Flawless

by Tilly Bagshawe

  At least spending the holiday immured at Drumfernly with her parents would mean she was in no danger of running into the Jake-and-Danny show. When the Meyers came back to London at Christmas, the It-girls, models, and wives who made up the core local diamond-buying market—not to mention Bijoux’s own customer base—seemed to degenerate into an embarrassing flurry of excitement, like giddy schoolgirls. Always listed in Tatler’s top five “Most Eligible Bachelor” rankings, despite the fact that neither of them had lived in London for eons, both Jake and Danny were considered big society draws. It made Scarlett’s blood boil.

  Still, this was no time to be wasting mental energy on Jake stupid Meyer. She still had everything to do before tomorrow, and a mountain of wrapping paper, Scotch tape, and ribbon waiting in a reproachful pile on her bed. She’d better get moving before the wine really got the better of her and she forgot which present was for whom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “SO I TOLD him,” said Cameron, drawing breath for the first time in at least a minute, “I said, ‘Listen, Muhammad,’ I said, ‘I don’t care how rich you are, or how your grandfather’s grandfather used to do business. We are Goldman Sachs. We are the premiere investment banking organization on this planet. And we do our deals our way. Now are you in or are you out?’ And of course, the poor little guy’s balloon was well and truly popped after that,” he laughed. “It’s always the same with the bloody A-rabs. All they need is a firm hand, and next thing you know they’re eating out of it.”

  “Hmm,” said Scarlett, who’d tuned out her brother’s self-aggrandizing monologue well over two junctions back on their torturously slow slog up the M1. “Well, never mind. It sounds like you did the best you could.”

  “What do you mean?” snapped Cameron. “I just told you, I nailed that little dweeb. Sheikh bloody Muhammad might be a big noise in Kuwait, but he’s a pretty small fish in the sort of waters Goldman swims in, I can tell you.”

  “But didn’t you say earlier that his net worth was somewhere north of ten billion?” said Scarlett, casting around for any scrap of information from his tedious, long-winded speech that she could remember.

  Cameron gave an unimpressed shrug of his thirty-year-old-associate shoulders. “So?”

  “Well, nothing. It’s just I’m sure I saw in the paper the other day that Goldman’s market cap is around thirty billion. So doesn’t that mean that this chap, this one ‘little’ man, could buy up a third of your entire company if he wanted to?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Cameron snorted, adding patronizingly, “I wouldn’t give up the day job if I were you, Scar. You wouldn’t make much of an i-banker.”

  He didn’t appreciate being caught out on the facts by his dippy little sister. Since when did Scarlett know what a market cap was, anyway?

  Scarlett, in fact, couldn’t have been less interested in her brother’s latest professional “triumph” if he’d been recounting it to her in Urdu. On previous journeys with Cameron, she’d passed the time by playing an adapted mental version of soccer whereby she scored a goal every time he said the words “Goldman Sachs,” four goals for any regurgitated American business-school phrases like “think outside the box” or “step up to the plate,” and six for real clangers such as “I’m gonna blue-sky this with my boss.” But after last Christmas, when she’d racked up dozens of points before they’d even got past Luton airport, she decided the game was no longer enough of a challenge.

  Besides, her head was throbbing so badly it was all she could do to concentrate on the road, never mind listen to the constant stream of drivel emanating from the passenger seat. Having collapsed into bed at three o’clock this morning with bits of Scotch tape still stuck to her hair, she’d been woken up at six with a pounding hangover to the sound of workmen drilling up the road outside her window. From there the morning had gone from bad to worse, starting with cleaning up a big pile of dog shit in the kitchen (poor Boxford’s beef hadn’t agreed with him) and progressing to the hell on earth that is Harrods’ food hall on the Saturday before Christmas. After an hour and a half of standing in line, smiling politely while tourists pushed in front of her, trod on her foot, and engaged in piercingly loud conversations in their own various languages within millimeters of her battered eardrums, she finally emerged onto Walton Street weighed down with overpriced cheese, meats, and chocolate like a packhorse, only to find that her car had been ticketed and was in the process of being clamped—with poor Boxford howling in the back!

