“Where is your husband now?” he asked.
“At work.” She was staring at him, as though trying to come to a decision. “He’s a banker.”
“That’s good,” Vladek said softly. “Take me to your house.”
It wasn’t a request, and she waited only for a second. Then she said, “This way,” and gestured down one of the crooked, beautiful mediaeval streets that led away from the square.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
They were lying together, pooled and exhausted, in the warm linen sheets on her oak bed. He had a hand draped over her thigh; she had been soft and golden, as he knew she would, receptive and malleable.
Vladek felt he was home. It didn’t concern him that this was another man’s house; he had taken ownership of the female, and he would take ownership of the rest.
“Natasha,” she said. “Natasha Ilyeva Garin.”
He nodded. He did not like the name. She would have to change it for him.
“And you?”
He smiled. What did it matter? He would not give her the name Vladek. Maybe they were looking for Vladek, and anyway, he had no family. He would be whatever he chose to call himself. “Yuri,” he said, smoothly. He kissed her hand, then stood up, unashamed of his nakedness, his skinny body. He walked into her bathroom and shut the door.
It was wonderful: American-style, with a Western shower, hot water on demand, clean white tiles, and soft towels. He stood for a long time under the warm droplets, washing himself from top to toe with the French lavender soap she had in a little dish. Then he shaved, carefully, and washed his hair. It felt glorious, and he took the husband’s plush bathrobe and wrapped it around himself.
“What are you doing?” she cried, when he emerged. “He’ll know you were in there!”
He shrugged. “A man who is so blind as not to see you will not notice anything.”
She smiled.
“You will tell him the robe needed washing,” he said.
“Where do you live, Yuri?” Natasha asked. She rolled around on the bed, arranged her body to display herself to him. “When can I see you again?”
He chuckled. Her need was so transparent.
“I am a thief,” he said. “I live everywhere and nowhere. I have nothing. I steal what I need.” He moved onto the bed, ignoring her shocked face, touching her above the knee. “Does that scare you?” he asked, enjoying the reaction. “Do you want to call for help?”
She tossed her head. Really, she was magnificent.
“No,” she said, thick-voiced. “It wouldn’t do me any good, would it?”
“None whatsoever,” he said. He pulled her to him, hard, and kissed her deeply.
After that it was easy.
Natasha was his opportunity. He felt himself in love; yet there was always that element of separation. She was his desire, but also, he could use her; if there was a conflict, it did not concern him.
He knew that as much as he loved her, he loved himself far more.
She provided for his needs, and he for hers; he was insatiable, every day, often more than once, he would take her, and work her body until she ached. And added to the pleasure this gave him, there were practical considerations. Natasha took money and spent on him, rather than herself; he rented a small apartment, close to her house; he bought woollen, American suits; he ate well; he owned several pairs of shoes. And as he groomed himself, he became ever more attractive to her, until she forgot that she was paying for every rouble of it.
The husband, he saw once: a small mole of a man, spectacles perched on his greying head, scurrying to the bank in the centre of town; Estonian bankers could act as conduits to Swiss lenders, and he worked for members of the party; Communist wealth secreted away in the West. Hence all the money; it was from the estates of White Russians, he thought, of princes and counts. Well, so be it. Vladek—or Yuri, as he currently thought of himself—believed in the survival of the fittest.
He considered killing the banker. But it was too dangerous. The man was not a fat buffoon he could dump under the snow like Ivan. He would be missed; people would talk. A shame, since Yuri hated the thought of that slug pawing at his woman, his property. He wanted to live in the townhouse, openly. He wanted to spend that money without it coming from Natasha. Why should the banker have a right to it? He was a thief, too, except he did it via telegram and Swiss francs.
