This was definitely not the conversation Stevie needed tonight.
‘How awful,’ she grimaced. ‘About the hailstorms, I mean.’
Charlie’s gaze slid around the room. His eyes seldom focused for long. It was a curiously unsettling quality.
‘Anyway, we’re all going to the Savages this weekend. Can’t think of anything else to bloody do. Probably be bored out of my mind. Everything bores me at the moment.’
Stevie stared. She realised she had nothing to say to him.
‘I overheard two girls on a park bench today,’ she blurted out.
‘Someone wanted to kill them.’
Charlie’s eyes were drifting again. ‘Really? I suppose that’s what happens to girls who sit on park benches.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Joss’ show is opening tonight. You coming?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He’s threatening to propose to the girl tonight. She’ll probably say yes, too,’ he snorted. ‘I’ll tell him I saw you.’ He finished his drink in a big gulp.
Stevie found herself checking quickly to make sure the scar was watertight.
He kissed her cheek. It felt like a hen-peck.
‘You don’t look well,’ he called over his shoulder as he left the bar.
It made Stevie marvel. His imperviousness. The world didn’t touch Charlie. Actually, it was more than that. The world didn’t exist outside what he chose to see. Inconceivable that other people had feelings, or cravings, or that ideas mattered, that the world changed every day, that people did things.
Things like marmalade were important to Charlie. She used to think it was all just a front. She had spent time wondering about Charlie when she had first met him, trying to get through to the real person. But Charlie managed to hold the entire world at arm’s length. It was a feat Stevie admired; the strength of will it must take to be so utterly blind.
Stevie asked politely for another drink and lit her second cigarette of the day.
Joss’ exhibition. Propose. He had always said he didn’t believe in forever . . . Had Norah changed all that? And now he would know that she was in town, that she didn’t have the courage to attend. Charlie would be sure to tell him. She would definitely book that flight home tonight.
A man from reception brought her a message slip:
Please phone Henning in Moscow 98 84 63 21.
Stevie stubbed out her cigarette and collected her coat. Henning would cheer her up.
She called from her room. ‘Hello, Henning.’
‘How are you, Stevie darling?’
‘Oh . . . you know.’ It was the second time she’d been called ‘darling’ that evening, the second time her cheeks had heated up—even though Henning often called her that. ‘Charging on—crime, paranoia, celebrity babies, the usual thing.’ She was aiming for ‘cheery’, but didn’t quite get there. ‘Actually it’s driving me a bit mad. I’m taking a week off.’
‘What’s brought all this on?’
Stevie told him about the young girls on the park bench. She couldn’t get the picture of the two of them sitting in the rain out of her mind.
‘They’re haunting me, Henning. Maybe . . .’ Stevie kicked off her shoes. ‘Maybe sometimes I think I’m protecting the wrong people. The clients I saw today are protected in so many other ways: they have money, friends, love, family, every opportunity. Those girls on the bench seemed so alone in the world. No one was going to worry about what happened to them. They seemed so . . . disposable. Does that make any sense?’
‘It’s an awful thought, that some people are disposable.’ Henning understood. His tone told her everything. He understood, he always did. That was the thing about Henning.
There was a long silence on the phone. Henning spoke first.
‘Stevie, will you come to Moscow tomorrow morning?’
‘Mmm, let’s see . . . no. No. Not possible at all I’m afraid. I have a client with a bad toupee who is terrified someone might catch a glimpse of his balding dome in this windy weather. He needs twenty-four-hour surveillance. Anything else I can do for you, Henning?’
‘I’m serious, Stevie.’
‘So am I. Would you mind terribly if I ran a bath while we chatted? This tub takes years to fill and I’m chilled to the bone.’ Stevie ran the taps and began to undress.
When he replied, Henning’s voice sounded a little huskier than usual. ‘It’s a business proposition of sorts. Just a small matter, private.’
‘In Moscow? It’s one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world, rotten with corruption. It’s unlikely to be a “small matter”. Everything is always connected to something bigger.’
