by Kait Jagger
‘It’s only temporary, a few weeks, a month at most I hope,’ the Marchioness said.
‘But— But, Mr Wellstone?’ Luna protested. ‘You’d let him take charge at Arborage?’
‘Only temporarily. He’ll have no real control, I promise you. Luna,’ Lady Wellstone clutched Luna’s hand to the point of pain, bending her head close to hers, looking her straight in the eye, ‘I need him away from here. Away from John. I need him distracted, neutralised. I can’t explain all the reasons for this, but I’m asking you to trust me. Distract him. Hold his hand, do whatever it takes to keep him happy. Can you do this for me? Can you, my dear?’
Hold his hand, she’d said. This had turned out to be a massive understatement of the level of nannying Florian had needed, nay demanded, in the interim. It wasn’t just the scheduling and rescheduling, the complete contempt he’d shown for the value of other people’s time. It was all the pointless tasks he piled upon her, just because he could. Get him a cup of coffee. No, when she’d brought it, not that kind of coffee, an espresso. Tell Caitlin to move a meeting with two local reporters out of the conference room because he needed it at the same time. Oh, wait, he didn’t need it after all.
And now this, she thought as she trailed behind him through the forest, carrying his game bag. There was no earthly reason for her to be there, other than Florian’s desire to humiliate her at every turn.
Keep him happy, the Marchioness had said. And Luna had tried her best to do so, swallowing her pride, hiding her distaste, suppressing her shudders every time Florian found an excuse to brush up against her, or stand a little too close to her, his shiny red face gleaming, tiny eyes darting furtively. The more often he cosied up to her, the more convinced she became that he wasn’t even attracted to her – he did it purely for the reaction he got out of her. The unique combination of loathing and fear she couldn’t quite hide, no matter how hard she tried.
Florian’s Labrador, a lovely dog who in Luna’s opinion deserved a much better owner, bounded ahead of them through the woods, eager to get to work. After the cold snap at Christmas the weather had gotten somewhat warmer, but Luna was still chilled to the bone as they approached Paul Walker’s shack, which looked rather sad and abandoned under the grey, misty skies. Until Walker himself emerged from behind it, wearing his usual wax jacket and flat cap.
‘Fox,’ he said in greeting.
‘Morning, Paul,’ Florian said, clapping Paul on the back. Waiting for Luna’s inevitable response. His Labrador, meanwhile, who really didn’t know how to pick his friends, was practically wagging his tail off at the sight of his master’s lackey.
‘Mr Wellstone,’ Luna said. ‘This man has been dismissed from Arborage’s employ. You can’t—’
‘Really, Luna? I think I can. Paul is here on a purely social basis, as a…hunting companion.’ Paul looked between the two of them; nervously, Luna thought.
She pressed on, ‘The Marchioness made it quite clear that he isn’t allowed to be here on any basis.’
‘Well, why don’t you run on back to the office and phone her in intensive care, see what she has to say about it. I’m sure she won’t mind you bothering her.’ Florian smiled his most ferret-like smile and turned to Paul. ‘Let’s go.’ Emboldened by Florian’s belittling tone, Paul Walker tipped his cap at Luna in salute and the two men walked away into the woods.
He’d brought her out here just for this, Luna realised. To make her see how completely vanquished she was. She prayed then. For the Marquess to get better. For the Marchioness to rethink her ill-considered decision to surrender Arborage and her PA to Florian’s tender mercies. For Stefan to ring her, hear the anxiety in her voice and say, ‘What’s wrong, flicka? Tell me what’s wrong.’
None of her prayers were answered that week.
Not that she was the only one who was suffering, of course. The entire staff appeared to be on edge, especially those who, like Luna, were on Florian’s shit list. The catering staff came in for a particularly hard time, Marta having known Florian for three decades, during which time they had fostered a powerful mutual dislike. Luna had tried to ask her about it once and Marta had simply muttered, ‘You just stay clear of him, you hear? Stay well clear.’
