by L. S. Hilton
Notwithstanding the quietness, it took me a few minutes to notice that someone was following me. I was wearing flat, studded Valentino sandals that made no echo on the stones, but I could hear footsteps that weren’t mine. I paused, and so did they; I walked a little, and they continued. I stopped again and lit a cigarette, glancing behind me in the flare of the lighter. No one. I made a right turn, thinking to double back towards the open space near the Caravanserai, but my first pass set me against the wall of the fortress. I doubled back, went left up a steep alley. The footsteps were getting closer; I could sense that whoever was trailing me was placing their feet carefully. A man, by the weight of them. As I speeded up, the thick walls of the buildings vanished from my peripheral vision, my pupils seeking each passing pool of brightness from the candles as I flowed into a run, holding the silk of my skirt. There wasn’t much of use in my small clutch – my phone, the key card from the hotel, my wallet, a tube of lip gloss. Then I remembered the thick band of gold encircling my wrist, Zulfugarly’s present. At the top of the hill the alley gave into a small high-walled square. I ducked against the angle of the corner building and held my breath, unfastening the bracelet. After a few moments, the figure that had been pursuing me emerged on the flat, passing me into the square, looking from side to side, but not behind. Before he had time to turn, I stepped forward and grasped for the collar of his jacket with my left hand, bringing the bracelet as hard as I could against his temple with my right. It bounced onto the flagstones as he staggered soundlessly, groping round for me. I feinted left, then sent a right hook to his windpipe which took him down. A sensible woman would have legged it at that point, but I straddled him, taking a handful of his hair ready to smash his face down on the stones.
‘Jesus! Wait! I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘You didn’t frighten me. I have an abnormally low startle response to aversive stimuli, Romero. Hadn’t you noticed?’
‘What?’
I let up a bit, so he could turn over beneath me. I put my hand first to his heart, then along his collarbone and up to where I’d hit him.
‘Judith. I came all the way from Bari. I just wanted—’
‘Shut up.’ I bent forward and kissed him. Gently at first, thoughtfully, a few slow, curious pads with my lips, and then more deeply, searching out his tongue, pushing deep into his mouth. His arms came around me, tighter, pulling me onto him as my hair fell around his face. I reached back, under my dress, settling on the mound of his cock.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Well, I thought, since we’re here.’
He slapped my face. Hard enough to hurt, but I could feel he was smiling.
‘Puttana.’
I stretched my fingers around his bruised neck, gripping harder, squeezing.
‘Am I?’
‘You know it.’
He ripped the sodden scrap of my knickers from me and was in me before he stood, getting to his feet in one movement which pushed him further as we came upright, my legs locked behind his back as we made an ungainly waddle for the wall where I had waited to jump him. His trousers pooled around his ankles and I dug my nails into his arse as he forced my head back with his forearm, biting at my throat.
‘Harder,’ I told him, but he’d read my mind, slamming me against the wall, the thick swelling of his cock finding the heat of me, stretching my cunt as I took his width.
‘I said harder.’
‘Troia.’ He slapped me again, across the mouth, the report of the blow burning and tingling as he cupped both hands under my arse to ram me deeper, the bricks scouring my back as my cunt slid over him and we found a stabbing, urgent rhythm, getting closer with every push until I felt the clutch of pleasure unfold and the rush of my cum drench his hot prick as he lunged a last time and pumped out into me in three long, shuddering gouts.
My hips were spread so wide he had to lift me off him. I straightened the remains of my dress, thought of hunting for my knickers, decided it wasn’t worth the bother. I concentrated instead on finding the bracelet, which might come in handy. My pulse was finally beating again; I could hear it as he rearranged himself, buckling his belt, twitching his torn collar into place.
It turned out the Caravanserai was just around the corner after all. We left the old town hand in hand.
‘Why did you come?’ I asked him in the cab back to the hotel.
‘I wanted to see you were OK.’
‘You could have called.’
‘So, maybe I missed you.’
‘You’ll be staying, then?’
‘Until you leave. If that’s OK. And then I’ll see you in London, for the sale.’
It was OK. There were too many echoes waiting around my bed. It would be good to have da Silva in it.
23
Solomon Mathis was waiting for me outside the embassy at 10 a.m. the next day, balding and dark-bearded in a neat, pale-blue linen suit. We introduced ourselves, then he asked if he could have a word before Zulfugarly arrived.
‘I needed to tell you, Miss Teerlinc, that I had a call from Mackenzie Pratt. Some weeks ago, around the time that the sale was announced.’
‘I was aware of that,’ I answered carefully.
‘Then you know that the, um, late Miss Pratt said she believed the work to be a fake?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Obviously this was long before Mr Zulfugarly asked me to advise him.’
I suddenly saw where this was going. From the studiedly bland expression on Mathis’s face, I knew we both did. I waited for him to continue.
‘I wanted to be the first to reassure you that I have the greatest respect for my colleagues in London and that, while of course I will act correctly on behalf of Mr Zulfugarly, I see this inspection as, on the whole, a formality. I should add,’ he said hastily, ‘that I am assessing the picture for him on behalf of IFAR.’
‘I see.’
