And with that he opened a large ornate door and hustled me inside a room of mahogany walls, large opulent sofas and about a million books. It was a library. And seated on three armchairs by the fire sipping cognac and smoking very good cigars, as I could tell from their smell, were three men I had never met before.
“Ah you have arrived, Katya,” said one man, Japanese, but surprisingly tall, as he stood up to greet me.
“You should see what is happening downstairs,” spat Nikolai. “I bet it is that bastard Prokhorov judging by the whores he brought along. Why does he have to bring his harem with him everywhere he goes?”
“Because he is a rich Russian just like yourself, my dear friend, but he is also a stupid playboy whose brains are in his pants,” laughed a man who was obviously French. I immediately recognised him as the owner of several design houses in Paris, Hugo Desmarais.
I didn’t need to know who the slightly dumpy man in the corner was, surveying me from top to toe. This would be the American casino baron, Bailey Mitchell, and the Japanese man who greeted me was Nobuyaki Ishikawa.
“Katya,” said Nikolai drawing himself up to his full height and pushing out his chest with pride. May I present you to my three friends, Bailey, Nobuyaki and Hugo.”
The three men bowed ostentatiously, as one would when meeting the Queen.
I stood there imagining how I must look to them, with all my fine feathers and jewels, and suddenly I realised why Nikolai had been on edge all night. I was being presented. This was my coming out ceremony.
Hugo walked over to an ice bucket which held my favourite Veuve Clicquot 1979, popped open the cork and started to pour me a glass.
I looked at Nikolai expectantly. We had not discussed the “Others” as I had begun to refer to them in my head since that night in Kyoto. This was Nikolai’s way when we were in disagreement. He just never mentioned it again. I had thought about it constantly and had reached the stage where I was at least a little accepting of the situation. At 15 I had no idea what the sexual requirements might be, but I sincerely hoped it would not be what was going on downstairs. So as I stood there I was ambivalent.
“Let’s all sit down by the fire,” said Nikolai hastily filling the silence and leading me over to an opulent Prussian blue armchair. “God, will this princess thing never end?” I thought to myself as I plopped myself down into it gracefully.
And then I sat there, as four men looked at me lovingly, appraising every attribute, every nuance, every subtlety as moulded by their friend over the past 11 years, and I got the giggles. Was it the shock of what I had just witnessed downstairs? Was it nervousness at finally meeting The Others? Or was it the ridiculousness of the situation as seen through the eyes of a teenager as opposed to four ageing billionaires?
“Katya!” said Nikolai, shocked and appalled at my manners.
“I’m so sorry,” I chuckled, tears streaming down my face before I threw my head back and laughed like a loon. “It’s just, well, I’m so sorry … ” more giggles. “So it is all true!” And with that I was unable to contain my laughter anymore.
And by this stage it had formed into a contagion and spread itself around the room.
All four men, dressed up in their best tuxedoes, leaned back in their chairs and joined in, laughing loudly from their bellies, a sight I was sure not many people had ever, or would ever see in their lives. Four of the world’s richest men giggling along with a teenage girl.
As the laughter subsided, Nikolai once again attempted to restore order:
“As you can see, our Katya has a great sense of humour,” he said. “Now let’s get to know each other.”
What followed was the most flattering and enjoyable two hours I have ever spent. Not many women find themselves in a delightful chateau, dressed in a gorgeous feather dress, sipping the finest champagne and being blatantly adored by four of the richest men in the world. I found the experience strangely addictive because The Others turned out to all be witty and charming and our conversation raced along covering topics as far ranging as duck shooting and foreign exchange. As we drank and talked I took stock of each of them, taking mental notes for the day when it would just be the two of us and I would presumably be naked.
Hugo was everything you expect from a Frenchman. Immaculately groomed he was in his early 50s, average height, a head of dark brown wavy hair which had just started to grey at the temples. He had olive skin, deep brown eyes and a face which could not be described as handsome, but distinguished with its long, roman nose, strong cheekbones and deliberate five o’clock shadow. He had a slight paunch which I found a little off putting, so used was I by then to Nikolai’s strong, hard body, but he was by no means ugly.
He was and still is the most charming of The Others with his constant attentiveness to my every need, his ability to make me feel like the only person in the room and the one woman in the world who he finds more fascinating than any one else. I knew that I would enjoy long conversations at any time of the day with this man. Hugo was married, rather famously to the heiress of a major champagne house and had two adult children, a boy and a girl. I would soon learn that in bed there would never be just two of us. I was to be the essential third in his bed, to partner Pierre, his younger lover for many years.
Nobuyaki was very tall and slim for a Japanese man. He told me he has some English in his blood so he is not a full blooded Japanese.
“In Japan this is not good, it is seen as diluting our race, but I think a touch of European is a great addition to the gene pool,” he explained. Indeed he was very good looking. He had the thick black hair of an Asian man which he kept styled into a Hugh Grant textured layer cut which complemented his small nose, oval brown eyes and full lips. At 45 he was the youngest of the four and he had the skin of a man half his age. His body was lovely, trim and taught in all the right places, he obviously kept himself fit and healthy.
