Flawless

by Tilly Bagshawe

  “A dirtbag,” said Jake.

  “More like a dirt king,” explained Danny. “Brogan O’Donnell. He’s worth billions of dollars. Owns a bunch of diamond mines in Russia and a load of other businesses, mostly in Africa: model agencies, property development companies. Last I heard he was cleaning up in real estate in Cape Town.”

  “He’s a dick, though,” said Jake. “Loves the sound of his own voice, always running round town with models on his arm, girls half his age.”

  “You can talk!” said Danny. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “I’m not married. Or old,” said Jake defensively. “Brogan must be fifty if he’s a day. I reckon he’s had a Michael Douglas eye job since we last saw him and all. Shall we go and take a closer look?”

  “In a minute,” said Danny, who wanted to be left alone to get back to the serious business of chatting up Annalise. “Looks like he’s already being accosted at the moment. Hey, hang on? Don’t we know that girl?”

  “The one in the gypsy skirt?” said Annalise, curiously. “I noticed her earlier. There’s something very striking about her, don’t you think?”

  Jake looked up and saw Scarlett, her chiseled, beautiful face clouded as usual by a furious expression of righteous indignation, like a schoolgirl who’d just been given an unfair mark on her chemistry test. The flouncy shirt and skirt she was wearing didn’t do much to accentuate her to-die-for figure—at last year’s ball in Amsterdam she’d been dressed to kill in a clinging gold Shirley Bassey number that still haunted his dreams—and yet Annalise was right. There was something striking about her, even among all tonight’s perfectly coiffed and polished Park Avenue princesses. Or perhaps especially among them. Scarlett Drummond Murray was that rare thing, a natural beauty, even if she did do herself up to look like a Scottish flight attendant.

  “Yeah, we know her,” he said. “She’s that jewelry designer from Notting Hill who wants to save the world, remember? Bono in a bra. We met her in Amsterdam.”

  He wondered what Scarlett wanted with Brogan O’Donnell, of all people. It was clear from her stern, determined face that, whatever was on her mind, she was about to give the poor sod a piece of it.

  “Come on,” he said gleefully, grabbing Annalise by the hand and pulling Danny along with her. Jake loved a good scene. “Let’s get a ringside seat before the fireworks start.”

  Scarlett, in fact, had been enjoying a fruitful conversation with one of the senior Tiffany staffers and was starting to feel she might actually be getting somewhere persuading him to sign up to Trade Fair, when something about Diana O’Donnell caught her eye.

  It wasn’t just her fragile beauty. She’d have expected a man like Brogan to have acquired a beautiful, much younger wife, although perhaps not one with quite so much self-evident class. In a demure, knee-length cashmere wrap dress and pearls, with her flawless skin and caramel-blonde hair swept up into a loose chignon, Diana looked the epitome of good breeding, a racehorse out of place among so many cheap, leggy standardbreds. But it wasn’t even that that drew Scarlett’s gaze. Rather it was the huge, unspoken sadness that seemed to radiate out of her like light from an SOS flare. From time to time Diana would smile at the big, blowsy woman talking to her, feigning attention, but the smile was even sadder than the blank, faraway expression she wore the rest of the time. Scarlett, who was sensitive to these things, was overpowered by an urge to go over and hug her, so much so that she made her excuses to the nice man from Tiffany and was already three-quarters of the way up the stairs when she found herself within earshot of Brogan’s own conversation.

  “It’s wearing, more than anything,” he was saying, “having these ignorant do-gooders stirring up discontent among one’s workforce. Those miners welcomed me like the fucking Messiah when I first moved into Yakutia. To have an American employer who clothed and fed them after what they were used to? Jesus, they thought my mines were fucking Disney World. These journalists and save-the-whalers have no concept of how dire things were in Siberian diamond mining ten, twenty, thirty years ago. But now I’m the one being crucified in the press because a few of them have got lung problems? They’ve all smoked since they were twelve!”

