The Greek Escape

by Karen Swan

‘You said you had something to say? I doubt it was to pass comment on my hair.’

  He looked abashed, his boyish features flinching at the harshness of her words. ‘Yes, right. I guess I wanted you to know first – I’m going to come over. Early next week, most likely.’

  She felt her blood run cold. ‘Why?’ The question was sharp, a demand for explanation, as a deep frown creased her brow. She didn’t want him out here. He had to stay over there, far away, with an ocean between them. It was the deal she had single-handedly drawn up and signed for them both. Him there, her here. It was the only way she could do this, move forward.

  ‘Morale? To be helpful? We all need to pull together at a time like this. I can’t bear being back here knowing that you . . . that you’re all going through this alone.’

  ‘We’re not alone.’

  ‘You know what I mean, though.’

  She didn’t reply and the silence around them grew loud. Yes, she knew exactly what he meant and she felt a rush of fury burst through her. He didn’t mean ‘them all’. He meant her. She was the one all alone and he knew it. This was just a ruse, a way for him to get his foot in the door, to get face to face with her when she’d switched continents to deny him exactly that chance. How dare he come over here! She reached forwards again and she saw the panic gather in his true-blue eyes again.

  ‘Chlo—’

  For a split second, their eyes met and she felt the golden thread that bound them to one another snap tight again. She had hoped it had been cut but now she saw it had been merely hanging slack all this time, and he was simply going to come over here and wind her back in, like a spool of thread he could turn at will, anytime he liked . . . No. She wouldn’t allow it. Their relationship may have been conducted on his terms, but their separation would be on hers. That much she could control at least. ‘Do not come here. I mean it. Goodbye, Tom.’

  Paris

  The light from the low candles bathed the tables in a honeyed glow, making the crystal glasses glitter and the bejewelled guests preen. Above their heads, upturned banks of lilac, sugar-pink and white orchids dangled down from the ceiling in thick cascades like a meadow in reverse, the room’s supporting pillars so thickly wadded with tens of thousands of cream roses that the entire space was wholly transformed into a sylvan garden bower. In the middle of the room sat the happy couple, the bride in Dior couture and not even pretending to eat her lobster, the groom listening to one of his team, who was bending down to talk in his ear.

  Elodie sipped her Cristal slowly – she never drank much these days anyway, she had learnt the hard way what happened to beautiful girls who drank too fast – pretending to listen intently to the man on her right. Fifty-seven, Albanian and with the jowls of a mountain dog, he was nonetheless one of her more interesting dinner companions, recounting the time his diamond mine in Angola was stormed by militia whilst he toured with the Russian trade minister.

  ‘That is a particularly special stone you have there yourself,’ he said, taking her right hand in his and inspecting her engagement ring, a seven-carat emerald-cut yellow diamond.

  ‘Thank you. My husband has a fine eye.’

  ‘It is a necessary skill when one has a fine wife.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ she demurred, pushing down the first prickle of nausea. ‘What did you present to your wife on your engagement?’

  ‘Which one?’ He laughed.

  Elodie kept her smile in place and waited, deploying her stillness to effect again.

  ‘It was a ruby and diamonds setting, I believe.’ He pulled a confiding expression. ‘Although, do not test me on that, it can be hard to keep up.’

  Elodie looked down the table at his current wife, the fourth incumbent, and could see that, as types, she and this other woman weren’t so very different: both reed slim, with long dark hair and brown eyes that seemed overly large in their faces. She knew that to a man like him, they were interchangeable. Disposable.

  She looked across the table at her own husband, amongst his own kind in this crowd of power players, except for the fact that he didn’t play by their rules. For him, marriage was for life. He would be hers and she his, for always.

  He was listening to something the woman to his left was saying, his gaze impassive on the spot in front of his plate as she spoke but, even from across the table, Elodie could tell he was disagreeing with every word that left her lips. There was just something in the set of his mouth, the tilt of his head, invisible to all but her. She knew him so well, his body language a book she could read, like a dog able to decipher her master’s non-verbal cues.

