Just as, at Appletons, Philip had helped to show Tara that she deserved to be loved but that it was up to her to save herself, the fashion industry had, in its warped way, shown Natalya that she too was utterly loveable.
She thought of Tara, out in the countryside, recovering well, she hoped. Although Natalya had considered hooking her up with her agent as a quirky Stella Tennant-style Brit model, she knew it would be better for Tara to stay out of London for the time being. She would miss her. She hoped they’d keep in touch.
Reaching into her jewellery cabinet, she pulled out boxes upon boxes of gifts, mostly from men, and the odd piece she had treated herself to. This was almost seven years’ worth of jewels, with Claude’s diamonds being the crowning glory. Scooping everything into a tote bag, she took a taxi to Hatton Garden and poured the whole lot out in front of a flabbergasted jeweller. After much deliberation he valued the entire collection at £1.2 million. Fingering the glimmering stones encrusted in a thin gold bracelet, she suspected the true worth was closer to £2 million, but she needed closure.
‘I’ll sell it all.’
Next stop was Claridge’s, where she charmed a concierge into letting her hire their most sumptuous suite. From the comfort of her temporary dwelling, she called Claude’s home and instructed Sylvie, one of the maids, to pack up her things and leave them in cases in the hallway. Lastly she called her mother to tell her of her recent modelling successes and to invite her and the boys to London for the week, before she set off for Milan.
‘No, mother dear, do not protest,’ Natalya urged into the phone. ‘I know you are worried about letting the boys experience such opulence, but I’m going to buy you a nice home now, Mama. I have enough for all of us now.’
And so it was with both elation and fear that Natalya returned home that evening to announce to Claude that she was leaving him. Claude was standing in the hallway when she arrived. His eyes were narrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his head hung low.
‘What is all this? he asked.’
‘I’m leafing you Claude.’
‘Ha, ha!’ Claude laughed, though his face was thunderous. ‘I’ll pretend you never said anything so ridiculous. Go and put on a dress – and put on some jewels. We have a dinner in Holland Park at nine.’
Natalya stared down at the shoes Claude had given her; the girlie ballet slippers he thought made her look her like a teenager.
‘I’m serious. I’m leaving you. I’m moving to Milan. My flight is booked.’
She didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t. She bit her lip and waited for something. A cry of outrage. A blow maybe? But nothing came.
Slowly, she raised her head. Claude was surveying her meditatively but without betraying his emotions. This was his negotiating face. In the past he’d squeezed extra millions out of deals with this look, never revealing that while he pretended to contemplate the offer, coolly and at length, he was secretly terrified. It was the same face he’d worn when he’d staked most of his fortune on a particular deal, in a gamble that could have seen him lose his entire empire.
‘And how do you suppose you’ll support yourself without me?’
‘I’ll model.’ Natalya stood up straight and looked him in the eye.
‘Are you seeing somebody else?’ Claude blinked slowly, though his expression remained impenetrable. ‘You’ve changed. You are different. Somehow.’
‘I hef nobody else, Claude. Thenk you for all you hef done for me, but I hef made my decision.’
‘There are no second chances with me, Natalya. I am going to go and have a glass of wine, a good Romanée-Conti red. Then I will ask you again if you mean what you say. If you have managed to come to your senses I am prepared to dismiss what you have just said to me as a childish tantrum. If, however, you repeat what you have just told me, I will want you out of my home and I will not want to see your face again.’ Claude turned and walked carefully towards the dining room.
When he returned, five minutes later, Natalya was standing in the same spot.
‘Well, have you changed your mind?’ he asked.
‘I must go.’
‘Get out.’
He stood in silence as Natalya ushered in the driver of the large taxi she had waiting outside, and instructed him to carry her things to the vehicle. Although she’d already asked Sylvie to donate twelve suitcases full of her clothes to charity, there was still a lot to move. All the while, Claude stood quietly, waiting until the last bag had been squeezed into the car. Natalya wasn’t sure what the etiquette should be in this situation – after all, for all its brevity, she had lived with the man, and at one point had thought they might marry. She decided to kiss him goodbye. As she brushed her mouth against his cheek he closed his eyes but remained silent until Natalya had retreated again and stepped out of the house. Before she could shut the door behind her, he called her name.
