Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  But first, north from Estonia on the train, with stolen money. Bargaining and arguing in small, no-account towns for dried fish and meat, furs, and rosehips—dried for their vitamin C. A gun battle when a local Red Army captain asked the wrong questions. Risking imprisonment and torture, and even death in the snow, and lastly, making the attempt: days and nights lashing at the huskies; gnawing on tough, half-frozen food; cutting the carcass of one dead dog to feed to the pack; the brutal cold that they thought would kill them, overnight, as they huddled with the remaining animals under the fur coat; and at last, though they’d thought they must die, reaching Finland—and freedom.

  Selling the dogs, for a pittance; their kopecks and roubles no good here. Hiking and scavenging their way to Espoo, praying—as Natasha said with tears—that somebody could tell them of Sven, and his family. And now she and her young saviour, who had risked his own life to bring her to freedom, were here. It was a dream. . . .

  Katrinka and Alfred were sobbing; Sven was wiping his eyes, Marianne clapping her hands. But Aud said nothing. She had shrunk back into the background after laying the fire.

  Pyotr, Sven recalled, was gazing at her, gazing at her as though he had never seen anything more beautiful. And as Sven watched in amazement, his daughter had lowered her eyes, shyly, then glanced back up in Pyotr’s direction. And then she did something she very rarely did, indeed never other than at mealtimes.

  She smiled.

  Even in the midst of his joy at Tasha’s safe return, and his fascination with the harrowing tale of her flight across the steppes, Sven had not been able to repress the mundane hope that flared instantly in his heart. It was a straw—how could a man like Pyotr, a death-defying Russian adventurer, ever be interested in his lumpen pudding of a daughter?

  “So, Tasha, Pyotr,” he asked. “The two of you—are you now to marry, are you in love?”

  Pyotr answered immediately—again, his gaze steady on Sven’s sister.

  “No,” he said. “Natasha and I are only friends. I did my duty by her as a Christian. She is still wed in the eyes of God, and besides, there is the wide difference in our ages. We will remain friends. Indeed, Natasha tells me it is her dearest wish to see me happily married.” He smiled at Tasha. “Is that not so, my dear?”

  She hesitated only a second before responding. “It is, Pyotr ... my dearest wish.”

  My God, Sven thought. How ill she looks . . . how grey. . . . As though she were still cold.

  “Here, Tasha,” he said. “Have some more meat . . . you need iron.”

  Tasha shook her head. “I—I’m not hungry,” she said. A moment before she had been ravenous. Perhaps her stomach had shrunk from her ordeal, and now she was full, Sven thought. “I’m tired,” she said. “So tired . . . In fact, Grandmama, Papa—I think I’ll go to bed. . . .”

  “Of course, my dear.” Marianne clucked over her like a chicken. “You shall take our bed, Sven and I will sleep on the couch until something better can be found.” She glanced at Pyotr. “My dear Pyotr, I don’t know quite where we can put you . . .”

  “There’s a couch in my room, Mama.” Aud spoke up, startling her mother. “Mr.Vladekovich can sleep there.”

  “Thank you.” Pyotr lifted his eyes to hers, and with astonishment, Sven thought he saw interest there. “That’s very kind of you, Aud.”

  Maybe more. Maybe . . . desire.

  Oh please, dear Lord, he prayed. Let it be so, and I will never cheat on my taxes again. Or gamble, or drink vodka in the mornings. Grant me this one wish. Let my daughter marry!

  “Yes,” Natasha said. She smiled brightly, but there was a false note in her voice. Sven wondered what was wrong with his sister. Alas, ever since her return from behind the Iron Curtain she had been acting strangely. Going for long walks in the cold, or spending entire days shut upstairs in her room; Alfred had moved into Katrinka’s room when the old woman died in the spring. Sven was afraid that Tasha’s brain was addled.

  “She looks very pretty,” she said, in her flat monotone.

  “Indeed she does. You are a princess, Aud, my darling,” Sven cried. He clapped Pyotr on the back. “And you, my boy—you are a lucky dog, to be stealing away my daughter.”

  “I know.” Pyotr smiled back. “I can never repay you for this gift, Sven.”

