see. But anything more than brief titillation was impossible. Men liked her and wanted her – she could read all the signs – but she was off-limits, untouchable; they seemed to know all too well what their fate would be otherwise.

  Except one. A friend of Sacha’s, who didn’t seem scared of him, who sat with her in the kitchen drinking champagne while the others took care of business in the living room over poker chips and vodka. Who slipped her his number and asked her to meet him at the Burj Al Arab one sultry spring afternoon when Sacha had disappeared off to Moscow for a few weeks. Who gave her body what it was craving for over and over and then teased her heart back to life in the months afterwards with his conversation, his laughter and his love.

  They were always careful. At the hotels where they met, she always arrived after him, left before him and ordered room service in advance, so they weren’t disturbed, while he paid the clerk at the reception a small fortune to keep quiet in case anyone came around asking any questions. Later, when they sought each other’s company outside the bedroom too, they only met where they knew they wouldn’t be noticed: in out-of-town restaurants, walking the sands of Jumeirah Beach, or along the wide pavements next to the creek in the old town with only street hawkers for company. Often, she dressed in an abaya, the long, flowing robes and head cover acting as a convenient camouflage.

  The idyll lasted a year, before things changed for ever. Their last afternoon together, Matisse had left the hotel as usual around sunset. It was a beautiful evening, the sun hovering on the horizon in a glorious moment of stillness before it fell out of the desert sky and into the ocean. She was dressed carefully in a green dress with a gold sequin trim, ready to greet Sacha when he returned home later that night. She felt the warm glow of satisfaction wearing it, knowing that it had so recently been peeled from her body by her lover while her matching gold sandals raked the back of his thighs.

  Her sandals click-clacked across the marble floor of the hotel lobby as she walked out of the doors and into the lazy heat of the night. She didn’t notice the sinister figure heading in as she left. If she had, she would have run back to the room there and then, to warn her lover of the danger.

  It was at breakfast, the next morning, when the papers reported a shooting at the hotel – right around the time she’d walked out the day before.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Sacha said, as she gagged on her toast.

  ‘No, nothing …’ She surveyed her husband. She knew him well enough to recognise he was enjoying the pain he was inflicting.

  ‘I see you are reading about the man who was shot at the Burj Al Arab last night. A Russian man, they say, but they do not give a name. He was caught sleeping with some whore and shot dead. The authorities would prefer this was kept quiet, I think, and will not investigate. Such a shame that he did not keep his dick in his pants.’

  She couldn’t help it, the tears came to her eyes … he was dead, it was her fault. Was she next? She rose from the table, and Sacha grabbed her by the wrist, gripping hard and making her gasp.

  ‘Don’t worry, my Zolotse, there’s nothing to be worried about. I know you are scared but there is no reason to be. You just forgot, for a little while, that I am your husband. I am angry, of course, but I understand. Once a whore always a whore, am I right?’

  Matisse swallowed, and waited.

  ‘Not everyone would be as forgiving as me, but I am willing to let you make this one mistake, just one, to understand what the consequences will be if you do it again. Dubai is obviously not a safe place, with men getting shot for sleeping with whores. I think, for your safety, maybe we should go back to France. What do you think?’

  ‘You killed him.’

  Sacha stared back with a cruel smile and a cold glint in his eyes. ‘Yes, I did. Now, go and pack your things. The plane leaves in four hours. I’ll be coming with you, of course. Being on your own, it seems, has caused some problems.’

  He didn’t leave her alone again after that. They returned to Paris, to their apartment, and when he wasn’t there Sacha made sure the housekeeper reported all her comings and goings. It should have been unbearable, but the loss of love knocked the life out of her, so that she no longer cared enough about anything to be angry.

  In the chaos of everything, she didn’t notice that her periods had stopped until her clothes began to feel tight and she realised that the sickness she was feeling might not be just sadness. She did a test in their Paris apartment one morning about three months after she had arrived, which confirmed she was pregnant.

  Sacha was suspicious; he tried to force the truth from her about her affair, but she always gave him the same answer: she had not slept with another man. She knew Sacha didn’t believe her, but, instead of insisting on getting proof, he preferred to inflict cruelty on her, to show he had control. As her tummy grew round and her body heavy, he made her strip for him, danc
e for him and fuck him like the whore she had been when they first met. She complied, out of terror and self-preservation. But as the baby grew and moved inside her, she knew in her heart that it belonged to her lover, conceived on a date when she had worn a green dress with sequins and had blown him his last kiss goodbye.