‘Natalya.’
‘Yes?’ she whispered. For a second she thought he might say sorry.
Instead, he shook his head and said, ‘I will miss you.’
When she left, Claude opened one of his safety deposit boxes and got out a wad of photographs, which he laid out methodically on a table. They were all of Natalya. There were a number of photographs of the girl out shopping. A fair few with that coked-up English whore. Even one of Natalya putting Hugo Bridges to bed. He picked up one of Natalya on the toilet and studied it. Then he held up the picture of her natural father and reached for his phone.
He might not be able to control her any more, but he could still hurt her.
****
As April rolled over into May, Abena sat alone on Sarah’s sofa. She flicked on the television. No, she didn’t want to watch people locked in a house together. Gay refugee dating transsexual midget? Check. Bigoted homophobe? Check. Evangelical anti-capitalist freegan? Check. Head of Bank of America? Check. Violent woman-hating psycho? Check. His estranged ex-wife? Check. She turned off the TV. Funnily enough, the nuances of a relationship between, say, a schoolteacher and a nurse would probably be more interesting in the long run.
Sarah’s flat was very quiet without the television. She switched it back on to ease the loneliness, got up and logged on to the internet to see if there were any nice apartments available to rent. She’d just found something promising, posted by a friend of a friend, when her mobile rang.
‘Carey, hi, how’s it going?’
‘Hi, Abena. Yeah, good, good. Sorry to have been a bit out of touch but I’ve been wrapping up the last bits of post-production on the movie.’
The two chatted for a while, and then conversation moved back to film.
‘So, are you still at that den of mediocrity?’ Carey asked.
‘What, Mallinder? Yep, ’fraid so. It’s killing me.’
‘I’ve decided to make Vanity Fair,’ Carey said.
‘No way!’ Abena was stunned and didn’t know what to say.
‘Yes way! I spoke to some bigwigs, they love the idea, and much of it will be set, as you suggested, in the South of France. Abena, I’d like you to be involved in its production.’
‘Wow! But, how?’
‘Well, you could come on the publicity tour with my current film? We’re about to head off for six months, starting with Cannes and then on to LA and New York, then Toronto, South Africa, the rest of Europe and finally back in the UK. And in the process we’ll be starting to raise the funding for Vanity Fair and beginning on pre-production.’
‘When are you heading off?’ Abena was still utterly astonished. ‘It … well, it sounds amazing. Almost too good to be true. So I ’d be your sort of assistant? And would I be paid?’
‘Well, you’d be working for, and employed by the studio, not me personally. And you wouldn’t need to spend any money either – flights, meals, hotel rooms, everything would be paid for.’
Abena tensed. ‘But I’d get my own hotel room and everything, right?’
Carey’s laughter reverberated down the phone. ‘Of cou
rse you would; I’m not asking you as my date for Christ’s sake! Look at it as a decently paid internship. I like you, Abena, you’re good fun and you don’t get star-struck around high-profile people. I ’d be quite happy to have a smart girl like you around to help out. As I said, first stop is Cannes, so if you’re on board I’ll have somebody get in touch with you about it tomorrow.’
Abena was on her feet now and skipping around the room in exhilaration.
‘Oh my God!’ she screeched. ‘I’ll hand in my notice tomorrow – I can be in Cannes in two weeks. What have I got to lose?’
‘You said it!’ laughed Carey.
‘I hate my job, I’m in between flats, I’m single and – oh fuck it – I’m just going to do it. How exciting!’ Pausing, she added more soberly, ‘I only wish Tara had someone to keep an eye on her. Her family situation is shaky to say the least.’