  There was a lump in his throat and his eyes misted over. It was the other way around—completely, Sven thought guiltily. It was he who owed Pyotr, for the incredible, unexpected joy of seeing his daughter like this. About to be married. And transformed by joy and love.

  Secretly, her father admitted to himself that “princess” and “beautiful” were overdoing it. But Aud had changed. During the winter that Pyotr had moved in, she had bloomed under his interest. She had lost her appetite, and gained an interest in dresses and makeup. She had struggled to join conversations, and talked with wild enthusiasm about travelling the world. Sometimes her lack of knowledge made Sven wince, like when she spoke of how Russia had joined the Nazis in the war. But Pyotr never made fun of her, even if his own sister could not resist the odd cruel remark.

  He made excuses for Tasha. She had been through a lot. And she had brought him Pyotr, pale and skinny and without a cent to his name, but he had been as good as Prince Charming to Sven.

  Aud had lost weight. She was lively, talkative, and full of laughter. It was as though a stone had rolled from Sven’s back. He caught some local boys whistling after her once, in the spring, as she stepped out in a new dress Marianne had imported from France. He scolded them, but he had exulted in his heart. His daughter wasn’t made magically bright, or beautiful, but she was normal.

  Normal was all he had ever asked for.

  And his longed-for son-in-law had more than this to recommend him. In exchange for food and board, he had offered his services to Sven’s business. It was transformed in a mere matter of months. Over the winter, Pyotr burned up the telephone lines. He contacted fresh customers, arranged discounts on shipping, even bought up the business of Guthmund Ejilsson, long a thorn in Sven’s side. New accounts and orders appeared overnight. Pyotr was a ruthless, even callous negotiator, and Sven stepped back to allow him to play hardball. It was a wise decision. Money had flooded in, and he was about to buy a nice house in a new neighbourhood, closer to Helsinki. Espoo wasn’t big enough for Sven now.

  He paid Pyotr, of course, but apart from buying new suits and shoes, Pyotr had saved every penny. He wanted a place of his own, he told Sven. He wanted to be able to support a family. This, with a loving glance at Aud, who gazed adoringly back.

  When the engagement was announced, Sven had proudly presented Pyotr with a dowry. Ten thousand American dollars. It was a huge sum of money, enough to keep his daughter in style. Aud had clapped and squealed, and Pyotr had shaken his hand warmly and told him that this would be the foundation of everything he was to become. He said he was destined for great things. And Sven believed him.

  He looked at his daughter, now, dressed in that long, white dress—a medium size, she wasn’t even fat—with a short white veil and a diamante tiara in her hair, and he smiled. He did not think he’d ever see her looking so beautiful ever again.

  And he was right.

  They were married at St. Stephen’s chapel, the Lutheran parish he occasionally attended, with family and a few friends from the business. Aud clutched a small bouquet of red roses—imported from European hothouses, but she deserved the best—and Pyotr wore a dark suit. He had asked Natasha to be matron of honour. She was very striking in her red sheath, dark hair piled on top of her head, but Sven thought she looked old and drawn; there was that manic air about her. To contrast with Aud, she carried a bouquet of white roses; Sven saw that Tasha clutched them hard around the thorny stems and tiny droplets of blood studded her pale hands. When Pyotr kissed Aud at the minister’s invitation, he thought Tasha swayed on her feet. Was she thinking of her own husband? Was it relief that her niece had finally gotten herself a man?

  The unpleasan
t thought occurred to him that perhaps Tasha was jealous. But surely not. She had never said a word. And besides, just as Pyotr had pointed out, he was far too young for Natasha. If she were to remarry, it would need to be someone her own age.

  Sven found comfort in that reflection.

  It was barely a week later that Pyotr said at the dinner table that he had an announcement.

  “It’s time for us to be off. Aud and I are going to live in France. Every family needs its independence. I’m sure you’re desperate to be rid of us anyway.”

  This provoked a storm of protest. Marianne cried, Alfred mumbled about staying together, and Sven shook his head and tried to sound convincing.