  When Dmitri was born, he had her looks, but her lover’s eyes. She was as sure as ever who the father was every time he smiled at her. She thought of leaving Sacha, but she had nowhere to go, and, in any case, she didn’t dare try, out of fear for her baby and herself. She tried to make herself useful and attractive to him again, keeping Dmitri out of sight and mind as much as she could, and, over time, they reached a precarious ceasefire. Sacha accepted Dmitri’s presence in the house, and Matisse prayed he would grow up to look just like her. Magda was hired; it was clear from the outset that the housekeeper wasn’t just there to keep the floors clean. Sacha had made good on his word, to make sure his wife was the epitome of the obedient and faithful: Magda was his spy, there to make sure she behaved. A prisoner in a gilded cage, Matisse accepted the status quo. There were no more children, no more affairs, and in exchange for her toeing the line, she had been allowed to live, and live well.

  Matisse wasn’t quite the scared young mother anymore, but she knew when she crossed a line, she would pay for it. Still, she couldn’t let the argument go without having the last word.

  ‘You want us to go to Dubai? Fine. Whatever you want, same as always. Just let’s do it without the snide comments and a vice grip. It only makes you look a fool, not me.’

  She felt the sting of the slap to her cheek almost before she registered his hand flying towards her. She staggered backwards, but didn’t say anything. Magda continued wiping down the worktops as if nothing had happened. She was paid well enough by Sacha to look the other way when it came to his violent outbursts.

  Matisse knew he was waiting for a reaction, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d got his way; they would be coming to Dubai with him. He wouldn’t be getting an apology on top.

  Finally, Sacha turned and left the kitchen.

  ‘Bastard.’ She rubbed at her cheek.

  She heard him grab his keys and slam the door, followed by the sharp sting of gravel in the driveway as he backed out and left in a cloud of dust. The dramatic exit, she knew, would be slightly marred by him having to wait for the gate to open.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Vicky arrived at the Kozlovsky house early on Saturday morning, the cakes were iced, decorated and boxed up in Tupperware and neatly stacked in the hallway by the front door.

  ‘Mama, Evie’s mum is here,’ Dmitri called, answering the door. He turned back to Vicky. ‘By the way, I loved the mince pies. I tried one. They are delicious.’

  ‘Thank you, Dmitri. I’m glad you appreciated them.’

  Matisse was on her way up the stairs from the kitchen and Vicky grinned at the grimace on her face.

  ‘All those cakes to try and he chooses those things. I am afraid the finer points of this English “delicacy” are lost on me, Victoria. Who eats fruit and beef suet from a jar?’

  ‘Me! And Papa!’

  ‘Okay, off you go, that’s enough now,’ Matisse said, and shooed him upstairs. ‘I’ll see you at the fair, okay? Papa will bring you, however much he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘I’ll start loading the car,’ Vicky said. ‘I told Becky we’d be there by nine-thirty to set up.’

  A phone rang. Matisse fished her phone out of her handbag and stuck it on speaker while she picked up a stack of cakes.

  ‘Matisse speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Kozlovsky, this is Grace from Malachi travel agency. Your husband asked me to give you a call and go through your travel options with you. Is now a good time to talk?’

  She sighed and picked up the phone, flipping it off of speakerphone. ‘Sorry Victoria, I need to take this. I won’t be a moment.’ She turned towards the living room. ‘I have five minutes.’

  Vicky carried on ferrying Tupperware to her car. She occasionally caught a few words from Matisse, but nothing concrete. After five minutes, Matisse emerged from the living room, looking bored.

  ‘Would you mind sending this on an email—’ She cupped her hand over the phone and mouthed to Vicky, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Vicky put her thumbs up and motioned that they were finished loading the car. ‘I think there’s one more batch downstairs,’ Matisse said.

  ‘I’ll get it. Finish your call.’ Vicky nudged her shoes off and went downstairs to the kitchen. At that moment, the buzzer rang for the service door.

  ‘Magda, can you get that?’ called Matisse from upstairs.

  Magda didn’t appear, so Vicky moved towards the lift. She saw on the CCTV there was a man outside. A courier. She peered at the screen. It was definitely not Jacob Zimmerman.

  She buzzed the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Delivery for Sacha Kozlovsky.’

