Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

“So, I set up a meeting at this hotel to pick out the champagne, wine, all of it. Help my company ensure this it is a great event, because we are raising money for charity, right? So, the beverage price list gets to me, and I see how much they are charging for these drinks! It is outrageous; I’m talking eight times the normal price. So, I ask them why there is such a huge difference between prices. I even compare them to fine restaurants that don’t cost half as much. Do you know what they told me?” Igor’s face lifted up, his square chin pointing at Hart, the cold gray eyes watching him closely.

  “I don’t know. What did they tell you?” Hart volleyed back to Igor.

  Igor grunted again, took a quick sip from his glass, and found the passing tray of a waiter, placing his empty glass upon it without grabbing a new one.

  “They said, ‘Sir, how is the view of London and the River Thames at your local grocery? The prices of the drinks are marked up due to the experience and ambience.’ Can you believe that? You have to love capitalism. We can screw anyone we want as long as there is cash to be made.” He took a step closer to Hart and placed a meaty hand on his shoulder and leaned in so that only the two of them could hear. “We do enough evil every day in our jobs, eh? Tonight, let’s do some good and raise some money. Never forget, those that have the money are the ones in control.” Igor gave Hart a pat on the shoulder and a wink, turned, and drifted into the sea of people.

  Hart watched him walk away, still contemplating the strangeness of the conversation, when he saw Clara on the staircase, staring in his direction. She had been watching him, but for how long? She made her way down after their lingering eye contact.

  Hart held up his empty scotch glass. “I need a refill. Care to join me?”

  “Oui. Seems like you needed it, judging by the look on your face.” Her tone was flat, but she wore a look of consternation. “What were you both talking about?”

  “He was explaining to me the price of capitalism,” Hart deadpanned.

  He studied Clara’s face. Her smooth cheeks had a new glow from her rose-colored blush, presumably from the recent ladies’-room visit. Her eyes were greener, accentuated by her dress. He was lost in her eyes, which regarded him with a certain apprehension.

  Clara led the way back to the bar. She seemed distressed by his talking to Igor and subsequent lack of detail about their conversation. Maybe she had something to hide with Igor. Hart pondered this but pushed it aside. His attention was now solely on enjoying her company. He would pay Igor further attention later.

  Hart began to feel at ease as the party wore on. The warm scotch in his empty stomach certainly played a role, but he felt confident, as one should in a two-thousand-dollar Burberry tuxedo. They stayed near the bar after finishing their drinks and ordered a third round, still champagne for her and scotch for him.

  People came and went ordering a variety of drinks—white wine, champagne, scotch, bourbon, and even a few apple Martinis. Clara kept a close eye on the guests as they came up to order, nodding politely to a few acquaintances.

  The buzz of conversation in the room and the background noise of soft piano music could not drown out the silence between them. Clara bid her time by sipping from her flute, while Hart found her difficult to engage. He could only assume it had to do with Igor.

  “Is there something wrong? Did I do something? Because if you’re upset that I spoke with Igor, he approached me and—”

  Clara held her hand out palm down, like she was reaching for a pair of cards on a table. “Paul, please. Everything’s fine. I think sometimes these types of parties overwhelm me.” Her face was crestfallen. She peered down at her dress, then back up towards him, a pleading look in her eyes begging him to leave the conversation where it was.

  Hart was quiet for a moment, but his compulsion to know what was wrong overruled his better judgment. “What do you mean? Overwhelmed by the people or...?” He let the words linger in the air.

  She let out a deep, exasperated breath, her eyes drifting off somewhere else, seemingly lost deep in the far corners of her mind. She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak but closed it. She took another sip of champagne and started again.

  “Have you ever felt that by your environment, your luck, you’ve somehow lost who you thought you would be? That you’ve become a victim of your own circumstances? Doing things for others, beliefs you didn’t share but now you do because you have to live them?” She stopped herself. “It’s deep conversation for a cocktail party, but it’s on my mind.”

  Hart hadn’t seen this coming. Why was she so melancholy? Clara did her best to put on a brave face, smiling as her lips twitched in revolt at their betrayal of her true feelings.