  “It’s the same story in Africa, as you know,” Michael Beerens, Cuypers’ head man in the US, replied despondently. “We’re proud of our record of improving workers’ rights and of our efforts in aid provision for the countries we work in. We spend millions of dollars, year after year, on health and education programs for our mining communities. But do the press ever want to focus on that? Of course they don’t. There’ll always be ill-informed liberals who choose to see the diamond industry as exploitative, as white against black.”

  “Sure,” said Brogan bitterly. “Because the blacks only had however many thousand years to make something of their own natural resources, right? But of course they were far too busy killing each other and running around the bush with spears to think about that, weren’t they? Developing their oh-so-admirable tribal cultures, the ones where the kids get raped and the sick get cast out of their piss-pot villages to die. That’s what these fucking campaigners are so keen to protect at all costs.”

  “Steady on now, old man,” said Beerens good-naturedly. “I’m not saying I don’t sympathize. But there are subjects where it’s impolitic to speak too freely, especially at an event like this. You know that.”

  “Damned right I do,” said Brogan. “Political correctness was what drove me out of Africa. But it’s like a disease in this industry now; it follows you wherever you go. I could open a mine in Maryland, Virginia and still get some yapping bitch from Trade Fair whining that I was responsible for every lung cancer case in the state.”

  Rooted to the spot on the stairs, Scarlett had momentarily forgotten her compassion for Diana. With each overheard word the red mist in her brain grew thicker until she thought she might be about to spontaneously combust with rage. She couldn’t care less if Brogan O’Donnell thought of her as a “yapping bitch.” In fact she was greatly encouraged that he’d heard of Trade Fair at all, especially as they had next to no presence in America. But as for implying she and her fellow reformers were ignorant of the reality of life in the diamond mines, never mind his appallingly racist views about Africa—views that Michael bloody Beerens and his cronies obviously shared, whatever they might say publicly—well, it was nothing short of outrageous.

  Barging into their little huddle without bothering to introduce herself, she began lashing out at Brogan, her anger fueled by the raw adrenaline of confrontation.

  “Tell me, Mr. O’Donnell, when the Americans liberated Auschwitz, would it have been acceptable if they’d simply transferred all the inmates to nicer, cleaner prisons and offered them a decent meal? Should the Jews have been grateful to be kept under lock and key by you, simply because you treated them better than the Nazis?”

  “Oh dear.” Brogan raised a bored eyebrow at Michael. “We seem to have attracted the attention of the evening’s token lunatic. Be a good girl and go and rant at someone else, would you? My friend and I are talking.”

  Pointedly turning his back on Scarlett, he tried to resume his conversation, but she wasn’t about to be brushed aside that easily. Noticing that Beerens seemed distinctly more perturbed by her intrusion than Brogan—Cuypers, like De Beers, avoided controversy as assiduously as Brogan O’Donnell seemed to court it—she aimed her second scud in his direction.

  “I’m surprised a legitimate businessman such as you, Mr. Beerens, would be comfortable to be seen endorsing Mr. O’Donnell’s loudly proclaimed, racist views. Is that how you view Zulu culture?” Pulling out the Dictaphone that she always carried with her from her sparkly Indian evening bag, she made a great show of pressing the record button. “As a bunch of savages, ‘running around the bush with spears’?”

  “Of course not,” he spluttered, looking over Brogan’s shoulder for his wife with the panicked expression of an ambushed landing-party leader from the Starship Enterpris
e, begging Scotty to beam him up. “I don’t know what you thought you heard, but you’ve taken Mr. O’Donnell’s remarks entirely out of context. Ah, Marigold, there you are, my dear. We must go.” Grabbing the hand of the enormous woman in a lurid pink-and-green tent dress who’d been monopolizing poor Diana for the last ten minutes, he scuttled off in the direction of the staircase from where Scarlett had just come.

  “Congratulations,” said Brogan calmly, looking at Scarlett with undisguised contempt. “You’ve managed to ruin his evening. What a marvelous sense of achievement that must be for you.”

