Secrets After Dark Page 2

  For all the good it’s done me.

  I’ve always known that Mark and Dominic worked for the same man, and I knew one day Mark would have dealings with Dubrovski. If I’m honest, it’s part of the reason I took the job as Mark’s assistant. Now it’s happened, and he wants to take me right to Dubrovski. I’ll finally get a look at this mysterious person who’s had such an influence on my life. Perhaps I’ll even get to understand a little more about Dominic himself.

  ‘Beth? Are you all right?’ Mark is leaning forward, concerned. ‘You look a little pale.’

  ‘I... I’m fine,’ I say, taking a deep breath. I’m feeling that odd mixture of pleasure and pain I’ve become so accustomed to since I first met Dominic. Just thinking of him gives me that delicious ripple of desire and excitement, but always accompanied by a bitter stab of unhappiness. God, I miss you. Then, sure as night follows day, I feel the bubbling anger. How dare you leave me like this, after everything we went through together? ‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of Andrei Dubrovski. Who hasn’t?’

  ‘Then if you’re sure you’d like to come...’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ I sound like myself again, I’m sure of that. And I’m also sure that I want to go to the South of France with Mark. For one thing, it’s a connection with Dominic, and I can’t resist that.

  ‘Good.’ Mark looks satisfied that I’m on side. ‘When men like Dubrovski summon us, we go as quickly as possible. He keeps our bread well buttered after all. So we’ll be leaving tomorrow, and we’ll be gone a couple of days at least. Will that be all right?’

  I nod. ‘Fine. You know me. My schedule is very flexible.’

  ‘Excellent. Don’t forget that passport. Now, shall we think about heading over to Bond Street? Oliver tells me that a real treasure has just come in that I really ought to see.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, getting up. ‘I’ll just get my things.’

  Chapter Two

  I don’t have time to think about my forthcoming trip to France during the morning, and it’s only when Mark and his colleague Oliver decide to have a quick lunch together at Mark’s club that I have some time to myself. I head for the café in Sotheby’s, a place I’ve become quite familiar with in the weeks that I’ve been working for Mark. While I’m standing at the entrance, looking for a likely table, I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Beth, over here!’

  Looking across the crowded room, I see James sitting at one of the tables, a newspaper on the table in front of him. I feel a rush of affection for him; he took a chance on me and gave me my first job in the art world. When he heard that Mark, an old business associate of his, was looking for an assistant, he recommended me for the position and Mark took me on just when I needed a job. I owe him a lot. He waves, a big smile on his face, beckoning me over. ‘What brings you here, darling?’ he asks, putting big kisses on my cheeks as I bend down to greet him.

  ‘Mark came to see Oliver. Do you know him? He’s head of nineteenth-century art here.’ I sit down in the empty seat on the other side of the table. ‘Now they’ve gone off for lunch. What about you?’

  ‘I came in to inspect some bits and pieces that are coming up for sale soon.’ James folds up his newspaper and looks at me over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles in that certain way he has, as though he wants to examine me properly and understand what I’m really thinking. ‘How is life?’

  ‘Fine, fine...’

  ‘Come on, Beth. You look nervous. What’s up?’ His expression softens. ‘Any news from Dominic?’

  James is one of the few people who know almost the whole story of what happened between Dominic and me. There is no one else I can imagine telling – not Laura, not my mother, not Celia, my wise old friend and my father’s godmother. It’s strange that the only person I can confide in about my relationship is my gay, gallery-owning ex-boss whom I’ve known for less than a year, but that’s how it is. He’s kind, broad-minded and not inexperienced in the sort of world I found myself in over the summer. And he cares about me in a platonic way that makes me feel safe and looked after.

  ‘No, no news.’

  ‘How long has it been now?’

  I stare down at the tabletop. James’s teacup sits there, half full of cooling tan-coloured liquid and I examine the reflections in its surface. ‘I’ve heard nothing since the day he left me. He sent me a text that night but since then, zilch.’