  “Finish your drink. Dinner is going to start soon,” she said while looking off in another direction.

  Hart nodded, slammed the rest of his scotch back, feeling sorry to waste such a thing, and set the glass on the bar. You’re going to need it, he thought, following Clara into the adjacent dining room and licking his wounds.

  23

  London

  The length of the evening was measured by glasses of champagne, which came steadily, one after another. Dinner was served as conversations grew into lighthearted debates, helped along by the gaiety of charitable feelings and wine. The cocktail reception had ended when the guests shuffled into the large rectangular dining room, its walls a clementine color, with gold crown molding and a striking glass chandelier that ran nearly the length of the room. The chandelier’s crystals hung like icicles, capturing the light, reflecting it onto the walls, giving off a burst of orange glow. White chairs were arranged, along with a lectern and a projection screen, at the far end of the room, where the auction would take place. Photos of items scrolled on the projection screen while the guests ate flaky beef wellingtons and buttery Dover soles, deboned at the tableside by waiters in white tuxedo jackets.

  Hart was seated next to Clara, with two other couples at their six-person table. The couple on Hart’s left was older, and Scottish, Hart surmised by their accents when introduced. The MacMahons both had long silver hair and fierce appetites. Hart never did see the bread basket return once it’d been passed.

  On Clara’s right sat a younger-looking couple, the Cornwalls. Clara had politely incorporated Hart, introducing Josh and his wife, Anna, by way of telling Hart that Josh was in the construction business. The four of them chatted about the evening, London, and the challenge of managing Josh’s booming business, which he glowingly said he was on the verge of selling. The Cornwalls’ first child was starting elementary school, and they seemed intent on enjoying a rare evening out, having secured a hotel room after the auction.

  The bidding was to begin after dessert, which included the English classic strawberries and cream, or traditional French patisserie from L’Eclair de Genie, in Paris. Bids began not long after the spoons had stopped clinking. The first item was a private safari in Botswana. Hart was particularly impressed by the winning bid of a cool million dollars for a Lake Como twelve-bedroom house for a week, including use of a Bombardier private jet for transportation. Numbered paddles, spread out through the dining room, fought gallantly against one another, as the coy bidders never made eye contact with each another.

  Clara’s mood gradually improved—thanks to the good food and easy conversation at the table, Hart suspected. She would comment about a bid and snicker to the Cornwalls and Hart, drawing a few disapproving glares from other guests, which Clara met with casual indifference. The drinks had done their job, Hart thought. The night began to flow as smoothly as the champagne.

  The auctioneer banged his gavel for the room’s attention as the final items came up. The man was older, lanky, with thin, side-swept white hair, long earlobes and a tuxedo that once fit him when he was younger and fuller. He had a whimsical English accent that demanded a quiet room. The projection screen flashed to a picture of a white château with blue windowsills surrounded by green vineyards. The slide changed to a wooden crate labeled “Château Ang
élus” and flanked by two double magnum bottles of Château Latour.

  Hart felt Clara shift upright in her chair, straining to see the projection. She grabbed the numbered paddle that lay on top of her clutch on the table. As if she sensed Hart’s eyes on her, she glanced sideways at him.

  “Renard gave me instructions to win this item at any price. He’s a wine connoisseur,” Clara said to Hart. It seemed more like a set of instructions to remind herself.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat and dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief. “This auction is of exceptional wine from Bordeaux, including a case of Château Latour, 1961 vintage from the beautiful Pauillac region. The second is a case of 1982 Château Angélus from the formidable Saint-Émilion terroir, and finally, two 1998 magnums from Château Palmer, of Margaux. The bidding will begin at sixty thousand pounds and progress in five-thousand-pound increments.”

  At the bang of the gavel, several numbered paddles went up.