  In fact, he thought it would be an excellent idea if Pyotr and Aud went to France. Pyotr’s financial skills could be put to better use at the import end of the business. And to tell the truth, Sven was sick of living in a house with five adults. He wanted a little peace and quiet in his prosperous middle years. If Pyotr wanted to move to France, preferably the sunny south, Sven and Marianne could come and visit their grandchildren during Finland’s brutal winter.

  “Aud’s a French citizen through you, Marianne, and as her husband I have now obtained a passport.” Pyotr reached into his pocket and produced the slim, leather-clad document.

  “That was fast,” Marianne said.

  Indeed. Sven was not surprised. Pyotr was the type to make plans and act swiftly on them.

  “We leave tomorrow.”

  Marianne set up a wail, but Pyotr did not respond. Aud awkwardly patted her mother on the back.

  “Long goodbyes are worse,” she said. “I’ll call you, Mother—I’ll call you as soon as we dock.”

  “We sail at dawn,” Pyotr said. “No need to accompany us to the harbour.” His voice was strangely remote, even cold, Sven remembered later. “I hate scenes.”

  “It’s better for me to call you,” Aud said again. “Looking to the future, not the past.” She gazed adoringly at her husband. “Pyotr and I want to go somewhere warm, buy a house, and start working on your grandchildren.”

  Sven was glad to see that this last comment provoked smiles from his wife and father. Aud hugged everybody tearfully, and he brought out a bottle of champagne.

  “But I’ll drive you to the port,” he said. “You’ll have cases. And the taxis are unreliable.”

  “We’re not taking anything except a change of clothes. I believe in travelling light. The less baggage the better.” Pyotr glanced at Natasha, who had sat silently at the foot of the table, staring at her hands. “And Natasha has already agreed to drive us. She’s up early in the mornings anyway.”

  “Well, that’s good of you,” Sven said. He smiled at his sister. Perhaps she had gotten over whatever was bugging her. “And then you will come back to us.”

  “Yes, darling,” her father croaked. “At least I will still have my little Tasha.”

  Tasha nodded but said nothing. Yes, Sven thought, it was better that the young couple should leave. He wanted his sister back, the adventurous, passionate girl he used to know. And he wanted his daughter to embrace her own future.

  When Sven woke up the next morning, they were gone. Their furniture and possessions were left neatly in their old rooms. He waited for Natasha to return and to tell him all about the departure.

  She did not return. Aud did not call. Anxious, they contacted the police and the immigration authorities. They were told that Pyotr and Aud Vladekovich had docked at Calais a week after leaving Finland, but that was the last Sven heard of his daughter.

  He never saw any of them again.

  “We’ll park here.” Pyotr nodded and Natasha pulled over. It was a darkened alleyway, set back from the lamp-lit street and at least half a mile from the docks.

  “What?” Aud glanced about her. “That’s silly, darling. We can get a lot closer.”

  “I prefer to walk, stretch our legs.” Natasha said nothing, she simply opened the door and got out.

  Aud gazed at her aunt with annoyance. She wished Daddy had driven them here. Natasha was always giving her mean looks or making snide remarks. She crowded Aud when she wanted to be alone with Pyotr.

  “It’s raining,” she pointed out. But Pyotr said nothing; so, obediently, she got out of the car. Perhaps it was sentimental—perhaps he wanted to take his time saying goodbye to Finland. Even so, it was cold.

  “Do you have your passport? It would be just like you to have forgotten it,” Natasha said, with a sharp contempt that shocked her niece.

  Stung, she retorted, “I’ve got it right here.” Aud pulled it from her breast pocket.

  “I’ll take that,” Natasha responded. She moved in and tugged the document free from the younger girl.

  “What are you doing?” Aud demanded.

  Her aunt turned away. “You won’t be using it,” she answered. “I will.”

  “You’re crazy,” Aud cried. “Darling, tell her to shut up!”

  But her husband had approached her, and there was a strange look on his face. Not adoration, not affection. He looked . . . indifferent. Even a little bored.

  “You can’t seriously have imagined that somebody like you could hold my interest, Aud,” Pyotr said. “You’ve been useful, but that time is at an end.”

  “Wh . . . what?”