  He glanced up as though feeling the weight of her stare, their eyes locking into a hold and she felt that sudden lurch in her stomach that was so familiar to her now and yet still managed to shock every time. His lips curved into a smile and she knew what it meant, the promises it held. He had flown in for the wedding especially – the bride was one of her closest friends after all – but he would be gone again by the time she woke tomorrow, their time together as fleeting as rainbows.

  Beside her, the Albanian touched her hand as he refilled her glass and she froze into statue-like stillness, for there was intimacy in the gesture, an unwanted familiarity she had been at pains to avoid. Only her eyes moved, back to her husband’s gaze, and she saw the tiny twitch of his finger on the tablecloth.

  She knew what that meant too.

  Chapter Seven

  New York

  ‘How are you, Steven? It’s good to see you again,’ Chloe smiled, shaking the club manager’s hand as she approached the bar. She might be a newbie to the city but she was already one of their best customers.

  ‘It is a pleasure to have you back, Miss Marston,’ he replied.

  ‘I hope I’ve arrived before my guest?’ she asked, looking around the opulent space. Coming to the Rarities bar was like stepping back in time – it was decorated in rich plum and damson tones with mahogany fittings and plush carpets, marble busts at the windows and life-size portraits on the walls. Chloe had chosen it specially – a members-only bar with an annual fee of $10,000. She had made exhaustive enquiries to check whether Alexander had ever visited; to her satisfaction, it appeared he hadn’t, which made it an ideal location for their first meeting. It was never easy finding novelty for the super-rich, they had usually been everywhere and done everything, and although ten thousand was but pocket change to a man like him, she was pleased to have this small advantage at least. It showed him that in spite of his reach, she had knowledge and contacts where he didn’t and that Invicta’s services were still pocket change for a man of his wealth.

  The club was also guaranteed to be quiet – they made a point of never reserving more than two-thirds of the capacity so that members could always be sure of getting a seat – as well as discreet; celebrities often came here for a drink, away from fawning members of the public wanting selfies and autographs, and some of the biggest deals in the financial world were brokered between its walls.

  ‘Where would you care to sit? There are two seats by the window.’

  Chloe shook her head. She knew from Poppy’s notes that Alexander travelled everywhere with a security detail that wouldn’t like him sitting in plain sight. ‘Somewhere quieter – a corner ideally.’

  ‘Absolutely, follow me.’

  He led her across the room, through a narrow corridor and into an adjoining drawing room. ‘Will this do?’ he asked, motioning to two enormous wing chairs in the furthest corner. It was dark, dimly lit there. A trio of men in suits were seated at the sofas in front of the fireplace nearby – close but not too much so – and she saw an off-duty NFL star on the other side of the room in deep discussion with a woman who was clearly not his TV anchor wife.

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I will bring over the menus, and your guest when he arrives.’

  Chloe walked over to the corner, deliberating which chair to choose – would he prefer the one that faced into the room, giving him a clear view of their neighbours
and anyone who came in? Or the one with its back to the room, protecting his privacy and hiding his identity from whoever else came in? She decided he would prefer the latter – although she could always move if she was wrong – and settled herself into her seat facing the room.

  Discreetly, pretending to check her phone, she watched the NFL player, who was now touching the knee of the woman who was not his wife; she tried not to listen in on the conversation of the businessmen on the sofas, who appeared to work in Commodities and were planning a trip to a private club later. Their conversations passed in a low, agreeable murmur as ten minutes went by. Fifteen. She rang in to the office to check she hadn’t missed any messages and Xan was regaling her with his latest ‘nightmare’ request when she heard fresh voices and looked up.

  ‘He’s here,’ she whispered, cutting over him as he was in full flow about just how hard it was to get the Port Authority to agree to ‘Marry me Lisa’ being beamed onto the Statue of Liberty. ‘Sorry, Xan, gotta go.’

  Two men were standing in the corridor – she could see them reflected in a mirror from where she was sitting – and at first she thought they were both the bodyguards, such was their stature. But then her gaze locked with the slightly smaller man – if anyone six foot tall could be described as ‘small’ in any way – and the room, the city, seemed to fall away.

