Secrets After Dark

by Sadie Matthews

  ‘He’ll be back before you know it,’ Laura said, squeezing my hand. ‘It won’t be so hard now you’re in touch. I’m so pleased, Beth. It looks like fate took a hand in getting you two back where you’re supposed to be.’

  I nodded, happy. But something whispered through my mind, something I didn’t want to confide in Laura. I remembered the gentle ridges along the smooth skin of Dominic’s back. Then I tried to forget them.

  I am staying in the spare room at Mark’s house this evening, so that I can get ready for the dinner with Dubrovski and not have to worry about going home late tonight when it’s over. ‘We won’t be dressing up – not in black tie at least – but it will be smart,’ Mark had said, so I went shopping along the King’s Road in my lunch hour and bought a knee-length dress in red crêpe de Chine with a flattering neckline just low enough to be sexy and capped sleeves. The colour is a little bolder than I would usually choose but the elegant shape makes it stylish rather than attention seeking. In front of the mirror in Mark’s spare room I carefully pin my fair hair up into a tousled style that reveals my neck and the pearls in my ears, and paint my lips scarlet to match my dress. There, I think, looking at myself appraisingly. That looks sophisticated. I hope. My blue-grey eyes look as catlike as I can make them with swoops of dark kohl and plenty of mascara but not quite as alluring as Anna Poliakov’s slanted green ones. And, I reflect, looking at my heartshaped face, I’ll never have cheekbones like hers. But I would love to be able to capture some of her style, so sexy and stylish and completely grown up. Maybe I’ve come a little close to it tonight.

  Mark’s guest bedroom is beautiful, as I might have imagined. The walls are papered in a pretty faded floral, and the curtains and lavish pelmets are in the same pattern, as is a fat little button-backed sofa sitting under the window. A four-poster bed is upholstered in the same floral fabric, but its white embroidered linen stops the effect from being too much. The room just looks perfectly put together and very cosy, with its antique fireplace, thick pile carpet, old prints on the walls and delicate polished furniture.

  I could get used to living like this. Sometimes it’s hard to remember, in this new life of mine, that Belgravia houses and private planes to France are far outside most people’s experience. I’m just lucky to have the chance to know it a little. One day it will all be over and I’ll go back to normal. Or... a picture floats into my mind. It is Dominic and me, living in a beautiful little flat somewhere glamorous, enjoying our lives together, pleasing ourselves, with all the hours we could want to make love without stopping.

  I laugh at myself. Girlish, romantic dreams. I’ll be writing out my first name with his surname soon, just to see what it looks like. But still... perhaps we will have a future together. I want to hug myself at the thought.

  I catch sight of the time. I’ve got to hurry. Dubrovski is due in fifteen minutes. I give myself a last look in the mirror and go downstairs to join Mark.

  We are in the drawing room, Mark pointing out his newest acquisitions and explaining their provenance, when the doorbell rings precisely on time and a moment later, Dubrovski is shown in.

  ‘Andrei, good evening, how are you?’ Mark approaches him with a beaming smile and his hand held out. You’d never know he’d been furious with his boss earlier in the day.

  ‘Fine.’ Dubrovski shakes his hand but he is already staring at me. ‘Here is your friend. Your...’

  ‘Beth,’ puts in Mark.

  ‘Beth,’ echoes Dubrovski, as I step forward to shake his hand. He looks me up and down with one swift glance. ‘Of course. As if I could forget.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to see you again, sir,’ I say, smiling and hoping I seem professional.

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘Please. Call me Andrei.’

  ‘Oh. Yes... very well... Andrei.’ I flush slightly. I’d decided to make sure it was all very proper and work-like tonight and already he has scuppered that by telling me to call him by his first name. But I can hardly ignore such a firm request. Since returning from France, I’ve forgotten how powerful a presence he is. As soon as he is in the same room, a core of energy and determination, I know I can’t resist his will. If it’s Andrei he wants, then Andrei he will be.