  Much screaming and a hefty bribe later she was on her way again, but on arrival at Cameron’s gorgeous townhouse by the river in Chelsea, she found him still asleep and not yet packed, curled up in bed at noon in his Conran silk pajamas like the Sultan of bloody Brunei.

  She’d been furious at the time, of course. But now, five hours into their (at least) ten-hour journey, she realized she preferred him asleep.

  Desperate to take advantage of the lull in conversation, she switched on the radio. Her head hurt too much for music, so she plumped for Radio 4, hoping that the soothing tones of Jenni Murray on Woman’s Hour might calm her battered spirits. They listened in silence to a repeat of last Sunday’s Thought for the Day—some sweet rabbi from Leeds talking about the importance of tolerance at Christmas and the close bond between Judaism and Christianity—and through a series of lighthearted, festive news items about drunk and disorderly carol singers and a parrot who could apparently recite “’Twas the night before Christmas.” But the mood in the overstuffed gray Volvo changed dramatically when a report came on about the American mine owner Brogan O’Donnell and the mysterious lung and throat cancers affecting workers in his Russian diamond mines.

  “It’s hard to describe the bleakness of Yakutia,” the Scottish reporter was saying, his feet crunching audibly across the Siberian ice. “This remote region of Russia produces over ninety-eight percent of all the country’s diamonds—that’s twenty percent of the world supply of gemstones. Everything here—the entire landscape—is white gray, and the cold is absolutely…paralyzing.” You could hear the biting wind whistle in the background and the poor man struggling to get his breath. “A lot of people are making fortunes here, many of them foreigners, like the American billionaire Brogan O’Donnell, chairman of O’Donnell Mining Corp. But for the miners, working in these utterly appalling conditions day after day…it’s a very different story. When you’re struck down with a serious illness in Yakutia, there’s precious little help on offer.”

  For the next several minutes, a series of O’Donnell workers, most of whom had asked to be allowed to remain anonymous, told their stories via an interpreter. In flat, dispassionate voices, they recounted their symptoms—all hauntingly similar—the shortness of breath, coughing spells, chest pains so acute they found themselves suddenly unable to stand, never mind work. They described a world in which lung cancer was merely a final insult, set against a lifetime of subsistence-level pay—miners in the former Soviet Union were some of the worst paid in an industry notorious for exploiting its workers, far worse off in real terms than their South African counterparts—abysmal mine safety records, a total lack of health care, education, even basic sanitation facilities in their living quarters. It was heartbreaking.

  “How can they be so bloody stoic about it?” said Scarlett furiously, swerving into the fast lane in her fury and only narrowly missing a Box truck, whose driver beeped loudly and shook his fist as she passed.

  “They’re used to it,” said Cameron blithely. “It’s a lot better than it used to be under the commies, and what’s their alternative? Planting turnips in the permafrost?”

  “Their alternative is to have greedy bloody employers like O’Donnell forced to comply with basic pay and safety regulations,” spluttered Scarlett, “as they would have to in any other industry. It’s a bloody disgrace! People wouldn’t buy those diamonds if they knew what was going on.”

  “Oh, come on,” Cameron laughed. He looked smugger than ever in his bespoke
tweed jacket, an incipient double chin quivering beneath his silk Turnbull & Asser cravat. “Even you can’t be so naive as to believe that.”

  “Those mines are causing cancer,” said Scarlett, ignoring him. “It’s O’Donnell Mining Corp’s fault those men are dying.”

  “That’s pure supposition,” said Cameron firmly. “I’ll bet you they all smoke, every last one of them.”

  But Scarlett shushed him and turned up the volume. Amazingly, Brogan O’Donnell himself was giving an interview. Famed for his hostility toward the media, he almost never spoke to the press. But suddenly the car was filled with his voice, a surprisingly gentle, measured baritone and not at all the strident, belligerent American drawl Scarlett had expected.

