by Susan Lewis
‘Mmm, yes I would,’ Rhiannon agreed. ‘And you know what’s really bothering me, what I would really like to know, is how he managed to find me? Or, come to that, why he was even looking, because believe me, if you’d seen that mosque, you’d know it wasn’t the kind of place someone just happened to be strolling past.’
‘So,’ Lizzy said, ‘what are you saying?’
‘What I’m saying’, Rhiannon answered, ‘is that I think I’m going to make it my business to find out who he is, if for no other reason than to thank him.’
Chapter 16
‘GO ON,’ MAX said, replacing his mobile phone on the dash while using his other hand to spin the car out on to the Pacific Coast Highway.
Galina’s lovely blue eyes sparkled with laughter as she recalled what she’d been telling him before the telephone had interrupted her. ‘OK. So there I was, doing my PR bit,’ she continued, folding out her sun-visor to block the glowing radiance of the sunset, ‘trying to get the punters to sign up for a make-over, when this voice suddenly booms out over the crowd, “y’all keeping the girl too thin now. Yessirree, she sho’ looks unnerfed to me.” She was a huge great mama, with a chest like a pillow and a smile that was so white you expected it to ping. She was fifty-seven, she told me, and her skin, which she made me touch, was, to quote her, softer than liquorice. She didn’t need no conspiracy to keep her looking young, she said. But I needed one of her special fruit cakes to fill me out, so I just had to run along now and get myself together to go back to her place for a tea fit for the Queen of England.’
Max was smiling. ‘Where was this?’ he said.
‘Some department store in Memphis,’ Galina answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Or maybe it was Baton Rouge. They’re all beginning to blend into one now.’
Max glanced at her and as their eyes met she started to laugh.
‘So, you went back to this old mammy’s place for cake?’ he said, lacing her fingers through his.
‘Yeah. Why not?’ Galina responded. ‘She was cute. I liked her and she was serious about me being too thin. I mean, she was genuinely concerned, I could see that, so I gave the Svengalis the slip and went off to do my own thing for a while.’
Laughing, Max glanced in the rear-view mirror and pressing his foot down hard, pulled out to overtake a convoy of U-Hauls as they climbed the hill towards Malibu.
Delighted with his laughter, Galina raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. Her lovely face was glowing, her short, dazzlingly blonde hair contrasted with her olive skin like a sunlit mist around a bronze. The fact that she had caused a full-scale panic in the Conspiracy camp with her two-and-a-half-hour truancy was a matter of great amusement to her, now that Max found it funny too. Dealing with all the frayed nerves and angry relief when she’d returned in one piece hadn’t been quite so much fun though. Even less fun was being torn off a strip by Maribeth Courtini, Primaire’s West Coast President, who had leapt on the first plane out of LA to join in the search. Galina could understand that Maribeth would be angry about the wasted journey, but had she not apologized for her outburst the instant it was over, Galina might very well have walked out on her contract, for she certainly did not appreciate being spoken to like that, especially not in front of other people. Fortunately, though, Maribeth had remembered, just in the nick of time, that Max Romanov had yet to be told how Galina had managed to slip her security net. From the outset his instructions had been explicit: when travelling away from Los Angeles Galina was to be watched twenty-four hours a day, either by a Primaire representative or a security guard, preferably both. On top of that, all her telephone calls were to be monitored, both those she made and those she received, and reported back to Max. Maribeth was one of the few people who appreciated why the security around Galina had to be so tight and had she been able to tell the others then this unfortunate lapse might never have occurred. As it was, someone had relaxed their vigil somewhere and for that heads would roll. It was the only way to make sure it never happened again.
Smiling contentedly to herself, Galina now turned to look out at the million-dollar luxury estates they were passing as they drove towards home. The best part of the entire escapade was that she’d lied through her teeth about where she’d been and no one, not even Max, had managed to find out. In fact, the whole thing had been so easy to pull off that she was tempted to try it again. She’d be careful not to push her luck, though, for the only reason Max hadn’t found out the truth this time, she was sure, was because he was so preoccupied with Marina. In fact Galina had been surprised when he’d come to collect her from Maribeth’s Brentwood condo himself just now, when he could easily have sent someone else; though, after three weeks away, she’d have been sorely disappointed if he hadn’t shown up himself. But she’d have understood, for Marina was becoming a very real concern to them both lately and despite Galina’s pleasure at seeing him walk in the door earlier she was sorry now that she had made him leave his daughter.