The International Foundation for Art Research provides an authentication service with a useful loophole in that its experts have the option to remain anonymous. Mathis had a very solid public reputation that he would be unwilling to compromise. Yet equally, Zulfugarly would be willing to pay a lot to be told what he wanted to hear. By going through IFAR, Mathis could collect his – probably enormous – fee and save his face if the picture was later exposed as a dud. Zulfugarly, meanwhile, wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the distinction between an IFAR assessment and a definitive confirmation.
Mathis was watching me intently. He had told me his position, but the slightest hint of relief from me could shift it.
‘It was so terrible, what happened,’ I said seriously. ‘You know, I was actually there that night – there was a dinner for some House clients.’
‘Yes, I read about it. You must have been very shocked.’
‘She’ll be greatly missed.’
‘Of course. Perhaps, it would be more . . . respectful to keep Miss Pratt’s opinions confidential, in so far as we can?’
‘I couldn’t agree more. Thank you. It was very good of you to be so transparent, and of course I shan’t mention it.’
It wasn’t entirely clear whether we were referring to Pratt’s meddling or the IFAR clause, which suited us both fine. We shook hands, like tennis players before a match.
‘I hope you enjoy the picture.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’
*
Since I wasn’t allowed to be in the room during the inspection, I took a seat at a café across the road and ordered a thick, cardamom-scented coffee while I watched Zulfugarly and his bodyguards rock up in a pair of lumpen Mercedes jeeps. They disappeared into the building and a few minutes later my phone pinged with a message from Hugh.
He’s here. With Solomon Mathis. I’ll have my eyes peeled!
Where else did the idiot think Zulfugarly was going to be?
I lit a fag and stubbed it out again. They would be in there for hours, or at least Mathis would, Hugh and Karel standing guard the whole ti
me. It felt odd, to have nothing particular to do. Then my phone pinged again. Da Silva.
Want to come back to bed?
I couldn’t help smiling. Perhaps I did have something else to do after all.
*
Hugh called at just after 3 p.m. I was lying across da Silva’s chest, one hand resting on his cock. He was stroking my hair as we dozed.
‘Well?’
‘It’s good. I mean, Mathis said he had to go and write up his assessment, but I saw him giving Zulfugarly the nod. He’ll bid.’
‘Have you told Rupert?’
‘Not yet, I thought you’d want to know first.’
Da Silva was sitting up, casting about for his trousers. They’d somehow ended up on the balcony.
‘Brilliant. Give him a call now. He’ll be waiting. I’ll be down in an hour to sign out the picture.’
‘Sure. And will I tell them to get the plane ready?’ I could feel how much Hugh had been looking forward to saying that.
‘You do that. Thanks.’
Da Silva pulled me back onto the tangled nest of sheets. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘Don’t you want to know what they said about the picture?’
‘I don’t care. Stay here.’
I pulled away. ‘I can’t. You know I can’t. But . . .’ – I couldn’t believe I was doing this but the words seemed to come anyway – ‘why don’t you come back with me? Stay in London until the sale? I can talk you onto the plane, no problem.’
When I thought about it, I’d spent a disproportionate amount of my life waiting for da Silva. The long days by the lake after I’d killed Cameron Fitzpatrick, the long journey from Nice to Venice where he waited near Alvin Spencer’s bones, the slow hours of my captivity in Calabria. But the seconds he took to answer my question then, in that hotel room that reeked of our sex, felt like the longest wait of all.
‘Yes, Judith,’ he said simply. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
*
‘Baked beans,’ exclaimed da Silva as the cab pulled up on Brook Street.
‘What?’
‘Baked beans. You know, those disgusting orange things. That’s what I remember about England.’
For a double agent with Mafia connections, da Silva had travelled surprisingly little. He had visited London just once, on a day trip to do the sights, when he had been sent to England on a residential course to learn the language in Leicester.
‘We lived with families,’ he explained as the doorman took our bags and welcomed me back to Claridge’s. ‘We had dinner at six o’clock. It was always freezing. Grey, every day. I had to wear a sweater in the summer. And all the food was orange. Those – fish toes?’
‘Fish fingers.’
‘And the cornflakes. It was traumatic. I lost kilos.’
‘Baked beans are lovely. And you’ll see – it’s not all like that. Come on.’
‘Message for you, Miss Teerlinc,’ called the concierge.
Zulfugarly had called the hotel and asked me to contact him directly. I sent da Silva up to the room for a shower and dialled Baku from the lobby. The Azeri answered on the first ring, shouting over thumping house music. It was two in the morning there, Pacha time. The line crackled as Zulfugarly moved outside, then his voice returned more clearly.
‘So – I have spoken to Mr Mathis!’
‘And you’re satisfied?’
‘Most satisfied. I would like to invite you to Saint-Tropez this weekend, if you have no engagements. There’s something I would like to discuss with you.’
‘Can’t we speak on the phone?’
‘I would prefer to see you again in person. I have a place there, you will be my guest.’
‘Ummm – let me think about it and check my diary.’
*
Da Silva was stretched out on the bed in a bath towel in a cloud of Cowshed patchouli shower gel. He opened his arms, but I dodged away and began stripping off my clothes.