  ‘And have you contacted him?’

  I shake my head slowly. ‘He knows where I am. He said he’d be in touch.’

  James sighs, as if he’s saddened by my stubbornness and by Dominic’s vanishing act. Then he frowns. ‘But there’s something else?’

  I laugh despite myself. ‘James, how do you know me so well?’

  He smiles back, his thin face unexpectedly cheery-looking. ‘Darling, you’re an open book to me. You’ll never be a woman of mystery as far as I’m concerned, no matter how veiled and impenetrable you are to everyone else. I can read it all over you – and you’re practically trembling like a little aspen leaf. What’s happened?’

  I lean forward, my eyes sparkling. ‘I’m going to the South of France with Mark,’ I say excitedly, and tell him about the planned trip. Even as I speak, I can hardly believe it’s actually going to happen. Tomorrow. Oh my God.

  James doesn’t seem particularly enthused. I’d assumed he’d clap his hands, and congratulate himself at getting me this job with Mark, the kind of job that means I can travel and see the world, and not exactly budget-style either. But he’s looking more concerned than anything else.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’ I ask.

  He pauses before answering and then says slowly, ‘I’ve heard a lot about this Dubrovski character and from what I can make out, he’s not a particularly pleasant man. Now I don’t suppose that anyone rises from the slums of Moscow to unimaginable wealth as a commodities trader without having a bit of an edge to him. But nonetheless, he’s not someone I would want to come into close contact with. I don’t like the idea of you near him.’

  I smile at James’s protectiveness. ‘I’m not going to have anything to do with him. He’s Mark’s client. I’ll just be there to help Mark.’

  James narrows his eyes. ‘Then why are you in such a state?’

  ‘You could have a very successful second career as a criminal psychologist,’ I say, trying to sound jokey, ‘with your ability to read minds.’

  In that instant, he understands. Realisation fills his eyes and he looks at me with an expression of sympathy. ‘Oh, honey. You think he might give you some clue to where Dominic is.’

  My cheeks flush. It sounds ridiculous spoken aloud like that. ‘Well...’

  James evidently doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to rain on my parade and destroy my dream, but I can tell he also doesn’t want to get my hopes up in case of the all-too-likely disappointment. ‘It might happen, I suppose. After all, he does work for Dubrovski – at least, as far as we know he still does. But don’t pin too much on it, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I promise. ‘I know it’s not very likely. I’m not really thinking about it, to be honest.’ But I know the truth is that ever since Mark broke the news about the trip this morning, the hope has been growing inside me that somehow I’ll find out something about Dominic in France. Even Dubrovski just mentioning his name would make me feel closer to him. It’s the first ray of sunshine I’ve had in weeks. Even if it proves a false dawn, at least I can enjoy this hopeful moment while it lasts.

  ‘Let’s order you some food. You must be starving.’ James looks away to summon a passing waiter and I close my eyes for a moment to offer up a silent prayer that I might somehow make a connection with Dominic in France. I hardly dare admit to myself that in my very secret heart, I’m hoping that Dominic will actually be at the villa, even though I know it’s just a ridiculous fantasy.

  I’ll be happy just to hear his name, I tell myself firmly. That will be enough for me.

  ‘It sou
nds lovely, dear. I’m very envious. Fancy that, a villa! Your life has got very glamorous lately. But have you got everything you’ll need for a trip to France? Will it be warm? What sort of state is your bathing suit in?’

  That’s my mother all over. Two seconds and she’s worrying that I won’t be properly kitted out. Laura screamed when she found out, and bounced around the room chanting, ‘You lucky thing, you lucky thing, you lucky, lucky, lucky thing!’ My mother is anxious I might embarrass myself in a holey swimsuit.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to have much time for swimming, Mum.’ While we’re talking, I’m taking clothes from my drawers and wardrobe and putting them on the bed, wondering what exactly I’ll need for a villa in the South of France. ‘It isn’t a holiday. I’m working.’