  Clara sat with her hands across her lap. Her numbered paddle was held so tight that Hart could see her knuckles turn white. When the price reached a hundred thousand pounds, only three paddles were rising. Clara raised hers to call at one hundred and five thousand pounds, entering the contest against a Chinese man wearing a gleaming white tuxedo jacket and Prada sunglasses, who was continuously on his cell phone, and a mysterious paddle towards the front that Hart could not see from his vantage point.

  “Do I have one hundred fifteen thousand? Remember, folks, this is for charity and a tax write-off.” The auctioneer’s wide mouth smiled in glee at the laughing room.

  He eyed his audience and announced the asking price several times over. The phone conversation between the Chinese man and, presumably, his wine consultant or disapproving spouse grew more contentious. His face turned red and he tossed his phone on his table and raised his paddle.

  Hart heard Clara breathing heavily as she raised her paddle. The other bidder, whose paddle was out of Hart’s view, would raise whenever the bidding slowed. The amount gradually crawled upwards, with each number soliciting a shocked murmuring reaction from the room.

  “Can I have one hundred and sixty thousand pounds bid? This is for charity and a wonderful investment in wine.”

  The auctioneer began dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with a white handkerchief. The Chinese man had dropped out. Clara raised her paddle against the paddle in the front row, a constant volleying. The murmuring grew to audible gasps as the bidding climbed just short of two hundred thousand pounds. Hart watched Clara as her chest rose and fell with every labored breath. The bids continued until they finally reached two hundred thousand pounds.

  A final effort to squeeze out more money was made for two hundred and two thousand pounds, and the auctioneer banged the gavel with great enthusiasm.

  “Sold! To the beautiful woman towards the back! Thank you. That concludes the live auction.”

  The crowd gave a gracious round of applause and looked inquisitively for Clara. Hart sat stone-faced in a state of shock at how much money Renard had spent. Win it no matter what. He placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder and whispered that she did great. She smiled, but he caught her lip gently twitching.

  Guests rose and began mingling as soon as the gavel had declared the auction over. Clara was swarmed with questions, but Hart didn’t mind losing her to conversations. Out of a burning curiosity, he wanted to find the loser, the paddle from the front row. Guests filtered through the tables towards the doors and the awaiting open bar, the highlight of the evening apparently past. Clara was saying her goodbyes to the Cornwalls at their table, but Hart couldn’t resist the urge to see who had bid against her so aggressively.

  He made towards the front, but only five steps before someone grabbed him by the shoulder. Hart felt a tug to encourage him to stop. He turned and found himself face-to-face with Igor.

  “Wild auction, wasn’t it? I’m thrilled we raised so much for charity.” Igor’s gray eyes were sharp, in contrast to his jovial words and forced smile.

  “Great event. If you’ll excuse me, I’m quite curious to see who was bidding against Clara. I’d like to see the face of the competition.” Hart gave a curt nod. He was happy to have an excuse to leave and turned towards the front of the room.

  Igor put his hand out and grabbed Hart’s upper arm. Hart glared back over his shoulder at Igor. He wasn’t fond of being manhandled and it was becoming a habit. Their eyes met, a flash of anger and recognition from both. Igor’s eyes narrowed, then relaxed, before he let go of Hart’s arm. Igor attempted to play off the awkward encounter with a smile as he smacked Hart’s back.

  “I was the bidder! I love wine and might as well make Renard pay much more than market price for charity.”

  He looked around to see if anyone was overhearing them, then winked at Hart.

  Hart felt his pulse race. It only made him feel more justified in his animosity towards Igor. He had no doubt that Igor made plenty of money, but enough to spend two hundred thousand pounds on wine? Unlikely. And if he was doing it to raise more money or simply cost Renard more, it seemed superficial. He couldn’t say what, but something about Igor wasn’t right: the way he carried himself with his politician’s smile and constant arm grabbing. Hart decided to play along. Clara seemed to be finishing up her conversations, and Hart caught her staring at him.

  “So, how long have you known Clara?” Hart asked, shifting his attention back towards his newfound adversary.

  Igor’s eyes drifted across the room towards Clara. He pursed his lips and hummed while he thought. “A few years. I worked with her former boss quite a bit, Monsieur Bichot. But Clara is a wonderful woman.” His gaze lingered on her. “Truly remarkable. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her. She can be quite”—he raised his eyebrows—“pleasurable company.”