He was shyer than the other men and his English was not great, but I could tell from the moment I met him that he had a deep respect for me, and he enjoyed the fact that I could speak his language fluently. He had an engaging habit of bowing his head just a little, bobbing it quickly down and up before he spoke to me. And of the four of them he was the one with the brains. His knowledge of new media and the way forward with computer technology was captivating and I could never hear enough about what he was doing with his business.
Nobuyaki was married to a famous Tokyo lawyer but had no children. I was to learn that when Nobu and I got together in the bedroom, I was to be a double act. Sometimes as a woman, and sometimes he would like me to dress as a man, and with the aid of several sexual aids, perform as a man.
Bailey was the easiest to get to know, simply because we both spoke English well and he had the comfortable, relaxed attitude of his countrymen. Nothing was ever too hard, or too stressful for Bailey, he was on cruise control the whole time. He has the kind of looks which fit naturally into Lacoste polo shirts and chinos. And that is pretty much what he wears most of the time. His features are not exceptional. His complexion is ruddy, his hair is dull blonde and his teeth are far too white, the result of some high tech dentistry. But he is tall, which makes up for a lot, and gentle.
He came from Texas originally and found his fortune in the casinos of Las Vegas. He left behind his young wife and two children but never divorced and has kept a close relationship with his family for many years. It did not surprise me therefore, that when we first met in the bedroom he presented himself to me in drag. A closet queen for years, you will never find a wisp of body hair on Bailey and his wardrobe rivals mine for haute couture. Part of the fun of spending time with him is our shopping trips and comparing notes on the latest catwalk trends.
As Nikolai and I climbed into our car at midnight after that first meeting I collapsed against the leather upholstery and opened the window for some fresh air.
“You guys smoke too much,” I grumbled good-naturedly.
“You were a huge hit, my Katya,” he sai
d grinning from ear to ear. “They all loved you. You are perfect in every way.”
“Glad to please,” I replied, feeling more optimistic about my future as a courtesan to the three Others but still nervous and unsure about how it would work out in the long run. I snuggled into Nikolai’s broad shoulder. “Now tell me, is it just me or did you find those whores strangely exciting?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
“No, Katya I didn’t,” he said. “I know where those Russian girls come from, I know the deprivation they endure, what they went through and what they go through every day to be his whores. Most of them are fed heroin to keep them addicted and they are horribly abused by some of the cruellest men in Russia. I can find no sexual gratification in that.”
“Oh,” I replied, realising how protected I had been from the real Russia, the Russia Nikolai had dragged himself out of. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”
“Well now you do,” he said abruptly before pulling me to him, burying my head on his enormous chest.
“Sometimes I wish I knew more about our country, Nikolai. I think you have kept me too protected from it at Polnoch. Ola has told me some things, but sometime you must tell me how bad it was for you, how bad it is now.”
“You do not need to know,” replied Nikolai. “Russia is a country without hope. Where vodka numbs the pain and there is no light at the end of the tunnel. As a nation we are lost and I’m not sure we will ever find ourselves again.”
I fell asleep on his chest, exhausted by my presentation to The Others and trying not to think about the life that had been promised to me by them.
As I drifted off, Nikolai leant back and lit up another cigar. I wondered how he was feeling about finally having to share me with three other men, after having me to himself for so many years indulging his own sexual eccentricity of incest. Surely he must feel some sort of jealousy or loss. But I would never know. Nikolai just didn’t talk about that sort of thing.
Sex is, and always has been a good, loving natural thing for me from an early age. That’s the way Nikolai taught me to feel about it, and he also taught me that my role in life was to give The Others my undivided attention in all ways. Of course, the main course with me is sex, but I am the ultimate in seduction.
With me it always starts with the food. There is some truth in the saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. There is nothing more enjoyable for a man than to sit across from a beautiful woman who is eating and enjoying the finest food and wine. And with me the meal is just the beginning. There is nothing I can’t or won’t eat. And there is no wine I don’t know or haven’t tasted. I could match the world’s best sommeliers with my knowledge, Nikolai has seen to that. And during the meal I must be able to discuss anything from world politics to the price of oil or the works of Shakespeare and the feminist theories of Germaine Greer. All in their own language of course. After our shared dinner it is time for the sexual experience they have paid so much for.
You might consider me to be a call-girl or prostitute. And you’d be half right. I have sex with four men, who keep me. So I never receive cash for sex but I have never paid a bill in my life. I have a bank account which never runs out of money and they have each provided me with a credit card, all of which don’t seem to have a limit, well I’ve never reached it anyway. It may sound odd but I was really happy with this life.
The apartment where I now live in Paris was given to me for my 18th birthday by the four of them and I had to fight to live on the Left Bank. They all regard Saint Germain as too trendy, too chic and wanted their princess to live somewhere more traditional and conservative on the right of the Seine. But from the moment I saw this apartment I knew I had to have it. Not simply because it is in one of the older parts of Saint Germain and dates back to the 1750s but because it is in rue de Buci and I knew that Ola would love the market.