  ‘Wear your warmest things on the plane, just in case it’s cold,’ advises my mother, not hearing me. ‘That way you won’t need to pack them. It’s always tricky when you’ve only got a cabin bag. Put on two jumpers if you can. It is October, after all.’

  I laugh again, as I imagine myself turning up dressed in half my wardrobe, a puffy Michelin man made up of sweaters, trousers and skirts. Just the thing to impress Mark, show him what a woman of the world I am. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that I won’t be flying on a budget airline to Nice, but rather on a small private plane from a London airport. If I want to take a case full of jumpers, I probably can.

  ‘How long will you be gone for?’ my mother asks, trying to sound pleased for me rather than worried, which I’m sure she is. She was so relieved when I decided not to go backpacking with Laura; she wouldn’t have slept the entire time I was away if I had.

  ‘Just a few days,’ I say comfortingly. ‘And I’ll be in touch – I’ll let you know where I am.’

  ‘That’s good. You must remember to enjoy yourself. Don’t work too hard.’ My mother only has a vague idea of what I do, even though I’ve explained it several times. I’m not sure she really thinks of it as work at all. ‘Now, would you like to speak to your father?’

  While I’m chatting to my dad, I pull an old red bikini out of my drawer and, on impulse, add it to the pile on the bed. There’s bound to be a pool, after all. I might get the chance to use it, who knows? I’ve just said goodbye and rung off when I see a flash of colour where the bikini used to be and look down into the drawer. I gaze down for a moment, then take out the smooth blue silicone column with a little outcrop at the base. It is one of the few things that I brought from the boudoir, although I haven’t touched it since the night that Dominic used it with great effect. I remember how he ordered me to prepare it, oiling it gently until it shone slick and promising, and then, much later, how he let it come to life inside me, sending me into an orbit of starry pleasure as it drove me to an extraordinary climax. The memory makes me gasp involuntarily and feel a twitch of excitement. For the first time since that night, I wonder what it would be like to let that harmless-looking thing do the job it was designed for.

  I try to damp down the tiny rush of bubbles that erupt inside me at the thought. I need to focus on getting ready, not being distracted by various erotic memories of Dominic. I’ve tried to close off that part of myself while I wait for him to return.

  If he ever does, I think grimly.

  I frown at myself. I can’t lose faith. He will come back and if he doesn’t, I’ll just go and find him and damn well make him explain why.

  And that’s why this trip is giving me butterflies. Because there’s a little voice in my head that whispers: you might find out more. You might find out where he is.

  Chapter Three

  This is like no plane journey I’ve ever been on.

  It’s usually a long drawn-out process: travelling to the airport, checking in, getting through security, waiting for long hours in the giant duty-free shopping mall, then heading with the rest of the crowd to the gate for another wait, and then the scrum of boarding. That’s all before we’ve actually gone anywhere.

  This time a sleek dark car collects Mark and me from his Belgravia house, our luggage loaded into the back by the shaven-headed sunglasses-wearing driver, and then we fly through the London traffic as though we’ve got some kind of special dispensation to ignore the speed limit, the red lights and the bus lanes. It seems as though we’re at the airport in only minutes. Mark takes my passport and at some point it’s handed over to someone else through the car window, and then we are driving again. When we get out of the car, we are, to my astonishment, next to the actual plane. We’ve skipped the airport terminal altogether.

  ‘Come on, Beth,’ Mark says, smiling at my evident amazement, even though I’m trying to act smart, sophisticated and unflappable. ‘Let’s get on board.’

  The plane’s interior is immaculate and luxurious: the lighting is soft and welcoming, a thick pale carpet covers the floor and large butter-yellow leather seats face each other across walnut-inlaid tables. An elegant stewardess is waiting for us just inside the door and smilingly shows us to our seats. I’m loving every minute so far. I could definitely get used to this.

  ‘We’ll be taking off as soon as you’re settled,’ says the stewardess. ‘I’ll be back when we’re airborne to check on you. Happy take-off.’ Then she heads off to a door towards the rear.