  He had deep-set grey-green eyes that seemed as if they ought to belong on a wild animal – a snow leopard perhaps, or a lynx – and short, thick, light-brown hair. He was muscular, with a rugby player’s physique, but somehow he seemed to take up even more cubic space than his size suggested, as though he had an aura that added to his bulk. She had seen photographs of him, of course, but they had failed to capture his energy; on paper he looked dull-edged, slow and wary, regarding the camera with overt suspicion, but in the flesh, there was a bladed sharpness to his movements, an intensity of focus that drew every eye his way.

  He walked over, stopping in front of her. It was like having a Lamborghini bear down upon her at 200 mph, only to stop bumper-to-knee and she was surprised to realize she was now standing too. ‘Miss Marston.’

  Even if she hadn’t been, she would have said ‘Yes.’ This was what power did – it had a tangible presence, transfixing people, changing them. ‘Mr Subocheva, what a pleasure,’ she said, hoping he couldn’t see her nervousness. He shook her hand, never dropping his eyes from hers and she felt like she was being X-rayed, seen from the inside out. ‘But please, you must call me Chloe.’

  ‘And I, Alexander.’ His accent was thick, tumbling the words into a delicious richness. He held her hand for a moment longer than she anticipated, still assessing her, the fractional overstep just enough to force her back a pace mentally, and set her off-balance. It was an assertion of power.

  ‘I hope this suits you, meeting here?’ she asked, indicating towards the cosy corner she had bagged. ‘I find it’s nicely private, whilst still having some atmosphere.’

  ‘I like it very much.’ He waited for her to take her seat again before he took his own, his bodyguard walking over to the nearest empty chair just off to the side of them and pretending to read a cigar magazine. ‘I had thought there were few secrets left to me in this city but I see I was wrong.’ Behind him, she could see the businessmen looking over, undisguised curiosity on their faces. An apex predator was in the room and everyone there knew it.

  Steven came over with the menus and Chloe pretended to study hers as he explained to Alexander the rarity of the drinks served here, hence the club’s name. In many instances, he was saying, they were serving the last remaining batches in the world of those elite malts and distillations.

  ‘I’ll go with Chloe’s choice,’ Alexander said, handing back his menu without looking at it. ‘It will be a good test of whether she is a woman whose judgement is to be trusted.’

  Chloe’s lips parted in a surprised smile; she saw the anxious smile on Steven’s face. ‘Well, then, in which case we’d love the Black Tot,’ she said confidently. ‘Do you like rum?’

  ‘I am Russian. I like every spirit.’

  ‘Well this is a very special one,’ she smiled. ‘Historically, it was believed that sharing a tot of rum helped breed kinship among sailors in the British Navy. It was a practice observed for over three hundred years, and when it was discontinued in 1970, the last remaining stocks were stored in government warehouses and now only come out for special occasions – such as Prince William’s wedding.’

  His eyes never left her face once. ‘Then I look forward to trying it,’ he said, elbows splayed, his fingers pressed together in a steeple. ‘But before we go any further, tell me, how is Poppy?’

  The smile widened on Chloe’s lips. He was the only one of her clients – apart from Pelham – who had cared still to ask. Greenleve seemed to have forgotten, having suddenly resumed contactability this morning and called her three times already today with various nefarious requests but not asked after Poppy once; Proudlock had been much the same, tutting at all the right points for all of two minutes in their initial conversation, but then he hadn’t mentioned her since that day either – not a single enquiry as to how the surgery had gone or whether she had yet woken up; and of course Rosaria, silently tapping out her demands on a tablet, had been far more concerned by Chloe stepping on her dog’s paw than the prospect of Poppy undergoing neurosurgery. ‘Well, we’re beginning to think we may have reason to be hopeful. Every day she gets through is another day she gets stronger. They operated to remove a blood clot from her brain on Monday.’

  He looked genuinely concerned. She had been hit on Saturday night and today was now Thursday. ‘But she hasn’t woken up yet?’