In the mirror her face looked particularly pale. Charlie was right, she didn’t look well. No point staring.
‘It’s the head of the Russian Central Bank,’ Henning said. ‘He’s a friend. He wants a threat assessment on him and his family. He’s a good man, an honest man.’
‘Well, I can give you that over the phone.’ Stevie stood in her black bra and panties. Italian lace. She had started wearing beautiful underwear after Joss, to remind herself that she didn’t need a man’s gaze to feel sexy. Sometimes it even worked.
‘Extremely high,’ Stevie said, struggling with the clasp on her fancy bra. ‘Valery Kozkov, right? So far he’s shut down forty-four crooked banks, banned people from the banking industry for life, slapped down some heavy fines and it’s rumoured he’s chasing links between Russian organised crime and elements in the government. His one lucky star is that he is too high up to be killed without the consent of someone very senior in the political machine, but he’s swimming in dangerous waters with both the mafia and the politicians. I’m sure he knows that better than anybody. His family will be in danger, too. Certain elements will want to send him a strong message. They did that to Anatoly Chubais only a few months ago.’
Off. Small naked breasts freed. Stevie pinned her hair back.
‘The landmine by the side of the road outside Moscow?’ Henning asked.
‘Exactly. That wasn’t meant to kill him. The blast was directed away from the motorway, towards the woods. It was set off in front of his car. Fire was only exchanged when Chubais’ bodyguards gave chase to the attackers. He was not meant to die on that road. That sort of message.’
‘And Kozkov is incorruptible,’ Henning reminded her.
‘That is almost a death sentence in itself. He won’t be persuaded to go local?’
‘He feels he can’t trust anyone.’ Stevie could hear Henning flicking his lighter as he spoke. He did that when he was tense. ‘His action on the banks has touched so many shady people in so many different ways. And that includes bank employees and politicians. He doesn’t even know who will be after him most.’
‘And you call this a small matter? It’s way too big for me. Like I said, I do paranoid popstars and synagogues on holy days. You need a team for this. If you want I can put Kozkov in touch with the right people at Hazard.’
The bath was too hot but Stevie slid in anyway and gasped.
‘Sorry. Bath hot. Pheeew.’ She massaged the dark purple fencing bruises dotted on her thigh.
‘Stevie, listen. There’s a particular reason we need you. Five big guys from Hazard won’t do. You speak Russian and you have the right look . . .’
‘It’s not some weird sex thing, is it? Doesn’t hurt to ask,’ she added, when he seemed to choke in response. ‘I once got caught in a very uncomfortable situation on a night train to Budapest that I’d rather not go into.’
‘It’s not “some weird sex thing”, as you put it. I can’t tell you more over the phone. Please just come to Moscow and see for yourself.’
And then came the clincher, as if Henning had read her mind.
‘It might be good for you to get out of London for a few days—get your mind off—’ ‘I’m fine.’
‘You won’t be when you run into him,’ he said grimly.
‘I’m not coming.’
3
BA 176 took off from Heathrow at 6
.35 am. Stevie wondered whether accepting a glass of champagne before breakfast was bad form but decided that as it was not yet light outside, that made it still officially night and so everything was allowed.
She picked at her croissant and tried to read the papers, but the back pages were full of the Hammer-Belle move to London; articles on Joss and Norah Wolfe. Neither subject would improve her mood.
How had she ended up on the flight at all? When it came to Henning, it seemed that saying ‘no’ always, somehow, without Stevie ever really realising how, turned into ‘yes’. His powers of persuasion were maddening—she would make sure to tell him that when she saw him. She smiled to herself: it wouldn’t be long now.
Pale light bled into the sky and Stevie was able to make out the peaks of the Alps way below, jutting from the fog like the tips of slate-grey icebergs. They must be over Switzerland. She wondered if they were flying near . . .
Because she was sure, with the clarity brought by hindsight, that that weekend was when the affair with Norah Wolfe must have started. Or at least, that it was the weekend when, if she had been a little less in love, a little smarter, she would have ended it with Joss Carey.