After a few months, he sensed danger. People in the square—not talking openly, but he sensed the glances, the whispers when he and Natasha walked by. That was enough; Yuri prided himself on his escape skills. He had no need to be warned twice. Besides, it was already time to move on. Not from Natasha; he felt generous towards her; she was still his woman and swore she loved him. No, he would take her, even though the supple curves of her body were starting to lose some of their charms. The tiniest lines around her eyes were minutely deepening; the tone of her skin fading, just a little, but he noticed it all. Yet she pleased him, and he determined to keep her. But it was time to leave Tallinn. It had served its purpose. He was no longer a street rat, an urchin with scuffed shoes and ragged hair. He was now well-dressed, -bathed, and -clad; he was on the way to the man he would become; he had taken the first steps to his great destiny.
Estonia—all the lands of the Soviets—had nothing for him now. It was time for London, for Washington, or for Rome. Great men did not live here. Perhaps Moscow ... but even Moscow was cold and dark, not enough of a theatre for him.
Yuri never doubted himself. And so insistent was he on escape, that Natasha did not doubt him either. After one conversation, she passionately committed herself. She would flee with him, north, over the wastes, into Finland. He warned her that she risked torture and death if caught. She answered that she did not care, that life without him would be the cruellest torture.
It was a good answer. He set their plans in motion.
Chapter 38
“Baby,” Judy said. She moved behind Tom, her long fingers digging expertly into his back, kneading and pushing at the muscles around his spine. He was so tense. But she knew what she was doing, and despite himself, he sighed with pleasure.
Judy, efficient as always.
“You have to relax. I know you love your mom,” she cooed. “But this is all a part of growing up. Becoming a man.” She used her most reasonable tone. “Later on, she’ll thank you for cutting the apron strings. No matter what she thinks right now, I’m telling you, hon. No woman wants to raise a mamma’s boy. . . .”
That was the wrong thing to say. He tensed again, and moved away from the bed.
“I’m not a pawn of my mother,” Tom said flatly. “And I’m not a pawn of my girlfriend, either.”
His eyes looked so like Pierre’s when he got angry. Judy felt weird; instinctively she gathered her legs back into her body. She dropped her gaze, not liking it.
“I will protect my family,” Tom said, self-importantly. He looked at Judy, who had lowered her head, and softened his tone. “I know you mean well, chérie,” he added.
“I do.” She lifted her head again, defiantly. “I love you. I want only the best for you.”
“And I appreciate that,” he replied, with a touch of Pierre’s arrogance. Judy flushed with annoyance; why didn’t he say he loved her, too? “I have arranged for you to have your job back,” he said.
Ah! Anger forgotten, she jumped off the bed, beaming. “Really?”
She was truly beautiful, Tom thought, when she smiled. It wasn’t often; there was a solemn core to Judy Dean, despite her soft words and hot body. It fascinated him. When she smiled like this, though, she showed some vulnerability; it was as though something shattered in her. Tom wasn’t sure he liked it.
“You got me my job back? You’re a doll!”
“And at a responsible salary,” he said, ignoring the Americanism. “Half a million euros per annum.”
Judy sucked in her breath. She felt a little light-headed. She would not have to trade in her car or her jewe
llery, after all. She was rescued. She was safe.
It had worked.
“That’s fine, darling,” she said, lightly, trying not to sound too excited.
Half a million today, a million tomorrow. Why not? Anything was possible.
“Of course,” Tom said. He laid back, lazily, on the bed. “If you perform sufficiently well.”
There was a heavy emphasis laid on the word “perform,” and Judy gave him a brittle smile.
“Baby, you know I will,” she said.
Tom smiled and pulled her to him. Judy arched her back, displaying her buff, strong muscles for him.
Both of them ignored their unease.
Tom was trying not to worry about his mother; he could lose himself in Judy’s taut, tight body. And Judy was trying to shake off that slightly dirty feeling. Tom’s remark didn’t help, nor how much he looked like Pierre; what had attracted her, now repelled her. As soon as Tom was more than theory, she had recoiled from him.