  His voice was somehow even more surprising in person than it had been on the radio. Deep, rumbling, almost reassuring, it seemed entirely at odds with his belligerent, larger-than-life physical presence. He was more attractive than she’d imagined him too, albeit in a short, bulldog-ish sort of way. He wore his thick, dark hair cut very short, not quite military-style but not far off, and even in an expensive bespoke suit and tie managed to look more like a nightclub bouncer than a billionaire mine owner. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn he had murdered someone with those outsize, bearlike hands, and she certainly couldn’t imagine him using them to tenderly caress his porcelain doll of a wife.

  “Brogan? Is everything all right?” Freed from Mrs. Beerens’ clutches, Diana dutifully made her way back to her husband’s side. He was clearly furious with the pretty, oddly dressed English girl, although something about her made Diana want to smile at her anyway.

  “Not really,” he barked, his coolness beginning to slip. “This person”—he looked at Scarlett as if she barely merited the description—“took it upon herself to lecture me on…Christ, what was it again? Something about Auschwitz…when I was in the middle of an important discussion with Cuypers.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Donnell, I didn’t mean to upset your evening.” Scarlett turned to Diana. “But I’m afraid your husband was saying some unforgivable things about Africa. I’m also afraid that his devil-may-care attitude to his Siberian mine workers’ lung cancer is a disgrace. But perhaps he thinks a Siberian miner’s life is worth intrinsically less than an American’s.”

  “It is,” said Brogan bluntly. He was starting to grow mightily tired of this irritating young woman. “Tell me, what is your interest in my diamond mines, exactly? Are you in the business yourself? Some sort of cancer researcher looking for funding? Or have you just overdosed on the latest Amnesty International report?”

  “My name is Scarlett Drummond Murray,” said Scarlett, drawing herself up to her full five foot eleven so she stood taller than Brogan even in her flip-flops. “I run a jewelry design business and store in London, and I founded the Trade Fair campaign that you and your friend Mr. Beerens were making such ill-informed comments about just now.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Rather disconcertingly, Brogan smiled, as if this explained everything. “Well, as pleasant as it’s been to meet you, if you don’t mind, Scarlett, I won’t sacrifice what’s left of my evening pointing out to you the glaring weaknesses in your so-called argument for closing down half the world’s diamond mines. My wife is tired.” He wrapped a protective, conjugal arm around Diana but succeeded in looking more mafia-minder than devoted husband. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to waste my breath on silly little rich girls who insist on meddling in matters they clearly don’t begin to understand.”

  Infuriatingly, Scarlett found herself temporarily lost for words as he swept arrogantly past her back down into the atrium. She thought she caught an apologetic look from Diana, who did indeed look tired close up, as she hurried after him, but she couldn’t be sure. By the time she’d thought of a comeback, Brogan was well out of earshot and surrounded by an impenetrable mob of sycophantic hangers-on on the floor below. Moments later, Diana’s floor-length mink was produced from the cloakroom and the pair of them had disappeared into the snow.

  Suddenly aware that a number of people were giving her odd looks, Scarlett turned around in search of Nancy, who hadn’t been seen since setting off after Gorgeous George. But her nightmare seemed set to continue as she found herself running slap-bang into a grinning Jake Meyer.

  “You?” she said crossly. “That’s all I bloody need. What are you doing here?”

  “Now, now,” said Jake, kissing her on both cheeks. “That’s not a very warm welcome for one of your fellow countrymen, now is it?”

  He looked more tanned than ever in that ridiculous white suit, and his teeth were so white they practically glowed whenever he opened his mouth—something he seemed to do an awful lot, exercising that famous Meyer gift of the gab.

  “We actually came up here to congratulate you, didn’t we, Danny? About time someone brought that pompous prick O’Donnell down to size.”

  Danny gave a brief nod before turning his attentions back to Annalise.

  “I’m not sure I did cut him down to size,” said Scarlett ruefully, “although I’m surprised you care one way or the other. You’d buy diamonds from the devil himself if the price was right. You and O’Donnell are two peas in a pod.”

  “We are not,” said Jake hotly. “I’m nothing like that creep. Come and dance with me, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “I don’t think so,” stammered Scarlett as he grabbed her hand and began yanking her in the direction of the dance floor. Didn’t he remember Amsterdam? Apparently not. Either that, or one dose of rejection wasn’t enough for him. Refusing to take no for an answer, he bundled her down the stairs despite her indignant yells.

