Illegal Action

39

“You on for a drink?” It was Monica, suddenly appearing behind Liz as she peered at her laptop.

“Sure,” Liz said slowly, masking her surprise.

“I’m going upstairs to change. Why don’t I collect you in half an hour?”

Liz nodded and watched Monica as she moved towards the stairs. She wore designer jeans and a silk shirt that showed half an inch of navel. Casual but trendy. Liz felt positively frumpy, in her M&S skirt and a favourite lilac blouse that she wouldn’t claim was on the cutting edge of fashion.

Suddenly a shout came from Brunovsky’s study. “Tamara!” Liz heard scurrying footsteps and the secretary appeared, dressed in a black sweater and skirt, heading breathlessly towards the back of the house while Brunovsky yelled again—“Tamara! Idite siuda!”

Tamara’s arrival in his office did not appease the oligarch, for he continued to shout, in an uninterrupted torrent of Russian. Eventually Tamara came back along the corridor, her usually cold, passionless face crumpled in unhappiness. Tracks of mascara-stained tears ran down one cheek.

Liz was tempted to console the woman, but seconds later Brunovsky himself came through and began to yell at her again. Monica reappeared, still wearing the same clothes. She gestured towards Tamara’s office. “Maybe we should go now.”

“Okay,” said Liz with relief.

“When he gets like this,” Monica said wearily, “it can take hours for him to calm down.”

It was called the White Palace, though the large Georgian town house in Knightsbridge was of burnt-orange brick. As they entered the softly carpeted foyer with its massive overhanging chandelier, a dark-haired man in a dinner jacket came forward to greet them. “How nice to see you again, Miss Hetherington. And how is Mr. Brunovsky?”

“In fighting form,” said Monica, winking at Liz. “We’re just here for a quick drink, Milo.”

She led Liz down a cast-iron spiral staircase into a vast cellar with a brick vaulted ceiling and a sunken floor of bleached oak. Tables were positioned in alcoves against the walls, lit by recessed spots. Monica picked a corner alcove, and they sat down on a cushioned banquette. “Whew!” Monica exclaimed. “I’m glad to get out of there.”

Liz looked around the half-empty room, and noticed that almost all its occupants were female. Well-dressed stylish women, but noticeably different from the Sloane Rangers recuperating after an exhausting afternoon shopping in Harvey Nichols, who could be found in the coffee shops of this part of London. Most of these women had a slight but discernible foreignness: a Roman nose, high Slavic cheeks, gaudy jewellery that was more Budapest than SW1. “Is this a private club?” she asked Monica.

“Not really—you just have to be introduced to Milo. This early in the evening it’s mainly wives of the Russians who come here. You won’t see any men.”

“I noticed—it’s like an upmarket Women’s Institute.”

Monica laughed. “Later on, the singles come in, searching for Mr. Right. Or should I say Mr. Russian? It’s a bit of a pickup joint for the oligarchs. That’s why I don’t let Nicky near the place. No point putting temptation in his way, is there?”

“No,” agreed Liz, wondering if this had been where Monica had met Brunovsky.

A waiter came and Monica ordered a bottle of Cristal—over Liz’s protests that she only wanted a glass of wine. “Go for it, girl,” said Monica, and gave her diamond bracelet a shake, like a high roller at a craps table. With Brunovsky absent, Liz realised, Monica was a different girl—outspoken, high-spirited, even wild.

“This is my shout,” Monica announced. “Well, let’s be honest—it’s Nicky’s.” She gave a satisfied smirk, then pointed across the floor at two women entering the room. They were both tall, slim and blonde—looking rather louche, in dresses a size too tight and sharp stiletto heels. “See those two? They’re looking. But it’s too early. There won’t be many Russian men in until later.”

“So they’ve miscalculated?” said Liz a little dryly.

Monica misunderstood her. “They’re dressed a bit tarty, I know, but it’s what Russian men like.” She thrust her chest out and wiggled seductively, in a parody of a bathing-suit contest entrant, and Liz laughed, but a more doleful look spread over Monica’s face. “At first that’s all they’re looking for, but then it changes. ‘I want you to be an English laa-dy,’” she said in an uncanny imitation of Brunovsky’s voice. She looked at Liz. “You’re lucky: you don’t have to try.”

I suppose that’s a compliment, thought Liz, pushing her hair back self-consciously. Monica stared at her. “Ah,” she said, still looking at Liz. “I thought it was a shadow, but it’s not. You’ve got a wicked bruise on your forehead. How did you get that?”

“I walked into a door at my flat.”

“It’s always a door, isn’t it?” said Monica knowingly. She laughed sarcastically. “I’ve met lots of doors. There was a Philip door, and one called Ronnie—that was the worst door of all. And then, of course, there’s the Nicky door.”

Liz didn’t see any point protesting that she hadn’t been hit by a boyfriend. Did Monica get knocked around by Brunovsky? It sounded like it, though looking at Monica’s tall trim figure, honed by daily visits to the gym, Liz wondered whether she could hold her own with the oligarch. Probably not—he was short, but wiry and very fit. And then she found herself wondering if Monica was strong enough to have shoved her down the mansion-block stairs. Don’t move, the voice had said. Could that have been Monica? “Tamara seemed upset,” she said.

“Yeah, well don’t go feeling sorry for her. The witch.”

“I’ve never seen Nicky lose his temper before.”

“Stick around, Jane, and you’ll see him lose it again.” Monica was already on her second glass of champagne, and she drained it, then reached for the ice bucket.

As Monica kept talking, now describing her recent trip to Paris, a few men came into the room. And Liz noticed a raven-haired woman, with a strong face and a revealing dress, who was sitting by herself at the bar. There was no pretence; with each new male arrival she gave a frank inviting stare. One man went and joined her, but after a brief conversation shook his head and moved along the bar.

“I must say,” Monica declared, with a hint of a slur to her speech as she finished her third glass of champagne, “I think the Plaza Athénée is overrated. Give me the George V any day. Do you travel much, Jane, in your line of work? What exactly do you do, by the way?”

“I’m a researcher at the moment. Working on a thesis.”

“Can’t bring in much bread,” said Monica. “You want to get yourself a Russian.”

Liz grinned but didn’t comment. And suddenly she had had enough. This is not my scene, she decided, looking around the room, which seemed nothing more than a marketplace for spending power and lust. She reached for her bag. “Monica, thank you very much. This has been fun, but I’ve got to be going.”

Monica looked at her watch. “Christ!” she exclaimed. “Me too. Nicky will be fuming—we’re meant to be going out to dinner.”

On their way out, the black-haired woman at the bar, still alone, still looking, caught sight of Monica. With a wry smile, the woman blew a kiss.

Upstairs, Liz asked, “Who was that?”

“Some trollop I knew years ago,” said Monica breezily, and Liz sensed the champagne speaking. Then Monica seemed to catch herself. “Just joking,” she said, putting a friendly hand on Liz’s arm. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”