‘Oh sure, but you’re big girls now. You can’t spend your life caring for Tara, it won’t do either of you any favours. And besides, we’re talking six months. And then who knows what trouble you’ll get yourself into …’
‘Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I just don’t know what to say. You’re quite simply amazing.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s my pleasure and I’ll enjoy having you around. I’ll have someone call you about it tomorrow.’
‘Speak tomorrow!’ Abena nearly sang down the phone.
That night in bed Abena was so excited she couldn’t sleep, her mind playing over the delicious moment when she would stride into Olympia’s office and serve her with her notice. But by the time morning came, the euphoria of yesterday had subsided and a quiet uneasiness had grown in its place.
She couldn’t fathom the uneasiness at first. She thought it might be the issue of leaving Tara behind, and yet she knew Carey was right and her friend’s over-reliance on her would be bad for everybody. Perhaps it was her family? No, she was used to being away from them, and besides, like Tara, she knew they would always be in her life no matter what she did or where she went. It slowly dawned on her that the feeling she had was brought about by unfinished business.
It was Benedict. She had fallen for him. Plain and simple. She’d tried for months to dismiss him for superficial reasons. First it was his beard, then it was his job, then it was the fact that he’d lied when they first met. Now the prospect of losing touch with him for good forced her to face up to her feelings. How stupid she’d been. She had to tell him how she felt before she left. She knew she’d probably blown it the night of the Mallinder party, but she had to at least try. Maybe, just maybe, he’d still feel the same.
Two hours later Abena was staring at her phone, willing a little envelope icon to appear. She had tried Benedict’s phone nine times with no luck – it must be switched off. Dammit! She had to see him! Suddenly she had a brainwave. Booting up her computer she logged on to Mallinder’s offsite server and opened the contacts folder. Bingo! There was his address. She could drop by on her way to work – if she caught him unawares and woke him up he might be more likely to respond to her on impulse instead of being guarded or upset because of their last meeting. Thinking of what he must look like sleeping was making Abena melt; probably in his boxers, short hair messed up, those long eyelashes resting on his cheek. She must pull herself together and get going.
She raced out of the flat and jumped into a taxi – there was no time to mess about on the tube. The cab pulled up outside a townhouse. She rang the doorbell to the ground-floor flat, adrenaline pulsing through her body. After a few minutes an unfamiliar man opened the front door and scowled in that unfriendly way that people in big cities do so well.
‘Er, I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ began Abena, ‘I was looking for somebody called Benedict Lima.’
‘The guy who lived here before has moved out. Sorry. Left a couple of weeks ago and didn’t leave a forwarding address, think he moved abroad.’
He gave Abena a sympathetic smile and closed the door. He seemed less angry now, but that was no use to Abena.
Taking a few dejected steps away from Benedict’s front door, Abena leaned against his wall and slowly slid down it until she was sitting on the pavement. She stayed there for a minute, slumped against the brickwork, looking straight ahead but seeing nothing. She didn’t care that people walking past probably thought she was a beggar. Even the thought of a beggar wearing sample-sale Prada didn’t make her laugh.
Chapter 31
Hugo Wittstanley hung up the phone, his face white.
‘Who was it? asked Tina.
‘Just some foreigner,’ said Hugo. ‘Wrong number.’ But his forehead was sweating as he left the room. He waited for Tina to start busying herself in her dressing room and checked that her Audi wasn’t in the forecourt; Tara must have taken it into the village. The coast was clear. He took a final gulp from the bottle of vodka he had smuggled into the house and staggered to his studio. In a little room to the right his guns nestled in their cases. He walked towards the first case; slowly, as though he were in a dream. Calm now, he stretched out both arms to lift the case off the shelf. Pulling out the gleaming Purdey shotgun, he ran the back of his hand up and down its length, savouring the sensation as though it were the soft, warm skin of a woman’s inner thigh. At length, he locked it back in its case and moved further down the shelving to where the handguns lay.