  Mark offers him a drink and then the two of them chat easily as they examine the art on the walls. At least, Mark chats; Dubrovski listens with the occasional grunt or barked question. I follow behind them, lingering discreetly nearby, listening and appearing fascinated, sipping on my gin and tonic. To my surprise, whenever Mark shows him a new picture, Dubrovski turns to me and says, ‘And you? What do you think of it?’ Then, as I say a few words that I hope are well chosen and accurate, he listens, nodding. ‘Yes, yes,’ he says when I’ve finished, and then lets Mark move him along to the next painting or print or piece of sculpture.

  Mark’s maid Gianna announces that dinner is served, and we go through into the dining room, another stunning room painted a delicate grey and hung with eighteenth-century portraits in carved gilded frames: beautiful aristocratic women in flowing gowns of scarlet velvet or gold satin gaze down at us, their flawless skins glowing, ringlets falling over shoulders, almond-shaped eyes impassive. Silver and ivory damask curtains hang at the windows, and the round mahogany dining table is set with stiff ivory linen, silver cutlery and etched antique glasses. Candles burn gently in silver candelabra, endowing everything with gauzy softness.

  Over the first course of seared scallops, Mark and Andrei talk about the painting. I listen, hearing the almost imperceptible anxiety in Mark’s voice as he speaks. He’s in a difficult position: the painting is bought now, and if it turns out to be a fake, Andrei could well forget that it was he who overrode Mark’s objections and made him buy it. But if he tells a straight untruth, he is compromising himself and his professional integrity. I can tell he is playing for time, refusing to give a categorical yes but sounding comforting and reassuring.

  Let’s just hope that it turns out to be the real deal. I can’t help wishing that they could change the subject and talk about when this huge business project is going to be completed and when Dominic will be returning to London, but there’s no way of asking without it sounding suspicious.

  The starter has been cleared away and the main course of Dover sole in lemon butter served, when Andrei suddenly looks directly at me.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘did you enjoy your trip to the monastery?’

  I’m a little disconcerted to be drawn so abruptly into the conversation. ‘Yes,’ I say brightly. ‘It was fascinating.’

  ‘You certainly seemed to come alive there,’ he says, staring hard at me. All through the meal I’ve looked up to find those blue eyes fixed on me but now I feel almost pinned to the spot by his arresting gaze. ‘Did something happen to you?’

  I flush. My cheeks grow hot. I only hope they’re not as red as my dress. ‘No... no, of course not.’

  ‘It must have been the mountain air then,’ he says in that harsh voice of his. ‘Because you seemed quite transformed after our night there.’

  ‘It was a very inspiring place,’ I reply, and anger flares up in me. What right does he have to question me? What does my private life have to do with him anyway? ‘The painting was magnificent. It moved me.’

  ‘I’m glad you thought so.’ He toys with a piece of fish and then puts down his fork. ‘Because I would like you – and you, Mark,’ he looks over at my employer, ‘to do me a favour. I liked the way you responded to the painting and what you said about it, and I have it in mind for you to take on a very particular task for me – if Mark can do without you. My London apartment has recently been redesigned and I want my current collection of artwork sorted through to see if it matches the look, for suitable new works to be acquired that will enhance the décor, and to come up with a layout for them all to be hung in the apartment.’ He looks over at Mark. ‘Normally I would ask you, Mark, but I’m sure you have plenty of other calls on your time, and I want this done quickly and thoroughly. I don’t env
isage it would take more than a few weeks. Mark, I’m sure you can spare Beth for that long.’ He looks idly at Mark, as though his agreement is pretty much a given. His gaze flicks back to me. ‘I’ll pay you well of course, certainly as well as Mark does. It will be an interesting experience for you.’

  I’m speechless. I look over at Mark. It sounds like an interesting opportunity – but Mark is my boss so it’s up to him. Besides, do I want to work exclusively for Andrei Dubrovski, even for a few weeks? I don’t know.

  ‘Oh, Andrei, I’m not sure,’ Mark says. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of people who can help you out, but I’ve only got one Beth.’