  ‘No, they’re keeping her in an induced coma until the weekend at least; they’re monitoring the swelling.’

  ‘But her family is with her?’

  ‘Yes, they flew over on Saturday night; they’ve been by her side ever since.’

  He watched her intently, his quick eyes noticing all her little fidgety quirks such as how she raked her hair back when she was nervous, or the way she rubbed her index finger and thumb in circles when she was anxious. In fact, within two minutes of being in his company she felt more ‘seen’ than at any other point since moving here. ‘Is she getting the best care? Who are her doctors – have they been checked out? My motto in all things is trust – then verify.’

  ‘I understand from Jack – my boss – that she’s receiving excellent care; they have a very strong trauma team by all accounts.’

  ‘I hope it goes without saying that if anything is required . . . anything at all . . .’

  ‘That’s incredibly generous. Thank you. I’ll make sure that is passed on to her family,’ she said.

  Alexander sighed, sitting back slightly. ‘I did not believe it when Anjelica told me; I was convinced it must be some sort of joke.’ He glanced up at her from slightly lowered lids. ‘But I am sure you already know that Anjelica is not one to make jokes.’ He delivered the line with a flat tone but she sensed amusement in it.

  ‘No, quite.’ Her own telephone conversation with the woman – when she had finally rung back to arrange this meeting – had been so brisk, Chloe had half thought she was communicating in Morse code.

  He frowned, his mouth set in an exasperated line. ‘I hate . . . I hate not being able to do anything about it. Helplessness is not a feeling that sits well with me.’

  ‘I know, that’s the worst part of all of this. Just the waiting; waiting and seeing. But there is literally nothing more to be done. The doctors say their job is finished, it’s now just a matter of time.’

  There was a long pause as he looked at her again, watching, assessing, judging. ‘And so you are here, taking the reins.’

  She took a deep breath, feeling like she was pitching for the deal of her career. ‘Yes, and I hope that’s not too disruptive for you. These are exceptional circumstances, clearly, but I appreciate that your relationship with Poppy is a close one and that it must be unsettli
ng to suddenly have someone new looking after you.’ She had spent the week trotting out these words in various fashions but still she couldn’t shake the tinge of bitterness she felt at having to say them, as though the inconvenience to these people was in any way on a par with the disaster that had befallen Poppy.

  ‘I had reservations, yes. There are not many people I trust and I like to look in the eye of anyone I work with.’ He nodded, his gaze like a grip, holding her up, pinning her in place. ‘I expect you have already read up on me, so tell me about you. Who is Chloe Marston, my new lifestyle manager? And don’t leave anything out. I am sure you know perfectly well my researchers will dig it up one way or another.’

  There was that look again – amusement hiding in the shadows of still eyes. Or was it not a joke? It was impossible to tell with him.

  ‘Well, I’m twenty-six, from a place called Alnwick in Northumberland in the north-east of England. I’m the younger of two girls; my sister Kate is four years older than me and living in London. She got married a few years ago and has a little boy, Orlando, so I’m an aunt now and fast becoming an expert in tank engines.’ It was a light-hearted quip but perhaps he didn’t get it, for his expression didn’t change. ‘I played hockey for my county, I’m mad about most sports – skiing, water-skiing and tennis particularly. I studied Spanish and French at Warwick University. What else? . . . Um, I spent a couple of years working for a ski-hosting company in Verbier before I got the job at Invicta – in fact, that was how I met Tom and Jack, the founders. They stayed in the chalet where I was working and we hit it off; they had been doing everything themselves from their flat in Fulham for a couple of years and I was their first hire when they got their initial round of funding and started to grow the business . . .’

  ‘And look at it now. Thirty-two offices worldwide, 584 staff, turnover of twelve million pounds annually.’ The figures tripped off his tongue like the alphabet and she snatched a glimpse of the business brain that had brought him such success. But the Invicta figures, impressive though they were for a young company, were absolutely nothing to the size of his empire which spanned everything from mining interests in east Africa, to luxury hotel groups in Europe and Asia and cabling technology in mainland America.