It seemed that Max was about to speak when his telephone rang again.
‘At least you know it’s not me,’ Galina quipped, wondering whether her constant calls when they were apart irritated him. If they did he never gave any sign of it, but Max was a master at disguising his feelings, as those who knew him well were only too aware. And even if he did mind, Galina knew she’d continue to call anyway, for just the idea of going more than a few hours without speaking to him was intolerable.
By the time he finished his call they were turning into the Romanov estate. The palm and maple lined avenue was dappled with sunlight and shade as the dark Mercedes saloon glided smoothly towards the house and Galina rested her head on Max’s shoulder.
‘Did someone bring some things over from my apartment?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Enough for a couple of nights, if you want to stay that long.’
Galina chuckled. ‘I’ll be staying for good soon,’ she reminded him, stretching out her left hand and admiring the discreet marquise-cut sapphire he had given her the day they had settled on a wedding date.
‘You can stay for good now,’ he told her, kissing the top of her head as he brought the car to a standstill in front of the house.
‘Do you want me to?’ she asked, turning to look up into his eyes.
‘You know I do.’
‘But nothing would change when we got married if I moved in with you now,’ she objected.
He shrugged. ‘We’ll do it whichever way you want,’ he said.
Her eyes remained on his for some time as she wondered what he was really thinking, if he really meant what he was saying. ‘Can we make love tonight?’ she said huskily.
Though it was fleeting, she felt his resistance as though it were a sharp slap in the face and drawing away she made to get out of the car.
‘Honey,’ he said, taking her arm and pulling her back. ‘Galina, listen to me,’ he said as she tried to snatch her arm away. ‘I’ve told Marina she can sleep with us tonight. She’s looking forward to seeing you. She’ll be waiting up for you.’
Galina’s head fell forward as she struggled to contain her resentment and remind herself that Marina was just a child. ‘Are you sure you’re not using her as an excuse?’ she said through her teeth.
‘Hey, come on,’ he protested. ‘She needs help. You know that.’
‘And I need you,’ she cried, turning to look at him and glaring fiercely into his eyes.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But right now we’ve got think of Marina.’
‘And when we get married? Will we still have to think about her then?’ She slapped a hand impatiently on the dash. ‘What the hell am I saying? Of course we’ll have to think about her then. But tell me, Max, is she going to be sleeping with us every night for the rest of our lives? Will we ever get any time for ourselves?’
‘Of course we will.’
Her eyes were still simmering with temper. ‘And when we get this time, will we make love?’ she challenged.
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sp; His eyes held resolutely to hers as deep down inside he fought the revulsion. ‘If we do, we do it my way,’ he told her quietly.
Galina’s jaw stiffened as her perfect nostrils flared and her blue eyes turned to ice. ‘You hate me, don’t you?’ she declared.
‘I love you, Galina. You know that.’
‘Then make love to me, god-damnit!’
Again he looked at her and allowed seconds to pass before he spoke. ‘Where did you go in Memphis?’ he asked softly.
Galina started, but recovered herself quickly. ‘I told you,’ she replied, ‘I went to have . . .’
‘Cut the bullshit,’ he interrupted. ‘I want to know where you were.’
‘Having tea with an old lady,’ she seethed. ‘If you don’t believe me . . .’
‘I want to believe you, but you tell so many god-damned lies . . .’
‘Well this time I’m not lying. I went to have tea with an old lady who gave me some cake. And I don’t know why you’re attacking me when you’re the one whose picture was in the paper going into some restaurant in Brooklyn with Luigi Avellino who everyone knows is a mobster. So maybe you’d like to explain that?’
To her surprise, after a moment’s hostile silence, he started to laugh. ‘OK, you want to know, I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘I’m considering getting into the prostitution racket and I thought Avellino could give me some pointers.’