And then there was Roland. In a cruel parody of her first full day with Stefan here in the house, Florian decided he wanted to take one of Roland’s tours, insisting that Luna come with him to take notes, which he forced her to read aloud when he met with the Tours manager later. Some ‘helpful tips’ for changes he could make to his narrative, ‘to better reflect the Wellstone family’s rich history,’ Florian had said.
Luna and Roland had stood together afterwards in the hallway outside the tours office as Florian chatted with some of the volunteers – a couple of high school students, female of course. Roland was watching like a hawk, a grim set to his mouth.
‘So this is the future, eh?’ he said, nodding slightly at Florian. ‘I’d hoped I would have a longer career here at Arborage. There’s so much I still wanted to do.’
‘Roland, please, don’t talk that way. The Marquess is going to get better and things are going to go back to normal.’
‘Oh, I think we’ve seen the last of “normal” around here. More’s the pity.’
And so January wore on. She heard from the Marchioness occasionally – the Marquess was improving, albeit slowly. When questioned about Florian, Luna was careful to say that things were under control, that she was doing her level best to keep him happy.
‘Thank you, Luna. I knew I could count on you,’ came the Marchioness’s voice down the phone. And that kept her going. That and the fact that Stefan Lundgren loved her. Those two things became her mantra: Her Ladyship is counting on me. And Stefan loves me. Her Ladyship is counting on me. And Stefan loves me.
Florian didn’t confine his demands on Luna to matters in and around the house, frequently requiring her to join him on jaunts to London or further afield. He even insisted on her coming along with him to the family’s hunting lodge in Scotland at the end of the month. Luna had never been there before and under other circumstances would have been delighted to spend time at the lodge, which dated from the Victorian period and was one of the first houses in the country to be electrified.
But all the joy was sucked out of the visit by her companion and his guests, a Russian businessman named Viktor and his entourage.
‘This is quite an important thing for me. And for Arborage, of course,’ Florian had informed her as they travelled by executive car from Glasgow Airport to Loch Lomond. ‘Viktor is a particular friend of mine and he could bring a lot of hunting business to the estate. So please try your best to be charming, Luna. I’m sure a human heart beats somewhere underneath all that ice…’
Luna chose not to respond to this, compressing her lips and looking out of the car window at the light and shadows cast by clouds passing over the stunning Highland scenery they were passing through.
Their Scottish estate manager Gus Walsh met them at the house, a short, balding man of around forty-five whose diminutive stature belied his larger than life character – after Roland, Gus was the member of Lady Wellstone’s management team Luna trusted the most. As Luna and Florian entered the large timbered front hallway decorated with stag heads, rifles and other hunting accoutrements, Gus indicated that Florian’s guests had already arrived.
‘They’re making themselves at home in the snooker room,’ he said, casting a dubious glance at Luna as Florian rushed off to join them. ‘I don’t like this lot,’ he said quietly once Florian was out of earshot, his Scottish burr and no nonsense manner reassuring Luna, who, like him, didn’t like the sound of raucous, drunken laughter emanating from the snooker room. ‘Do you want me to hang about tonight, just to keep an eye on things?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Gus, I don’t want to spoil your evening—’ Luna began.
‘Nae bother, lass, I’ll stick around,’ he nodded. Luna smiled gratefully at him, relieved not to be on her own at the lodg
e.
Viktor Putinov turned out to be not so much a friend of Florian’s as a lender, Luna discovered. To her surprise, Florian made a point of introducing her to the Russian, a large, pale man with skin so translucent and eyelashes so sparse he reminded her of an albino salamander she’d seen once on a school trip to the aquarium. Viktor had apparently made his fortune in oil and the rest of his party of eight was split evenly between Russian associates of his and an assortment of scantily clad French ‘girlfriends’.
‘This is Luna, my persssonal assssistant,’ Florian said, putting his arm around her waist. Luna was on the verge of ramming her elbow into his side and kneeing him in the groin at his presumption, but she managed to paste a smile on her face as she extended her hand to the Russian.