  Igor stood still, his barrel chest stuck out like a proud stallion. Hart’s face hardened. Igor wasn’t dull—Hart had to give him that. He seemed like a man who knew how to inflict pain and doubt, even in the simplest of ways.

  Clara started towards the two men, locked in a standoff between predator and their knowing prey. They both felt Clara’s presence and relaxed to feign enjoyment of each other’s company. Igor gave her a kiss on the check to congratulate her on winning. He seemed about to leave but caught Clara and Hart’s table guests, the Cornwalls, passing on their way out of the room.

  Igor put out an arm to stop them. “Josh, nice to see you! I thought I told you to spend your money!”

  They smiled and exchanged pleasantries. Igor drew from his coat pocket the envelope Hart had given him earlier. He tore it open, revealing a thick stack of tickets in a rubber band. Igor thumbed out two and held them out to Josh Cornwall.

  “Here, compliments of Mr. Hart: two tickets for Thursday’s World Cup qualifier match at Wembley. Josh, I think your young boy would love a game with his dad. It’s a nice way to celebrate your new deal.” Igor smiled, then winked at Hart.

  Clara gazed disbelievingly at Hart and swiveled to watch Josh take the tickets from Igor with a big smile. He then shook Hart’s hand. “Cheers, mate, that’s very kind of you. We can talk more at the game. Have to run. Our room awaits!”

  And the couple took off.

  Before anyone could muster up a question, Igor gave a wave goodbye and made for the door.

  “What the hell was that? You brought tickets for Igor?” Clara’s faced was strewn with confusion.

  Hart shook his head in disbelief. “No, that envelope was what Renard wanted me to give him. I don’t understand. I didn’t have any clue what was in it.”

  Clara opened her mouth but closed it, as if having thought better of speaking. Hart blew the situation off as a mere slight by Igor. He couldn’t have denied the tickets were his, seeming foolish. But why did Igor lie about it? Probably to create the exact discomfort that currently reigned between him and Clara.

  He decided to change the topic.

  “Feeling good about your win for Renard?�
�� Hart asked.

  “Relieved. He was rude about it. Told me if I didn’t win I shouldn’t bother returning to work,” Clara retorted, clearly upset.

  Sensing the conclusion to the evening approaching, Hart suggested they head to the bar for a drink.

  “It has been a long day. I’d rather go back to the hotel,” Clara replied, her face sullen, and looking lost in her thoughts. “It has been a night of surprises, and now I need to think.”

  24

  London

  The taxi ride back was quiet, other than Clara occasionally drumming her fingers on her clutch, spread across her lap, as she stared out the window.

  At the hotel, the two of them had made their way in silence towards the elevators, then to their separate rooms. Clara’s face was soft with a melancholy indifference that she hid with a good-night smile.

  Deciding to end the struggle that had become their evening, Hart was swift.

  “Thank you for the invitation tonight. You looked absolutely beautiful.” He thought about moving in for the traditional good-night bise but felt it was out of place. Even more so was his foolish idea of trying to kiss her. The evening for them had its moments, but it seemed their fleeting chance at romance had left, along with her real smile. She stood holding her clutch against her shimmering emerald dress, in stark contrast to her demeanor since the end of the auction.

  “Merci. Good night, Paul.”

  She made her way down the hall at a sober pace, the carpet quieting her escape from him and whatever had consumed her. Hart couldn’t help but feel that the last chance of hope, of her being his reason to stay in Europe, had vanished before him. He entered his room, glanced at the minibar, but thought better of it.

  He sat at his desk. The room was dark, since he hadn’t bothered turning the lights on. Hart’s laptop flickered to life and illuminated his corner of the room in a white glow. He began opening up emails. The first was Hutchens’ standard inquisitive type.

  There was a knock on his door. He sat still, not sure who it could be. The knock came again, with more urgency this time. Hart rose and, disregarding the peephole, opened the door.