Galina’s face was tight with fury, but as he finished her mouth started to tremble with laughter. ‘You’re a terrible liar,’ she told him, knowing that the Mafia’s control of magazine distribution meant that he frequently did business with them.
‘Only when I want to be,’ he responded. ‘So, are you going to come inside or are we going to sit here all night?’
‘Where’re the children?’ she asked.
‘Waiting for you in the den. Marina’s put all your cuttings in a book and the TV ads on to one tape. She’s dying to show you.’
Galina’s face softened. ‘Did she do all that for me?’ she said.
‘Sure she did. She loves you, honey. We all do. You’ve just got to learn to love yourself.’
‘I know,’ she responded, her eyes moving sightlessly towards the house. ‘Do you think I ever will?’ she asked solemnly. ‘I mean, after everything I’ve done.’ Then without waiting for him to answer she said, ‘At least I don’t have murder on my conscience; I don’t think I could live with that.’
Max’s face was inscrutable as he watched her for a while, then said, ‘We have to make up our minds whether we’re going to hold the ceremony in the house or the garden.’
Galina’s dazzling eyes came up to his. ‘I’ll marry you anywhere,’ she said hoarsely, ‘just so long as I marry you.’
Ula, Max’s personal assistant, pushed the print key on her computer, shot up from her desk and grabbed the phone. Next to her, at his own desk, Maurice Remmick, Max’s lawyer, was engaged in a rapid exchange with the New York broker about an article Susan Posner – The Poisoner – had published in that morning’s LA Times alleging that Max had been involved in some kind of insider trading when he’d purchased a whole whack of Primaire stock just prior to the announcement of Galina’s contract. Ellis Zamoyski, Max’s finance director and Ula’s live-in lover, was engrossed in the preparation of a new take-over bid that Max was going to present to the board the following week.
They were, all three of them, in the spacious, west-facing study of Max’s Malibu home, where their own desks were grouped around Max’s, giving only Ellis a straight-on view of the ocean. The room was a basic rectangle, with cool, whitewashed walls, a neutral ceramic floor and a low, flat ceiling. On the walls was an impressive collection of black lacquer-framed photographs, mostly of Stephen Richardson’s metaphysical connections between disparate objects. The few pieces of occasional furniture scattered about the room were each of a fascinating and unique design, like the post-modernist pyramid table in bleached eucalyptus wood and airbrushed glass, or the priceless figurative sculptures imported from Spain, or the baffling cubist chairs that Max’s dealer had picked up at a Paris auction. The vast sliding windows on the west side of the room led out on to a marble-tiled courtyard and on the east to sloping acres of diligently tended garden. The island of four desks just off-centre of the room, where the latest computer technology jostled for supremacy over landline telephones and Ula’s precious Rolodex, was the very hub of Romanov Enterprises; those who presently occupied it were the absolute mainstay of Max Romanov’s life.
Ula paused for a moment, allowing herself to feel the welcome touch of a sea breeze as it drifted languidly across the room. Her short, inky black hair was finger-combed back from her face and the colour in her cheeks was making her look as fraught as she was feeling. It was the middle of the day, it was hot, the air-con had packed up an hour ago and her head was aching fit to burst. On top of the day’s normal workload, which was considerable, calls were coming in from all over, requesting confirmation of the rumours that Max and Galina were getting married. Thousands upon thousands of dollars were being offered by newspapers and TV for exclusives on the wedding, while caterers, florists, photographers, dressmakers, printers, musicians, entertainers, hoteliers, clairvoyants, even the clergy, were all offering their services gratuit just for the chance to be associated with the ‘wedding of the year’. Ula’s response was the same every time: she knew nothing about a wedding and hoped they all had a nice day.
Picking up the invitation list that had just rolled off the printer, she gave it a quick look over, then tucking it into her wedding file she sent the electronic version to Max’s E-mail address. Right now he was in Washington attending a publishers’ convention; later today he was taking the company jet to Baltimore where Galina was shooting a commercial. Tomorrow the two of them would fly back to LA, then the countdown would begin.