‘You must be sure to tell me if you or your friends require anything while you are here, Mr Putinov,’ she said coolly.
‘She is very English, this one,’ Viktor said, completely ignoring her hand and addressing himself to Florian. This pretty much set the tone for her interactions with him and his party that evening. Viktor clearly thought she was Florian’s little bit of skirt and not worthy of his attention. His companions, particularly the women, took their cue from Viktor and blanked Luna, which was fine with her. What they didn’t know was that she spoke French, and could understand the occasional side conversations they were having when Florian wasn’t commanding the floor like a dance hall comedian.
It became clear that Viktor didn’t think much of Florian, and that Florian’s debts to him led the Russian to believe he was justified in making himself at home not just in the lodge but in Arborage itself, which he had plans to visit within the month. Luna shuddered at the thought of it, and knew she would have to inform the Marchioness. Viktor appeared to have rather more respect for Gus, who had taken him deer stalking that morning, and as billiards progressed into pre-dinner drinks in the snug, Viktor invited Gus to join them, to Florian’s evident annoyance.
Luna meanwhile, assuming that she wasn’t needed for this portion of the evening, approached Florian to ask to be excused. Only for him to hand her his empty cut-glass tumbler.
‘Fetch me a whiskey, like a good girl,’ he said.
‘And me,’ said the wraith-thin Parisian prostitute, for that was clearly what these women were, standing next to him. She held out her glass to Luna impatiently.
‘Yes,’ Florian announced. ‘Luna will come around and freshen your drinks for you, and shortly we’ll adjourn to the dining room for our meal.’ Luna hesitated, wanting nothing more than to slap Florian in his florid face and unleash a string of French invectives on the woman.
And then she did as she was told.
After she’d finished her bartending duties, Gus abruptly pulled her aside.
‘What the hell is going on, Luna? Why does he think he can treat you this way and why are you letting him? I’ve got catering staff waiting in the dining room and I’d have sorted out a bartender too if he’d asked. The Marchioness—’
‘—is the one who’s asked me to do this for Mr Wellstone, Gus. It’s fine,’ Luna said tightly.
And so the evening continued. Florian told her to stay for dinner, so she did. He told her to stay for after dinner drinks, so she did. Gus left at just after midnight, but not before firmly instructing her to ring his mobile if she needed him.
Finally at 1.30 in the morning, as she sat in a chair near the door of the study, nursing a glass of ginger ale, Florian turned towards her from the table where he was playing poker with Viktor and two of his associates. Snapping his fingers, he gestured for her to approach. Not content with her merely coming and standing behind him, he waited until she’d bent down close to him to whisper, ‘You can go.’
She straightened and began to walk away, missing some comment Florian made that caused Viktor to laugh loudly. She could imagine what it might be, and her blood boiled at the thought that he was portraying her as his sex partner. As she exited the room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the ornate mirror that hung just next to the door, where the prostitute wraith was reapplying her lipstick. The prostitute’s eyes met hers in the reflection and she lifted an eyebrow as if to say, ‘The things we women must do to make a living, eh?’
And then Luna knew shame. That she had allowed herself to get into this situation. That she had followed the Marchioness’s instructions to the letter when surely, surely, her employer couldn’t have meant for her to debase herself this way. She locked her door when she got up to her room on the second floor and lay down on the bed fully clothed, simultaneously exhausted and jittery. How much longer was this going to go on? How much more degradation could she bear?
Her mobile rang and her heart leapt with joy to see Stefan’s name on the caller ID.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Did I wake you, flicka?’
Luna felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes at the sound of his voice, his familiar, reasonable, lovely voice. She swallowed them and replied, ‘No, no. I’m at the lodge in Scotland. I’ve been, uh, helping out here with a meeting Florian is having, whilst the Marchioness is at the hospital with the Marquess.’
‘Really. And has my cousin had you out hunting all day?’