‘I feel disgusting after the plane. I’ll have a shower and then how about room service? No beans.’
‘Perfect, amore mio.’
My love. He had called me ‘my love’ and he didn’t even have his cock up me. That had to count.
*
First thing next morning, I called Carlotta.
‘Oh my God – where have you been? I’m like, five months pregnant!’
‘That’s brilliant, congratulations, I’m so happy for you! Is it—?’
‘Twin girls. Franz is thrilled.’
‘Are you two in Monaco for the summer?’
Carlotta sighed heavily. ‘Yeah – I mean, I wanted to go to Mykonos but Franz said it would be too stressful for me. Like, I’m pregnant, is all. So I’m stuck in this dump until we go back to Switzerland.’
The dump being Franz’s rather beautiful art deco house near the Palais des Princes.
‘Fancy popping over to Saint-Trop’? If hubby will allow it?’
‘Shut up! Of course – there’s like, no one here right now, I’m dying of boredom. We’ll go to the Byblos?’
‘Great. I’ll sort us some rooms.’
‘It’ll be my babymoon!’ she squealed. ‘Only, like, without Franz. By the way, what happened with that Russian guy?’
‘Maybe you’ll get to meet him.’
‘I’d say amazing but I’m, like, really fat right now.’
‘Who’s him?’ asked da Silva, turning over and licking the back of my neck.
‘Someone I have to see. Two people, actually. I have to go to the South of France the day after tomorrow.’
‘We only just got here. Can I come?’
‘No. This is work, darling. I think it’s worth it.’
‘What about me?’
‘Don’t be needy, it’s not sexy. You’re going to stay here and go to the British Museum and the Eye or whatever. Have a holiday. If you can square it with Franci, that is,’ I added nastily.
He got up and went into the bathroom. I sent a quick message to Yermolov, asking if he was on the Côte, and then replied to Zulfugarly, saying that I would make my own arrangements for accommodation and suggesting we meet for lunch at 55.
Da Silva flushed the loo and hunched back into bed. I began a trail of kisses down his body, stroking the tight muscle with my tongue.
‘No sulking. I’ve invited a girlfriend, so I’ll have a chaperone. I’ll only be gone two days.’
‘Two days is forever, amore.’
I carried on stroking my tongue over his chest, his stomach, until my lips found their destination. I don’t imagine I’m the first woman to have thought about shopping while performing oral sex. I’d need some new things for the trip. I was going on a girls’ weekend and if the evidence in my mouth was anything to go by, I’d also found a boyfriend. Hark at Little Miss Normal.
24
The first sight of the Mediterranean as the plane comes in at Nice airport always gives me a thrill. Maybe because the runway seems to be built right into the water, so there’s always that delicious moment of tension when the pilot dodges the waves. It had been a long while since my first visit, all thrilled about a weekend at the Eden Roc, and I’d learned with time that it’s a bit naff to love the Riviera. Overbuilt, brash, crowded as it was, it still made me feel that I’d arrived in a way that nowhere else quite could. Admittedly, that trip hadn’t worked out too brilliantly in some ways, what with my two latter-day travelling companions ending up dead, but the bougainvillea was just as bright and the sky over Cap Ferrat was just as sparkling and this time I was paying for it myself, not with a blowjob for a fat bloke. Seeing Carlotta waiting for me at the gate made me realise how far we’d both come, in our different ways.
Aside from the bump, Carlotta looked just the same – the only fat thing about her apart from her gargantuan breasts was the massive diamond pendant nestling in the hollow of her throat.
‘Push present,’ she explained, after we’d done the obligatory squealing and hugging and the porter was pushing our bags to the car. ‘Only
, like, in advance.’
‘When are the babies due?’
‘Well, technically in October, but I’m booked in for the caesar in Zurich in September.’
‘I suppose with twins you can’t be too careful.’
‘Yah, that’s what I told Franz. But actually I want to make the window to put their names down for Le Rosey.’
One of the many things I admired about Carlotta, aside from her iron grip on the main chance, was her discipline. She could have been a general in another life.
‘So – the Russian?’ she asked as we settled down in the Mercedes for the two-hour drive to Saint-Tropez.
‘His name is Pavel Yermolov. He’s giving us dinner tonight. So long as you won’t be too tired, of course.’
‘Tired? I mean, like, all I’ve been doing this summer is resting. In fucking Monaco. I mean, it’s like soooo lame.’
I could remember when Carlotta would have given her implants for a place in Monaco, but I let it pass.
‘He’s more of a friend really. Not a prospect. But I have . . . met someone, maybe? An Italian?’
I could hear my voice taking on the ringing upspeak I’d used back when Carlotta and I were girls on a boat, on the make.
‘Yummy. Is he rich?’
‘Poor but honest.’ At least, as I understood honest.
‘How’s the sex?’
‘Good. Very good. Really fucking excellent, actually.’
‘Franz hasn’t touched me since we got the results of the pregnancy test.’
I couldn’t see that this was much of a loss, given that Franz was north of seventy with a taste for urolagnia, but I tried to say something reassuring about him being worried for the babies.
‘It’s illogical, but totally normal.’