Ula glanced at her calendar. Eleven days to go. All fifty of the invitations had now been accepted, though Rhiannon, Galina’s friend, had yet to confirm that she could fly over from London four days earlier than originally planned – in other words a full week before the wedding. Quickly calculating the time difference between LA and London, Ula spun her Rolodex, then punched Rhiannon’s number into the phone. After three rings the answering machine picked up. Ula left a message asking Rhiannon to get back to her about the change of flight so she could make arrangements to have her collected from the airport. Also, Galina was wondering whether Rhiannon would like to stay at the house in Malibu or at Galina’s apartment in Marina del Rey. Maybe Rhiannon would like to get back to her, Ula, about that too, so she could get things set up.
After replacing the receiver, Ula keyed in her E-mail and found a message from Lauren, Max’s PA in New York. Someone from People magazine had managed to obtain the exact time and date of the wedding. Did Ula think Max would like to make a change?
No, Ula didn’t think so, but she’d check with Max first.
‘It was bound to get out,’ Maurice said, when Ula told him. ‘And you know as well as I do that even if Max wanted to make a change Galina would never stand for it. She called earlier, by the way, wanting to know what time Max was getting into Baltimore tonight.’
‘Yeah, she called me too,’ Ellis said, glancing up from his monitor. ‘Max got his phone turned off or something?’
‘He’s at a convention,’ Ula reminded him.
‘Oh, sure,’ Ellis said, returning to his screen. ‘What news on the insider trading?’ he asked Maurice.
‘Don Pink wants to issue a statement first thing tomorrow,’ Maurice replied, referring to Max’s New York broker. ‘He’s getting one drawn up now for Max’s approval. My guess is Max’ll take a run past it. They can’t prove anything and you know how he feels about getting involved in anything that’ll put his name in lights.’
‘Oh shit, that reminds me,’ Ellis said, making quantum leaps in thought connection, ‘Galina’s friend, Rhiannon, called first thing. She’s arriving Saturday. I wrote the details down so
mewhere,’ he added, searching the paperwork on his desk.
‘I just left a message on her machine asking for this,’ Ula said, snatching the Post-It out of his hand. ‘Did you stop by the vet’s this morning, like I asked?’
‘Sure I did,’ Ellis responded, obviously pleased to have got something right.
‘So?’ Ula prompted. ‘How’s the cat?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Ellis said. ‘Yeah, he’s doing fine. We can pick him up on our way back through. He said to say he mee-owses you,’ he added with a wink at Maurice.
‘God, you’re so anal sometimes,’ Ula responded. ‘Don’t you think he’s anal, Maurice?’
‘Count me out of this one,’ Maurice said, reaching for his phone. Ula’s snipes at Ellis were what passed as domestic harmony between those two and like all their other friends, Maurice knew better than to get involved. ‘Maurice E. Remmick,’ he said into the phone as Mrs Clay, the children’s nanny, walked in with a loaded tray.
‘E?’ Ula said, looking at Ellis.
Ellis shrugged and was about to turn his attention to lunch when he heard Maurice say: ‘Sure. How you doing, Denton? Long time no hear.’
‘Is that Denton Fairfax? From Jackson?’ Ellis butted in. ‘Tell him I’m still waiting on those figures he promised. He should have had them here . . .’
Maurice held up his hand for Ellis to stop. ‘No, there’s just me, Ellis and Ula,’ he said. ‘Max is in Washington, but I can always reach him if it’s urgent.’
‘Yeah, I’d say it’s urgent,’ Fairfax responded. He was the CEO for the Tennessee, Alabama and Louisiana based publications of Romanov Enterprises. ‘I got some pictures here,’ he said, ‘and I’m telling you now, they ain’t the kind of pictures you’re going to be happy to see. You know Brian Sealon?’
‘The editor of Southern Belle?’ Maurice replied, referring to one of the three adult magazines that was owned by Romanov.
‘That’s him,’ Fairfax responded. ‘Good guy. Knows what he’s doing. The pictures were delivered to him this morning and he brought them straight to me. So, is there something going on over there that you guys aren’t telling the cops about?’