And what did he mean by “perform”? She was good at PR! She deserved half a million, and not because she was somebody’s girlfriend. . . . Pierre’s, or now Tom’s.
But that led her back in a circle. Judy could not afford those thoughts. Yes, Pierre had lied to her. Judy was not his only other woman. He had demeaned her, why should she care? And so what if Tom was his son? She was not related to Tom, and she owed Pierre less than nothing.
But her feelings . . .
No. Judy physically shook her head as she moved on top of Tom. She wouldn’t go there. She had set her course, against smug Sophie and that bastard Hugh Montfort, and even against the memory of Pierre. In the end, she would triumph. She would be mistress of Château des Étoiles. She’d win, and they’d all choke. And serve them right, too.
Judy bucked against Tom. She gritted her teeth and arched her neck in an approximation of passion—that way, she didn’t have to look at him. Instead, she took in the elegance of her surroundings.
She’d made it to the château!
Sophie had been chatelaine here, and soon she, Judy, would replace her. It was a revenge she’d waited years for.
Worth a few sacrifices!
“Have another cup of tea,” Père Sabin pressed her.
“Thank you, mon Père, but no,” Sophie said, delicately trying to get rid of her PG Tips bag without him noticing.
“A biscuit then?” he asked. “Garibaldi? Rich Tea? McVities?”
She shook her head, suppressing a smile. The old priest was so determined to make her feel at home, but for him, Britain was still stuck in 1981.
“What is the trouble this time, then, my dear?” he asked.
Sophie sighed. She didn’t really know where to start. She felt somewhat foolish.
“Perhaps I can help,” Fr. Sabin said. “You are distressed because your son and Mme Katherine have sold Pierre’s company, and because you want to start a romance with M. Montfort.You fear this will further estrange your son from you. Is it not so, Sophie?”
She was shocked, but when she looked up, Sabin’s eyes were calm, and there was an analytical glint to them. She forebore to ask him how he knew. He’d reminded her before; this was a small village, and she had taken Hugh to Fruits de la Mer. . . .
“Yes. I know I can’t give Tom a veto power over my love life.”
Her old friend nodded.
“Merci, mon Père,” Sophie said, pressing his withered hand. “But that’s not the only problem. I worry about Tom. He’s so young . . . and stupid.”
“Tom Massot is not stupid.”
She blinked.
“He is stubborn and full of pride, but he is not stupid. Both his parents are intelligent, and so is he. You may rely on that, Sophie.”
“If he comes to his senses, it’ll be too late,” she said. “His inheritance is gone forever.”
Père Sabin shrugged. “Material things,” he said.
“With respect, Father, you are a priest. To most people, material things matter.”
The old man said, “Then they are shortsighted. But Tom is the head of the company now, is he not?”
“It’s window dressing.”
“I do not understand the term.”
“Ceremonial,” Sophie said. “He will have no power ... no influence . . . he’ll see.” She paused. “And I have another worry.”
“What?”
“He’s being ensnared,” she said, and anger balled like a fist in her stomach. “By a wicked, an immoral woman. An American ... an older woman. Who cares nothing for him and is motivated only by hatred of me.”
“We are not meant to judge, Sophie,” said the priest.
“I know this to be true about her. Because she told me so!”
“She told you she did not love Tom?”
“She implied it,” Sophie said, hotly. “And . . . she’s evil.”
“People are never evil,” said Fr. Sabin. “Although they may do evil things.”
“Oh, Father, spare me the psychology!” Sophie cried, agonized. She twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, miserably. Now she was shouting at an old man. “But you don’t know her! She . . .” Sophie flushed. She couldn’t quite believe how humiliating it was to have to talk about this to another person. “She was, for many years, my husband’s mistress; make that one of his mistresses. But he favoured her above the others; he bought her a flat in the city.” Sophie glanced at her nails, to avoid having to look at her friend. “Her name’s Judy Dean, and she worked at Massot. When I arrived, Judy befriended me, but she hates me—she was trying to ruin me. She had something to do with this deal, I know it. And she told me she despises me. Next thing I know . . . she’s got her hands on my son.”