  ‘You can spare her for a short while, can’t you? She won’t be away for long. Besides, she’ll probably need your help and advice as she goes along – think of it as an extension of what you both do for me already.’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ Mark says slowly, then looks over at me. ‘Beth, it’s up to you. I’m sure it would be an excellent experience.’

  A sudden thought floats into my mind. I’ll be closer to Dominic. I’ll know where he is and when. I might even see him more often. And I like the idea of spreading my wings a little and trying out my own taste. It will be a challenge.

  I look back at Mark. ‘If you’re sure that you don’t mind, Mark...’

  He smiles at me. ‘I don’t mind at all. I’d love to do it myself, but Andrei’s right, I’d find the time needed a little difficult to spare at the moment.’

  Dubrovski’s blue gaze is glittering at me from across the table as I think it over. He’s waiting for me to decide – and I know he doesn’t like waiting.

  ‘Andrei, I’d be very happy to take on the job,’ I say. The voice in my head is getting louder and firmer: this is the way to reconnect with Dominic. Another small voice says: but why does Dubrovski want you so badly? You’re playing with fire, aren’t you? I resolutely ignore it. ‘And it’s just for a few weeks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ For only the second time since I’ve known him, a smile spreads over Dubrovski’s face. The change in it is astonishing. He should smile more often. ‘You can trust me. And if you want to leave for any reason...’ he spreads his hands out on the table, palms up, ‘...all you have to do is ask.’

  Then he sits back in his chair, his face half lost in shadow, and seems satisfied. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘That is decided. You can start in the morning.’

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Mark and I talk about it over breakfast, and he seems to think it is, overall, a good thing.

  ‘Andrei might seem a rather daunting character at times,’ he says, ‘but I’m sure he’ll look after you well. And opportunities like this don’t come along that often. Don’t forget you can always call on me if you feel out of your depth. I can help you – that’s what Andrei pays me for, after all.’

  I like the idea that Mark is there as a back-up if I have any queries. I’ve learned a lot from working with him and seeing how he uses his taste and eye to show art off to its best advantage, enhancing a room in every way, but I’m not quite the expert he is yet. ‘This way I get to test out the high wire with a safety net,’ I say, smiling. ‘But I won’t call on you until I absolutely have to.’

  ‘At least you’re starting towards the end of the week,’ Mark says. ‘You’ll have the weekend to recover and decide if you’re really enjoying it or not.’

  When breakfast is finished, Mark wishes me luck and reminds me to let him know how I get on. Outside his house, I hail a taxi and tell the driver the address that Mark has given me. ‘Albany, Piccadilly, please.’

  It sounds strange to me but the driver appears to understand it, and we set off. As we go, I check my phone for a message from Dominic. The previous evening, before I went to sleep, I texted him:

  Guess what? I’m going to be working for your boss! Just for a few weeks. Tell me when you’re coming back or call me and I’ll give you the lowdown. B x

  I’ve been getting a sweet nightly message from Dominic in the week since we returned from Croatia but two nights ago, he said he was going off on another trip that would keep him busy and not to expect any contact for a few days. There’s been nothing since, and there’s no response now to my little announcement.

  You’d better not go AWOL again, Dominic. The thought makes me feel icy with fear but I banish it. It’ll be fine. He’ll be back soon.

  Within a quarter of an hour we are turning off the busy stretch of Piccadilly by the Royal Academy and into a courtyard in front of a large eighteenth-century house.

  ‘Here we are,’ says the driver, pulling to a halt. ‘Albany.’

  I look up at the large Georgian dark-brick building with huge sash windows. It is at least four storeys high and enormous. Is this Andrei’s house? It’s certainly grand enough but all this for one man? How much art will there be in a house this size? A timescale of a couple of weeks suddenly seems ambitious. I get out, pay the driver, and go up the stone steps to the front door, which stands open. At once I see it can’t possibly be one house, as beyond the door a wide entrance hall leads out the back of the building and into a walkway. As I come in, a man in a dark grey coat trimmed with gold braid steps out of a small room to my right.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ he asks in a friendly manner.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Dubrovski,’ I say.

  ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘Beth Villiers.’

  He goes back into his office to consult a piece of paper and then says, ‘Ah yes. He’s expecting you. This way, please.’

  We walk through the tiled hallway, passing polished wooden panels, large mirrors and marble busts, one engraved ‘Lord Byron’. A marble plaque proclaims the titles of famous men who have lived here.

  ‘Is this a block of flats?’ I ask, curious, as we emerge into a pretty covered walkway with a small garden on either side, one with a pond and tinkling fountain, and little paths leading off at regular intervals. In front of us, along each side of the walk, stretch two long wings of pale-painted buildings.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ replies the porter. ‘This is Albany House. It was turned into gentlemen’s apartments a few hundred years ago.’

  ‘Gentlemen’s?’ I echo. ‘No women allowed?’

  What is it with Dubrovski and men only? First the monastery and now this...

  ‘Ladies are now permitted to live here,’ the porter says with a smile. ‘There are seventy-four apartments altogether, from tiny studios up to very large sets. You’ll soon see one of the finest. It’s where Mr Dubrovski lives – when he’s here.’

  Halfway along, we turn off the walkway and approach a stairwell with a flight of steps that leads down to the basement and up to the higher storeys. We make our way to a large front door behind the staircase.

  The porter says, ‘Here we are, this is Mr Dubrovski’s set. Do you think you’ll find your way out again all right?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you here. Good morning, miss.’ With a slight bow of the head, he turns and heads back towards the main building.

  I gaze at the door. It’s imposing, with wooden panels and a classical pediment above. A huge brass fish forms a knocker, but there is also a bell to press. My finger hovers over the button for moment and I have the sudden urge to turn on my heel and go back to Mark.

  Be brave, be confident, I tell myself. You’re going to be fine. I know I can look after myself. I press down on the bell and hear a chime from within. That’s it. The die is cast. I have to go through with it now.

  An instant later I hear footsteps approaching and the door is opened. A burly man stands there, his shaven head and black suit giving him the unmistakeable look of a bodyguard.

  ‘I’m Beth Villiers. Mr Dubrovski is expecting me.’

  The hulk nods and stands back so that I can enter and I step inside. The apartment is decorated in highly polished tawny wood, the floors, walls and ceilings shimmering with light reflected in their surface
s. Everywhere the wood is inlaid with marquetry in colours of black, dark brown and light brown – around the doorways, along the skirting, in symmetrical patterns on the floor. It is all very classical and masculine, and evidently extremely expensive. I can tell that the whole look has been masterminded by an interior designer who has made sure of every last detail. It has a lot more character than the villa in France, which was the kind of thing I was expecting.

  The hulk leads me through the hallway and into a drawing room done in the same magnificent if slightly overwhelming style. Over a grand mirror set in the polished wood panels, a golden eagle spreads its wings, an olive wreath in its beak. The chimneypiece holds black marble busts of gods and classical urns carved in alabaster. On one wall hangs a vast oil portrait of Napoleon on his horse, surveying a battlefield in triumph. It seems appropriate somehow. I glance about; no other pictures have been hung and the polished wooden panels are bare. They almost seem to be looking at me expectantly. This is going to be a challenge.

  ‘Sit,’ grunts the bodyguard, and I obediently take my place on a long black leather Chesterfield sofa that faces the marble fireplace. Large windows overlooking the walk outside are partially obscured by trimmed yew hedges, but light floods in anyway, illuminating the perfect Regency proportions of the room. The guard exits and a moment later, Dubrovski strides in, casual today in jeans and a blue cashmere jumper. I get up at once.

  ‘Good, you’ve arrived.’ He manages the slightest smile as he sees me and comes over. I go to put out my hand but to my surprise he leans down and brushes his lips against my cheek. ‘Welcome.’