And if it pained Luna to find him unconcerned that she was at Florian’s beck and call, she tried to swallow that too. ‘No, serving him drinks more like,’ she joked, her throat aching suddenly.
‘I’m coming back to London at the end of the week, just for a night, and then I have to go to Stockholm.’
She heard him sigh and she asked, ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m good, yes.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
‘It’s been a difficult few weeks, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.’
‘Why don’t you tell me now? I’m told I’m a very good listener,’ she smiled into her mobile.
There was a brief silence on the line, as if he was weighing up what to tell her, but then he said, ‘I confess, it is not your listening skills I am missing the most right now…’
They talked for another ten minutes and she felt better, lighter after the call ended. She reminded herself of her mantra. Her Ladyship is counting on me. And Stefan loves me.
Chapter Thirty–Four
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that when Luna told Florian she hoped to leave the office promptly at five o’clock on Friday, he came up with an urgent task for her at 4.55. He needed dinner reservations for himself and Viktor, who had travelled back together from Scotland that morning. Plus their entourage.
‘The Ivy, I think. Yes, the Ivy,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. But when it transpired that they could only be seated there at 9.30, he changed his mind. ‘Try Quaglino’s.’ And so it went for another hour, him continually finding fault with his own choices. He seemed to sense her eagerness to escape and take pleasure from delaying her.
Finally, when she’d dotted every i and crossed every last t, she walked into the Marchioness’s office and asked if it was alright for her to leave.
‘Sssit down a moment, Luna,’ he said, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. Resisting the urge to scream with frustration, Luna sat. Florian, who was leaning back in his chair – or rather, Lady Wellstone’s chair, which Luna intended to have thoroughly fumigated before her return – drummed his fingertips on his knees for a moment, taking his sweet time.
‘I have to say,’ he said eventually, ‘that when Augusta asked for my help running Arborage during thisss…difficult time, I came into it with low expectations of you.’
Luna clamped her jaw shut and said nothing.
‘But you’ve surprised me with your willingnesss to take instruction and curb your wayward tendensssies.’ Florian rotated the Marchioness’s chair to and fro speculatively. ‘You’ve fulfilled my needs quite adequately, which is more than I can say for others in the estate’s employ…’ He sat forward and the chair snapped to attention with a judder. He rose and came around the desk t
o stand behind Luna. She could feel him hovering, and taste his awful cologne in her mouth.
‘I wanted you to know that your efforts are appreciated—’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t finished,’ he said sharply, then resumed in a more mellifluous tone, ‘I wanted you to know that your efforts are appreciated, and that I would ssseriously consider an application from you to continue in your current capacity, when the time comes.’
When your brother’s dead, you mean, she thought acridly. It was too much. She stood up in a rush, desperate now to get away from him. But he was between her and the door.
‘Obviously, some things would have to change. Augusta has allowed you certain liberties, given you responsibility beyond your station, but if you were willing to submit yourself to my tutelage…’
What the— What the fuck? thought Luna. His tiny dark eyes were shining and, God save her, there was a trace of perspiration on his upper lip. He was getting off on this!
Feeling nauseous, Luna stumbled, ‘I— well, I do have to go now,’ feinting slightly to the right before sliding to the left, past him and out of the door.
‘Think about it, little ice princesss,’ he called after her. And then she heard him laughing.
The sound of his laughter haunted her all the way to Stefan’s apartment, where she arrived just before eight to find a note from him on the coffee table reading, ‘Gone running. Back soon.’ Feeling deflated, she helped herself to a bottle of his Swedish water from the fridge, sat down on the sofa and opened her laptop. She had work to do, work she’d been putting off for too long.
The lift doors opened half an hour later to reveal Stefan, panting and dripping with sweat. Luna stood and went to hug him, but he held her at arm’s length, saying, ‘Let me shower first. I’ll be quick,’ planting a swift kiss on her lips and heading for his bedroom.
She heard the sound of water running and returned to her laptop, becoming so engrossed that she jumped when Stefan’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. Tilting her head back to smile at him, she said, ‘You’re clean.’