  “You heard me. Kneel down,” he said.

  “What? Why?” she shouted. Aud suddenly felt terribly afraid. She wanted her father.

  “Because I’m going to kill you,” Pyotr said.

  She believed him.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Pyotr bent swiftly and took up a large stone that was lying by the side of the road. Aud tried to run, but Natasha grabbed her and held her back. Wildly struggling, Aud stared at her, pleading for her life.

  “Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “You’re my aunt!”

  Natasha looked at her with loathing.

  “How dare you touch him!” she hissed. “Can’t you see he’s mine?”

  “No!” Aud sobbed. “You’re supposed to love me!”

  Natasha thrust the girl forward and Pyotr brought the rock down, in an efficient little arc, against her temple. A spot of blood oozed from the wound, and she crumpled to the ground, silent.

  Natasha bent down and stripped the coat off Aud’s motionless form.

  “What do you know of love?” she said.

  Then she stood up and smiled brilliantly at Pyotr.

  “Follow me.” He started walking.

  “Anywhere, my darling,” she said brightly. She trotted along behind him, like a dog at its master’s heels.

  Chapter 46

  Judy smiled carefully at Christine.

  “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Certainly, Mademois—”

  Judy didn’t get to hear her assistant finish the thought. She raced to the executive bathroom as fast as her pale peach Jimmy Choos would carry her. She only just made it. Shoving her way into the first open stall, she sank to her knees and retched violently.

  A second later and she’d have been puking on the bathroom floor.

  Judy heaved until there was nothing left to bring up. It had been like this four days out of seven, every morning. And when she didn’t vomit, she sure felt like it.

  Judy was under the kind of stress she’d never dreamed possible. Now that he’d been fired, she was fair game at the company; all her colleagues insulted her.

  There was a new regime in town. And it wasn’t one that offered her any protection.

  For the first time in eight years, Judy had no cover at Massot. And she was learning just how much they all hated her. Even her new assistant was openly scornful.

  That bastard Gregoire was installed back in his old office—Tom’s office—and he delighted in putting her down. Gregoire made crude remarks daily, as though he saw her as little more than a high-class hooker.

  And Tom was endlessly distant. The best Judy could say for
herself was that she was still at the château. He couldn’t bring himself to evict the mother of his baby.

  And she clung to that, she clung on to it for grim death.

  He wasn’t going to win.

  Nor was Sophie, nor was Katherine.

  She was Judy Dean from Oklahoma, and she was no goddamn quitter. Judy was part of the Massot story, part of this big chess game. And she was utterly determined to win.

  Sitting at his desk, Gregoire Lazard cursed. His secretary had just presented him with another express dispatch from his lawyers; Tom Massot had filed another deposition in his suit.

  The brat was not giving up.

  Lazard hated the Massots. All of them. Why wouldn’t they just go away? He thought of Sophie, how close he’d come ... so close. And now he was back here again, trying again. Lazard clenched the paper in his hand. Pierre Massot, you have gotten away with this for too long. . . .

  There was a crack, and his boss burst through the door. Lazard sighed in disgust. He wished the American would go away, too.

  “Goddamnit!” Stockton roared. “Have you seen the goddamn ticker lately, Lazard?”

  Lazard spun on his swivel chair. He despised his new boss and today, he simply couldn’t be bothered to hide it.

  “Don’t blame me for that,” he snapped. “Mayberry’s your company. I only look after Massot. And I only just got here.”

  “Quit making excuses,” Stockton snarled. “I brought you in to stop the rot. Instead, we’re sinking like the Titanic in a cement overcoat.”

  Lazard said softly, “I can’t do anything until you can control the story. All I hear about is Montfort Jewels.”

  “I told you not to mention that bastard!” Stockton screeched. Little flecks of spittle dewed his lips. He was revolting, Lazard thought. “You’re up to your old tricks again. Treading fucking water while the competition chews you up. Sitting, collecting a paycheck. Why d’you think we targeted Massot in the first place? Because you suck.”

  Lazard was tired. And bored, bored with the whole company, with that oaf Stockton, with the Massots. He wished he could send them all to hell. But he needed the money. . . .