Sophie risked a glance; the story had hit home. Fr. Sabin’s rheumy eyes were grave.
“You tell me this woman has had intercourse with both father, and son?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. She pushed up out of the tatty armchair and went to look out of the window. She didn’t want Sabin to see the fear and rage that were pulsing through her, and, she was sure, would be written on her face. “Judy’s a bitch,” she said, coldly.
“That’s enough!” the priest said sharply. “You forget yourself. She is a person made in the image of God, Sophie. You will mention that remark in your next confession.”
Sophie shuddered, trying to control herself.
“You can’t understand how a mother feels. It’s like she has her talons around my heart. And she’s squeezing. Sometimes I think I can’t breathe.”
Sophie swayed on her feet and burst into tears.
“Come, sit down, sit down,” Père Sabin said. He guided her back to the chair, and Sophie allowed herself to be led. “Sophie, you must not regress.”
“I don’t understand.” She grabbed her Chanel bag, fished around for a handkerchief.
“Ever since you made the decision to have Pierre declared dead, you have been a changed woman,” the priest said. “It was slow at first, but the more you ran that company . . . you became determined, energized—I do not want to see you become a frightened little mouse again, dear girl. You must be strong. You must protect your son and yourself.”
“How?”
“No, I will not do the work for you. You know what to do. You tell me.”
Sophie blew her nose loudly. She was beyond embarrassment at this point. Why play the elegant madame? He knew her as she was.
“You’re right.”
“Usually, yes,” the priest said. “Although I did not know about Pierre. And I am sorry. Marital fidelity is vital.”
“That’s because you can never think ill of anybody,” Sophie said. “Which is why you’re a priest, and I ... wouldn’t make a very good nun.” She thought of Hugh, and she blushed.
“Tell me a plan of action. I want to see the new Sophie.”
“Very well.” He was right. “I’ll call Tom in the office.”
“Good.”
“And talk to him about Judy.”
&n
bsp; “And what will you say?”
Sophie paused. “I can’t tell him,” she said. “About his father, I mean. Tom loves Pierre. I don’t want him to know what kind of a man his father was. It would destroy him. Tom still worships him. He believes he’s alive. What kind of a mother would I be, to ruin his love?”
“But there are other things you can say.”
“Yes. I’ll tell him Judy befriended me, in the matter of the company, and betrayed me. I’ll tell him she told me she hated me, the day she got sacked.”
“That’s reasonable,” the priest said.
“And then . . . I’ll tell him about Hugh. That I’m going to see where this leads.”
“You will risk that?”
“I love Tom,” Sophie answered, firmly. “But I’m his mother, not his daughter.”
“Bravo,” the priest replied.
“I’m a widow. I am free to marry. I believe that . . . something might come of it.”
She didn’t tell him it was a little more than that. She felt she was in love. But Sophie had only just started to date Hugh, and she had looked foolish enough for one day.
“And then?”
Sophie shrugged. “Isn’t that everything? I’ll find a place to live, I suppose.”
“You will need to start some kind of business,” Fr. Sabin said. He smiled at her with his wonky teeth. “You enjoy that, Sophie, and you are good at it. I would not recommend another stint as a housewife.”
Tom Massot stretched behind his desk and tried to enjoy it. This was victory, he thought, staring out of the window. So why was he so restless?
Paris was quite brilliant today; the city had a permanent magic, but this morning, with the first chill of autumn hovering under the day’s crisp sunlight, there was an extra freshness that was welcome after the muggy days of August. In the street outside, his connoisseur’s eye picked out the French women in their chic little outfits, relishing the change of weather. The men, meanwhile, moved with purpose, refreshed after the languor of summer, wanting to get down to business.
An ideal time to be a chief executive, then.
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