Stevie had been home in her flat in Zurich when the invitation came. Joss had called from London, suggested a ski weekend in Switzerland. How terribly romantic, Stevie had thought. She would take the little red train up to Arosa on Friday. He would meet her there that afternoon.
Stevie packed her cashmere rollnecks, her furs, her ski boots and a bottle of her most passionate scent. She planned to dazzle him. In among the iced pines, in sleighs wrapped in fairy lights, surrounded by the deep, velvet snow, sitting by chalet fires, she would seduce him all over again.
The last few weeks he’d seemed distant, dreamier than usual. Perhaps this was his way of making it up to her. The ski weekend seemed like the perfect opportunity to show him that she, Stevie Margaret Duveen, was a girl with potential, someone his artistic soul could love deeply.
Stevie arrived at the alpine hotel at noon. A room had been booked in his name and she checked in, expecting him around three. She accepted the manager’s invitation for them to dine formally in the Panoramahalle.
By seven he still hadn’t showed. Joss was never on time, but he was by now very late and no word had been sent. And his telephone was off.
Poor Joss! Had something awful happened?
Just to be sure she went down to the reception to ask if he had arrived. It would be an awful shame to get all worked up about a simple misunderstanding. But no, Herr Carey had yet to show. And es tut mir leid, Fräulein, so sorry, but he could confirm there had been no disastrous plane crashes or derailed mountain trains that day.
Stevie spun through the revolving doors and into the freezing night, her worry building bricks in her stomach. She tried his number again.
Still no answer.
The concierge came running out. ‘Fräulein Duveen, a message for you.’ He handed her a card:
Herr Carey called with apologies. A pressing engagement kept him in London. He will call you later.
‘Joss called here? Why didn’t you come and get me?’
‘I suggested this possibility to him but . . .’
The pity in Hans-Peterli Fruhl’s eyes—Stevie automatically read his name tag—said it all.
Stevie was confused. Joss didn’t have pressing engagements . . .
Dignity. Maintain at all costs. Turn, heel, lift is behind you, up to the fourth floor. Smile at the chambermaid—Guten Abend—no crying, what a funny day, lalala—and I like what they’ve done with the new carpet— Safely inside her room Stevie trembled but shed no tears. The evidence for abandonment was accumulating as fast as the snow outside.
She thought about leaving, running away, making an excuse. But then she decided no, that she would stay and enjoy her weekend in the Alps to its fullest. She would not let Joss, or anyone, know she was upset. She would carry on exactly as she was.
Unfortunately, this brave new resolution meant that the fifteen-course dinner in the Panoramahalle would have to be attended. She refused to hide in her room as if she had done something shameful. She phoned down: Fräulein Duveen would be dining alone, danke.
Of course, she dressed in black from head to toe: a black cashmere rollneck, her pearls worn on the outside, Chanel ballet slippers. Her hair had been longer then, and she had piled it up to show off her jaw, her large pearl earrings. Most important thing was to line the lower eyelids thickly in kohl, ensuring that she wouldn’t be able to shed a tear without making the most terrible mess.
At her table, she sat composed and still. She brought no novel, no newspaper, no magazine, no notebook and pencil to distract herself from the feeling that eyes were on her. They were.
Older couples wondered where her husband was and had she disgraced herself; the maitre d’ was more merciful and wondered what tragedy had befallen her, what darkness. He offered a few words of conversation with each course. Stevie appreciated his kindness but wished he wouldn’t.
Concentration was required.
She practised stoicism and elegance and impenetrability. She would not even allow herself to become invisible. It was good training, she thought, only she was not sure what for. She had mastered the glass of wine alone in a bar a long time ago—not easy but there was a certain masochistic satisfaction in it. But a glass of wine was one thing; a fifteen-course formal dinner in a silent ballroom, quite another.