  “I’m not saying life in those mines isn’t tough,” he was telling the BBC reporter calmly. “Life in former Soviet Russia is tough for most people, and Yakutia is a place of incredible physical and environmental extremes. What I am saying is that O’Donnell Mining Corp provides far better working conditions than existed there previously. And that we are continuing to improve those conditions as best we can, introducing social programs, and yes, education and health provision are both areas we need to focus on. But you’re talking about a region with almost no existing infrastructure. It isn’t simply a case of throwing money at the problem.”

  “Bullshit!” Scarlett exploded, so loudly that poor Boxford woke with a start from a very pleasant dream he was having about chasing pheasants and started barking plaintively, unsure where he was or what on earth was going on. “Don’t make it sound complicated, you asshole. Pay those poor men enough to feed their families!”

  But even she had to admit Brogan sounded worryingly plausible, the fair-minded capitalist doing his best for his workers under extraordinary and challenging conditions.

  “The diamond business is good for Russia, and for this part of the country it’s a genuine lifeline. There is no evidence whatsoever to link isolated lung cancer cases to our mines. It’s not as if we’re digging for asbestos.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Cameron.

  “Most of the campaigners trying to shut us down have never even been to Yakutia,” continued Brogan. “They have no idea what a vacuum would be left if businesses like mine pulled out or were priced out of the market here by the unworkable labor laws and health insurance premiums they’re proposing.”

  “The guy sounds like a smart cookie,” said Cameron, knowing how much it would annoy his sister. “It’s easier to get all holier-than-thou about it, but the fact is these Russkies need him.”

  “Yes, they do,” Scarlett shot back, livid. “And Brogan O’Donnell exploits that need. Criminally, in my opinion. Those poor men are dying like flies, and listen to him. He doesn’t give a damn.”

  “Yes, well, that makes two of us,” yawned Cameron. Turning up the heat on Scarlett’s horrible Scandinavian car, he tipped his seat back and soon fell into a contented, dreamless sleep.

  Rising from the surrounding pine forest and sea mist like a vast, gray ship breaching a wave, Drumfernly was widely considered to be one of the most beautiful estates in northeast Scotland. Ten miles inland south of Inverness, the castle was a turreted granite masterpiece. Once used as a hiding place for Bonnie Prince Charlie, it had been in Drummond Murray hands since it was built in 1520, and a watertight entailment ensured that it would remain so for many generations to come. If Cameron had no sons, the estate would pass to his nearest male relative, however distant such a person proved to be. Once identified, he would have to agree to revert to the surname Drummond Murray and to have his children do the same. He would also be obliged to spend a minimum of six months of the year “in residence” at Drumfernly. If he balked at either of these conditions, the inheritance would pass to the next male in line, and so on and so on until a willing taker was found.

  So far, no one had balked, and it wasn’t hard to see why. With its long, winding drive lined with fir trees, interspersed with crumbling bridges spanning the crystal-clear waters of its salmon stream, its Rapunzel towers, and its three-foot-thick medieval wooden doors, Drumfernly was like the fairy-tale castle from a Brothers Grimm story. Every time she came home, Scarlett was struck again by its beauty and for a moment would wonder how on earth she could have so dreaded coming back here.

  But only for a moment.

  “Darlings!” Caroline Drummond Murray, dressed in a nightie, dressing gown, parka, and Wellington boots, crunched her way across the gravel to greet her children. It was nearly midnight, but the moon was full and bright and the stars out in full, so she had no need for the flashlight wedged like a baton in her coat pocket. “At last!”

  Ignoring Scarlett, she opened the passenger door and helped Cameron, who moments ago had been slumped back against the headrest, snoring loudly, out into the chill night air. “Poor thing, you must be shattered,” she said solicitously.

  “I am, actually.” He yawned, kissing her on both cheeks and allowing her to lead him into the warmth of the house. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of some late dinner, is there?”

  “Er, excuse me?” Having opened the back door for Boxford, who was now running around the lawn ecstatically, peeing like a garden sprinkler, Scarlett was busy heaving presents and suitcases out of the trunk. “Some help would be nice.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling,” said Caroline brusquely. “Cameron’s exhausted. Bring in what you need for tonight, and I’ll send Duncan out to help with the rest first thing in the morning.”