  “I mean it, Mr. Meyer, let go of me,” she insisted. But the noise of the party was now so loud, with hundreds of voices echoing off the angled glass walls, her protests were drowned out before they’d begun.

  “Stop moaning,” said Jake, leading her into a waltz with such expert skill that she found herself compelled to follow. “One dance won’t kill you. Besides, it’s the only way we can hear each other talk in here without shattering an eardrum.”

  “And what makes you think I want to talk to you?” said Scarlett petulantly. She was amazed at the speed and sureness with which he whisked her around the floor. Somehow she’d never have put him down as a dancer.

  “The fact that you haven’t stormed off yet,” said Jake, matter-of-factly. “Look, I can understand what you have against Brogan. My uncle Solly died of lung cancer, so I know what those poor Russians are going through. O’Donnell’s a nasty piece of work, totally heartless, and everybody in the business knows it. But what’s your beef against me and my brother? I mean, come on. You barely even know us.”

  “I know you smuggle stones out of war zones,” said Scarlett, indignation and the pace of the dance making her face flush.

  “No you don’t,” said Jake. “You’ve heard rumors, that’s all, and you choose to swallow them.”

  Scarlett gave him a withering look. “Come on. You don’t seriously expect me to believe you go to Angola twice a year on holiday?”

  “Beautiful country,” teased Jake, pulling her body closer as the tempo of the music slowed into a sultry rallentando, “and the fishing’s amazing. You should go some time.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Scarlett crossly, pulling away. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. You clearly haven’t a shred of remorse for the human suffering you turn a blind eye to every time you trade one of those diamonds.”

  “That’s not true,” said Jake, looking hurt. “None of us like what’s going on out there. But Brogan’s right about one thing. Robbing countries like Angola and Zaire of their diamond income isn’t going to help those poor people.”

  “It will in the long term,” insisted Scarlett.

  “The long term?” Jake looked at her pityingly. She really didn’t have a clue. “What use is that to them? Those countries need our dollars now, today. They don’t have the luxury of a long term, and nor does my business. Danny and I didn’t make the rules, Scarlett. We’re just playing the game like everyone else.”

  “Please. Don’t gi
ve me that self-justifying crap,” said Scarlett loudly. Unfortunately, just at that moment the music stopped, and the entire dance floor was treated to the spectacle of her haranguing Jake Meyer like a schoolteacher. Blushing an even deeper red—she really was adorable when she blushed, Jake decided—she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Plenty of dealers choose to operate ethically. At Bijoux I wouldn’t dream of using anything I suspected of being illegally or immorally sourced.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of using anything immorally sourced.” Jake mimicked her prim outrage perfectly. “Give me a break, Pollyanna.”

  “I wouldn’t!” said Scarlett vehemently.

  “Well, maybe you don’t have to,” said Jake. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to defend himself and his motives to this uppity, judgmental, posh bird, but somehow he just did. “Not all of us were born in a castle and given a whopping great trust fund for our twenty-first, you know. It doesn’t take much effort to be a champagne socialist.”

  “A champagne…how dare you!” Scarlett spluttered. “You know nothing about me.”

  “Danny and I worked like dogs building up Solomon Stones,” said Jake.

  “As did I, building up Bijoux,” retorted Scarlett.

  “And I reckon we’ve made a pretty damn good job of it,” he went on, ignoring her. “So save your lectures for the people who really deserve them, like O’Donnell. I never gave anyone lung cancer. Leave me out of it.”

  The music started up again, which Scarlett took as her belated cue to leave. This time Jake didn’t try to stop her as she strode angrily off the dance floor in search of Nancy. Finding her drunkenly giggling by the front doors, surrounded by a drooling gaggle of some of Manhattan’s most eligible men, she dragged her off to one side.

  “Hey, what gives?” said Nancy, aggrieved. “I was just getting into the groove back there.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Scarlett bluntly. One look at her face, all narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, told Nancy that her friend was in the most almighty huff.