‘The trick to it,’ her grandmother had explained in one of her many sessions revealing the magic arts of existence to young Stevie, ‘is to not appear as if you are waiting for someone. You must look as if you had always intended to find yourself in exactly this situation.’
A tall man got up from his table and strode in her direction. He was wearing navy woollen trousers and a cashmere jumper covered in a cream fleur de lys pattern.
Stevie had noticed him notice her. Possibly, if there had been room in her tormented mind for such thoughts, she would have found him attractive. But tonight, she hoped very much that he would not think it necessary to stop and talk to her. He was very tall.
She concentrated on the untouched quail on her plate. She felt too much kinship with tiny birds to eat anything smaller than a fully grown chicken. She covered the fragile body respectfully with a cabbage leaf.
‘If I may.’
Oh dear.
Stevie looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘I think you’re waiting for the wrong man.’ He had an unusual accent, almost English but unplaceable. His eyes glinted, daring her to take up her end of the conversation.
‘I’m not waiting for anyone.’
‘I can tell by your little feet that you are. They’re very expressive.’
Damn.
She hadn’t even realised she had kicked her shoes off. Her stocking toes were crunched into fists.
‘Well, he’s an artist. He’s not good with time.’ Stevie could hardly convince herself.
‘Will you join us in the meanwhile?’ He smiled and gestured towards a table behind him. He seemed so at ease in his skin and Stevie envied him. ‘Just a dentist and his wife from Zurich, clients of mine.’
Stevie glanced over at his table. An elegant couple sat talking. He was immaculately dressed in a tweed blazer and a salmon-coloured polo neck jumper that would have been disastrous without the perfect winter tan; she wore white cashmere over her slim shoulders and had the glowing skin and well-placed gold jewellery of a Swiss heiress. They did not look like a dentist and his wife. Stevie wondered if the tall man was telling the truth.
‘I think I would prefer to let the solitude sink in. But thank you.’
‘A life unexamined and all that . . . I understand.’ He smiled again and left her.
He’s kind, thought Stevie. And he had left her with elegance.
The thirteenth course was presented with an exaggerated flourish under a silver dome. The subject was quite unworthy of the attention: a pale beige mousse, like a dead mou
se.
Three grand old battleaxes rose from the corner table, their meal vanquished, and steamed across the room. They had lacquered helmets of hair, pastel twinsets, pearls, and very large crocodile bags. They could only have been described as formidable.
Stevie looked down at her own bag. It was identical. The man had noticed the similarity, too. It seemed to amuse him.
Stevie prayed the fourteenth course would hurry up and come. If he cornered her on the way out, she would have no choice but to feign nausea. No one ever argued with that.
But the man didn’t move from his table.
Stevie finished her interminable dinner, having left most of it untouched, and rose. Without glancing at the man, with a nod to the maitre d’, she slipped out.
There were no messages under her door. Joss hadn’t called. What sort of engagement could Joss possibly have to keep him in London?
And so vague . . . Joss didn’t use words like ‘engagement’—especially not words like ‘engagement’. Why hadn’t he wanted to talk to her?
Again Stevie debated calling and decided against it. Joss knew where she was. He would call if he wanted to.
Had her luminosity faded in his eyes . . . was that what was driving Joss incrementally away from her?
Thirty thousand feet above the scene, Stevie accepted a refill of her champagne glass. Somewhere in her crocodile bag, she still had the message that had arrived at her door the next morning, accompanied by a pretty bunch of primroses: Herr Carey called to say he is devastated he can’t make it.
Primroses. Like that first one which, held in his palm, had ensnared her heart.
Stevie had opened the curtains and looked out at the mountain. It was so beautiful in the early light. Teardrops crawled like flies from her eyes, pausing a moment on the ridge of her jaw before leaping down and disappearing into the towelling of her robe.
This would not do. The mountain was there and the snow was excellent. If there was ever a time to carry on and enjoy herself tremendously, this was probably it. Crying was ridiculous; she would go to breakfast instead.
The Troika Dolls Page 5