  The seat is incredibly soft, and I’m almost absorbed into the buttery leather seats. I relax into it and snap my seat belt shut.

  Mark leans over to me, fiddling with his rose-gold cufflinks as he often does. He’s smiling, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘You can’t say I don’t show you some of the high life, eh, Beth? Literally, today.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing but!’ I reply, laughing. It’s true. Ever since I started working for Mark, I’ve been allowed glimpses into a world I always vaguely knew was there, but not accessible to anyone from my way of life. Now, here I am, on a private plane. I shake my head. ‘It’s crazy.’

  ‘Enjoy it.’ Mark leans back in his seat, fastening his seat belt across his lap. ‘The rich at play can be an excellent spectator sport. As long as you don’t get tempted to join in.’

  A few minutes later, the little plane taxis along to its runway, jolting slightly over the uneven ground. Outside the October day is overcast and I can already sense the evening approaching even though it’s only lunchtime. The plane pivots into position and, after a humming pause, it begins its take-off, the engine revving furiously as we gather speed. The nose tilts, we begin to lift and then we’re airborne, powering upwards into the sky as the land retreats below us. A minute ago, I was safely on the ground. Now I’m so high in the sky that if anything were to go wrong, it would mean death. So little between safety and peril. The thought sends a strange kind of excitement shimmering through me. We’re alive. We’re in the sky. Tremors ripple in my stomach with something like arousal. How odd – a plane taking off has never done that to me before.

  Perhaps it’s an added bonus of private plane travel – a bit of extra excitement thrown in.

  The beautiful stewardess appears, her make-up so perfect it looks as though it is part of her actual face and not painted on at all, and asks us in her soothing way what we would like to drink. Mark asks for champagne for both of us.

  ‘I want you to have the full experience,’ he says as the stewardess goes off to fetch it. ‘I wouldn’t usually advise drinking at work, but just this once...’

  Before long, we have flutes of cold champagne, the bubbles popping quietly against the glass, and lunch is served: a delicious light autumnal meal of cold roast pheasant with a salad of chicory, squash and pear, and cubes of thyme-scented sautéed celeriac. A tiny apple charlotte with Sauterne custard follows, and then a plate of creamy ripe cheeses with fresh-baked oatcakes. Mark and I chat as we eat, and I could almost believe we were in a luxurious restaurant rather than flying at 35,000 feet over the Channel and across France.

  As we approach Nice airport, I remember James’s warning words about going into Dubrovski’s orbit and wonder what exactly I�
��ve let myself in for. Am I going to be sitting down to dinner with the Russian mafia tonight? I imagine Dubrovski like a Russian Al Capone, big stomach straining behind a waistcoat, and a dinner table lined with men in dark suits, pistol handles bulging at their armpits, chewing gum and staring implacably from behind sunglasses, all on a hair trigger, ready to start a firestorm if someone coughs out of turn. Maybe I’d better practise a few of my kick-boxing moves when we land, just in case. I smile to myself. I already appear to think I’m in some kind of Bond movie... I’d better rein in my vivid imagination or I’ll give myself nightmares.

  And my mafia scenario is not the only thing I’m imagining. As we begin our descent, I tell myself sternly to get a grip. All secret inner fantasies banned! Dominic won’t be there and I probably won’t even hear his name. In fact, it’s bound to be tedious and I’ll long to be home again. I’ve probably had the best bit with this flight.

  I yawn, just to show myself how very grounded and realistic I am.

  Evidently, for Mark, all this is familiar. When we’ve landed and the pilot has brought us to a halt by the terminal, he calmly unbuckles his seat belt and tells me that our car will be waiting for us.

  I don’t know how the usual customs, security and passport control is bypassed so easily but once again, a black car with shaded windows is waiting for us on the tarmac, and within minutes we are gliding on to the French roads and away. Mark hands me back my passport. I never even saw it being returned to him.