Initially I had it decorated with everything floral, in pinks and greens, but as I grew older and better travelled I made it a home for all my souvenirs. I have a wonderful chandelier collection throughout the apartment, there are 10 of them, mostly Venetian. And the art on the walls is original. My collection includes a Picasso, a Mondrian, a Dali, two Mirós and a Magritte. It also includes a few of my favourite pieces from Polnoch, including the bed I woke up as a five-year-old there, which has finally returned to its Parisian home.
This place has become my haven. Sometimes I simply wander around its rooms and stroke the walls. I have a connection with it and I will never leave it, nor will I have to.
My days are rarely stressful. I wake up around midday when Ola brings me a cup of tea and some fresh fruit and cereal. I meet my trainer downstairs and we work out for an hour to keep my body in good shape. From there I shower and visit one of my regular beauty therapists for a facial, a manicure, a pedicure or a wax. I’ll then come home and read all the papers while I eat a salad. I get them all delivered. The New York Times, the Guardian and The Times of London. I have the Yomiuri Shimbun flown in from Japan and the St Petersburg Times, although Nikolai prefers me to read Kommersant which is in Russian to keep me fluent, and finally Le Monde. It takes me a while to get through them all but I must always be up to date with all the world news, especially the business news, and able to converse with The Others knowledgably.
After that I might go shopping, shoes are my fetish, or I might go for a five kilometre jog or spend time with Ola. If I’m going out then Pedro will visit to do my hair and make-up and fill me in on all the Paris gossip he gets from his other rich clients. Then I choose a dress for the night from my wardrobe and I’m out for dinner about 9pm.
Mostly I dine with Nikolai, or Hugo, who is often in Paris, or one of The Others, if they are here on business, but sometimes it is with acquaintances I have met through the university where I have started studying. I don’t have friends, it doesn’t pay to let anyone get too close to my life.
Or Ola and I will pop down to our favourite bistro, come home and watch television, which she loves, and have an early night. Ola adores old movies and manages to pick up most of what is going on with my help.
And of course, sometimes I am away meeting up with one of The Others. Ola always comes with me and takes care of all the arrangements, booking the tickets and packing my bags.
It is a nice life, sustaining and fulfilling in many ways. I had never known any other life, until I met Jane.
Part Three
25
Marco and I had settled into a life together which was as close to perfect as we dared hope. We had found a love we rarely saw in others. Not that we were smug. God knows I had endured enough in my life to never take things for granted. But we knew that what we had was special. Marco seemed to know when I needed to be held and allowed simply to cry and mourn the loss of Charlotte. He also knew when I wanted to go crazy, get drunk and have friends around for a raucous dinner. I was never alone once I found Marco, and I was never without his warmth, generosity and total devotion. Marco on the other hand got a woman who was 90 percent lovely 90 percent of the time. The other 10 percent involved a long battle with depression which I now control with anti-depressants. The years when I fought to deal with it were not easy for Marco but he stuck with me.
But there was a trigger for the depression which I suppose was inevitable. Soon after we returned from our first visit back to New Zealand to deal with our demons Marco came to me in bed one night.
“Jane, I need you to know that I believe Charlotte is alive. I’m not like everyone else, I feel through your commitment and your strong instinct that she is out there somewhere,” he said holding my hand.
“I knew that the minute you pulled out her photo and that candle at the hotel in Auckland. I knew then that you would never turn to me like everyone else has, and tell me to let her memory die and move on.”
“I know it’s early days with us yet, but I think we both feel that this is a relationship which will last, don’t we?” he looked up at me with nothing but pure, liquid
love.
“Of course, Marco, you are my life.”
“Well in a few years, maybe more, I would like to think that you and I could make a child together,” he said, his eyes welling up. “Not as a replacement for Charlotte,” he hastened to add. “But a baby, something we can love together and maybe help heal some of the loss, not all, but some that you have in your heart.”
“Marco, why is it that you always know the right things to say at the right time?” I answered, tears now welling in my eyes. “I was just lying here last night thinking how thankful I am that we found each other, and then I started thinking about what a child of ours might look like and I suddenly felt warm all over. The thought of having a child to hold again, to kiss and to love, and maybe spend the time I should have spent with Charlotte.”
Marco reached over and held me to him, as I quietly sobbed against his shoulder.
“There, there, you know you were a good mother to Charlotte, so stop with this ‘not seeing enough of her’ nonsense. I am so glad we are thinking the same thing,” he said smiling down at me and kissing my nose.
“I’ll make sure I mention it to the Madonna in the morning, and see what she has in mind for us,” I laughed.
“Oh, I think she’ll be overjoyed,” said Marco as he kissed my neck and turned off the lights.
Our first pregnancy came just six months after that night, and ended five months later. He was a little boy, and we called him Bruno.
Then two years later we were overjoyed to find that I was carrying a bambina. Another little girl. Our hearts leapt with joy and hope, and secretly I longed for another Charlotte. But again I miscarried at five months. We called her Margherita, after the daisy we still had growing in a pot on Charlotte’s tiny windowsill which now also held a tiny urn with Bruno’s ashes. That was when the doctors told me I would not have another baby. Too much damage had been done and it would be ‘unwise’ to get pregnant again.
The Road from Midnight Page 20