  ‘Please place it in the lift, thank you.’ Vicky buzzed the door open to the lift and waited a few moments before hitting the call button. She listened to the rush of cantilevers, and when the doors opened again a small package sat on the floor. She picked it up and saw it was blank.

  The courier turned to leave. She hit the intercom. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Where did you pick this up from?’

  ‘Leytonstone.’

  ‘No, I mean, was it a company, or a private dwelling?’

  The courier was walking away.

  ‘Do you have a name? The person who paid for the delivery maybe? Hello?’

  The courier opened the gate and disappeared from view. Vicky held the package in her hands, wondering if she should slip it into her handbag. Jonathan would no doubt thank her for uncovering a key piece of evidence – if it was one. Or he might just berate her for still acting like she was on a case she’d been told to stand down from.

  ‘Victoria?’ Matisse was standing behind her, still on the phone. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Oh, it was a courier.’ Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Had Matisse heard her talking? She held out the package. ‘I answered the intercom. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Matisse was still on the phone. ‘No, I’m still here, Grace.’ She shrugged and took the package from Vicky. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘He said it was for Sacha,’ Vicky mouthed.

  The corner of the envelope was loose and Matisse edged it open slowly. Vicky swallowed and looked over at the staircase. Sacha would go crazy at both of them if he found them opening his mail.

  Matisse pulled out a cheap-looking card with Merry Christmas written on the front. She opened it up. Vicky could see there was something tucked inside but couldn’t see what. A notebook of some kind? Matisse scanned it and then folded the card shut, placed it back in the envelope and sealed it with a bit of Pritt-Stick. She glanced up at Vicky and put a conspiratorial finger to her lips. Vicky raised her eyebrows and pretend-zipped her mouth up. She could play along with Matisse, for now.

  ‘Grace, I will have to call you back,’ Matisse placed the package on the counter. ‘I need to talk to my husband about his plans before we book anything.’ She ended the call and turned back to Vicky. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘That sounded exciting,’ Vicky said. ‘Where are you off to?’ She glanced at the package. ‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ she whispered.

  ‘Me neither.’ Matisse was touching her hand to her cheek and looked flustered in a way that Vicky had never seen before. ‘Come on. I want to go. Dmitri! We’re leaving!’

  ‘I told you I’d bring him!’ Sacha shouted from upstairs in his office.

  Matisse switched to Russian. ‘Well what you say and what you do are two very different things.’

  ‘I said I will bring him, Matisse, and I will. Did you talk to the travel agent?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point. You’ll do what you want anyway.’ Matisse swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘The fair starts at 11 a.m. Don’t be late. Oh, and you
have a delivery. It’s in the kitchen.’

  Less than two hours later, Vicky was losing the will to live. Cliff Richard blared from a speaker in the corner of the school hall and the noise levels from crying toddlers, sugar-crazed children and their long-suffering parents had risen to way beyond acceptable. She looked around at the stalls lining the hall and saw that, just like hers, they were manned by a variety of hassled adults in comedy festive hats. The barely disguised frustration of stallholders crying, ‘You have to pay for that if you want it’ and, ‘Please be careful, you might break it!’ couldn’t even be heard over the joyous screeching of children as they won jars of sweets, crap plastic toys and felt-tip pens of the permanent kind.

  The Year Four bake sale was well underway, and the tasteful white, silver, and gold tables Matisse had put together heaved with donated cakes of all shapes and sizes. Their stall was towards the back of the hall, next to the patio marquee currently posing as Santa’s Grotto, and, needless to say, it was one of the most popular stalls at the fair. When they’d arrived, Matisse had taken care of aesthetics and Vicky had priced the various fruit cakes, vanilla sponges, red velvet and chocolate cakes according to size and attractiveness, and adorned platters and plates with hundreds of cookies, brownies, Rice Krispies cakes, and gingerbread men. Matisse’s own beautiful cupcakes were stacked in tiers on pretty stands she’d brought from home, their icing piled high like mini Kilimanjaro mountaintops and rice-paper Santas stuck at jaunty angles at their summit. As Vicky had predicted, there were mince pies aplenty. Their tantalising smell was making her feel permanently hungry.

  She tried to keep tabs on her children as best as she could while she worked the stall. Ollie had disappeared off with his old friends – she could see him tramping around the playground outside with Becky, Kate and Laura’s eldest, trying to out-cool each other. Evie was somewhere close by doing looms at the arts and crafts table.

  James was hanging on to Vicky’s leg, trying to touch every cake he could feasibly reach.