****
Tara swept up the drive and parked in the huge forecourt. Built to accommodate hundreds of cars around the central fountain, it looked desolate with just her mother’s Audi and her father’s small classic car. Before climbing out of the driver’s seat, Tara checked her reflection in the mirror and was pleased to see that her local hairdresser had done a good job of colouring her hair.
She let herself into the house and headed up to the calm of the library, with its deep, worn sofas, soft lighting and studious atmosphere. Settling into an armchair by the fireplace, with Lamb curled up by her feet, she opened the Vogue she had pinched from the salon and flipped through it. She could smell the aroma of the duck roasting in the Aga in the vast kitchen, now the sole domain of old Connie. Her stomach rumbled beneath her slouchy white cotton dress. Looking down, she wondered crossly what the point was of wearing such a cute dress when there was nobody around to see it. Perhaps it was time to start thinking about returning to London. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Mildly curious, she set aside her Vogue and padded over to the window to see if she recognized the car in the forecourt.
Parked beside Tina’s Audi was a black, two-seater Porsche, which looked brand new. The top was down and she could just make out a number of books strewn across the passenger seat. Well, she didn’t know anyone with a brand-new Porsche. It must be one of her mother’s friends.
A breathless Tina burst into the library.
‘There’s a young man at the door. Says he’s come to see you!’ she gasped.
‘Well who is he?’ Tara frowned. If it was Harry or some other ex she’d tried to get rid of then he had a cheek turning up unannounced at her door.
‘I don’t know, darling, but he claimed to be a friend of yours. He’s awfully good-looking!’
‘Really?’ Tara’s tone was indifferent, but a hand shot instinctively to her newly highlighted hair and tousled it a fraction.
When she saw him standing in the huge panelled hallway, deep in conversation with Connie, she stopped dead.
‘Philip!’ she cried out, jumping into his arms and hugging him. ‘What are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s you! I wouldn’t have thought you’d be a Porsche driver!’
‘Sorry,’ he grinned, ‘but they’re so well constructed. I’m a bit of an engineering geek! How are you, my angel?’
Tara wrapped her arms around Philip’s neck and clung on as if her life depended on it. She could have stayed there forever but Tina was loitering with intent, eager for an introduction.
‘Oh, this is my mother,’ she told Philip. And then, turning to her mother, ‘I met Philip at Appletons.’
‘You must invite poor Philip in for a drink, darling. All that driving – he’ll be exhausted,’ Tina purred, beaming at her daughter’s enthralling new friend.
‘Why don’t we go for a drive?’ Tara asked Philip. The last thing she needed was her mother buzzing around while they talked. ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Where shall we go? How about I drive and you navigate?’
‘That sounds like a perfect partnership.’ Tara mussed up her hair again as she waved goodbye to her mother and beckoned Philip towards the door.
Philip gathered up all the books on the passenger seat and threw them into the boot before opening the door for Tara to climb in. Instead of driving off he turned to face her.
‘I’m so sorry for just turning up like this, it’s just, well, I wanted to surprise you. And I wanted to talk to you, but face to face, and, I was desperate to see you.’
‘Oh God, me too! You’re the only one who really knows what I’m going through.’
Philip put his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. ‘I know, I know,’ he murmured into the top of her head, brushing her hair with his lips.’
‘Where’s Diane?’
‘She met somebody else while I was in the clinic. Said I’d never loved her, that she was just a habit of mine.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Tara was sorry; she didn’t want to be just a shoulder to cry on.
‘Don’t be sorry.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was right. I thought I loved her. But then I met you.’
‘And how have I changed things?’ Her voice quivered and was barely audible.
‘It sounds … silly … but now I know what love truly is. I love you.’
Tara said nothing for a while, savouring the sound of those words.
‘I love you too. I’ve loved you from the very beginning, as soon as I heard you speak at group therapy.’
She kissed him and then pulled away. ‘But I’m … I’m too silly for you.’ She looked sad.
Sin Tropez Page 30