  Too tired to argue, Scarlett did as she was told, and after a brief but delicious kitchen supper of spiced lentils and rice—good old Mrs. Cullen had excelled herself again—collapsed on to her childhood bed fully clothed. Her bedroom was just as it had always been, as unchanging in reality as in her memory: a small, turreted octagon at the top of the east wing of the castle, with thick stone walls that felt cold to the touch even in hot summer and a high, wooden bed piled even higher with linen sheets and ancient, rough woolen blankets against the winter chill. A few dog-eared photographs of former family pets or long-since-sold ponies remained stubbornly tacked around the mullioned window, next to the smattering of Pony Club ribbons that had once been Scarlett’s greatest source of pride.

  What a long time ago that was, thought Scarlett. Before she knew it, she was deeply asleep.

  By the time she woke the next morning, bright winter sun was burning its way through the cracks in the shutters. Getting woozily to her feet, still wrapped in the scratchy woolen blanket—Christ, it was cold in here—she hopped gingerly across the floor and opened them fully, flooding the room with sunshine so dazzling it made her sneeze. Pulling on her discarded clothes from last night—faded blue jeans, Ugg boots, and a Gap wool sweater with a giant snowflake on the front—she headed straight downstairs for breakfast.

  “Hello, poppet.” Her father, Hugo, absorbed in the Sunday Telegraph sports section and a plate of congealing fried egg, kissed her absently on the cheek as she sat down. Short, fat, and bald, with a kindly, ruddy-cheeked face and a permanently bewildered expression, Hugo Drummond Murray looked absolutely nothing like his beautiful daughter—although he was responsible for both Scarlett and Cameron’s unique hazel eyes. Dressed permanently in an old pair of corduroy trousers and a hunting jacket so threadbare that it was now more darn than tweed, he looked to Scarlett like a cross between Tweedledum and Friar Tuck, with perhaps a hint of Prince Charles thrown in for good measure. How he had ever come to marry a pushy socialite like her mother was a mystery not just to her but to most of Scotland.

  “Hello, Pa.” She smiled. “Any bacon left?”

  “Not sure,” said Hugo vaguely. He was immersed in a double-page spread on fly-fishing in Slovenia. “I think your brother may have finished it earlier. There are plenty of eggs though. Shall I ring for Mrs. Cullen?”

  “No, don’t be silly,” said Scarlett. “I think I can manage to scramble myself a few eggs.”

  After a satisfying breakfast of eggs on toast
, washed down with two pint-sized mugs of hot, fresh coffee, she was starting to feel a bit more human. But the peace wasn’t destined to last long.

  “Ah, Scarlett dear, you’re up at last.” Caroline, looking immaculate and whip-thin as ever in a navy-blue Country Casuals twinset to match her eyes, swept regally into the kitchen. Once a beautiful woman, she was now what would most easily be described as handsome. Blessed with the same high cheekbones and clear complexion she had passed on to her daughter, she would have looked younger than her fifty-two years if it weren’t for her permanently erect posture and penchant for formal, tailored clothes, even when relaxing at home. Noticing Scarlett’s dirty jeans and unwashed hair, she wrinkled her perfect little snub nose disapprovingly. “Really, darling, you might have changed. You look like something the cat’s dragged in. Have you even washed?”

  “No,” said Scarlett patiently. “The water was arctic in my room, as usual, and there were no towels. As for changing, all my stuff’s still in the car. Cameron was too ‘shattered’ to help me unpack last night, remember?”

  “Do stop frowning like that, darling, it’s terribly aging,” said Caroline. She loved her daughter, contrary to what Scarlett might believe, but had never understood her, even as a toddler, which had inevitably made for a distant, combative relationship. Cameron was more like her: uncomplicatedly ambitious and a natural social snob. She favored him because he made it so easy for her to do so, while Scarlett…well, Scarlett had always been the cuckoo in the nest at Drumfernly. Her childhood compassion for injured birds or animals had morphed, during her teenage years, into a worldview that seemed positively communist to Caroline: not wanting to marry appropriately, if at all, fraternizing constantly with blacks and mine-workers and God knew who else, running off to London, dressing like an impoverished hippie.