by Alison Bond
‘So what happens next?’ She addressed Higham; it was easier. It was too confusing to think about Jackson, much less look at him.
‘You should take the rest of the day to wrap up whatever you’re working on, leave handover notes where necessary, but you are formally suspended from Legends pending an investigation into your financial practices. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
Although she didn’t understand at all.
She was clean. Part of the reason she loved working at Legends was because she believed in the same things that Jackson did. She believed that a company could be trustworthy and profitable, that corruption was not a necessary by-product of success. She held herself to these standards. Jackson knew that.
Carl Higham didn’t respect her. He never had. There was something about her that he just didn’t like. Her gender. He would delight to see her fail, because she was a woman and he had never cared for that.
But Jackson had, and he respected her a great deal. He loved her, or at least he was forever telling her that he did. He would be on her side. These erroneous accusations would fall apart under proper scrutiny and she would be back behind her desk in a heartbeat, making heroes out of schoolboys, making millions out of heroes.
She would be back.
Soon.
The alternative was unthinkable.
9
The bank account wasn’t hers. The money wasn’t hers. The disgrace wasn’t hers.
Three hundred thousand US dollars with her name on it.
Why me? Why now?
An ugly stain threatened to spread across her blemish-free professional record. She had no idea what to do to make it better. But she was innocent. She must have faith that soon she would be proven so. Carl had instructed her to take the rest of the day to wrap up whatever she was working on. Which meant keeping her appointment with Aleksandr Lubin in Krakow. What was the alternative? Cancel everything so that she could sit at home and wait for Jackson to call and tell her she could go back to work? She would go mad. No, it was far better to carry on without missing a beat.
But what if …?
She forced down the negative thoughts that bubbled to the surface.
Besides, there was something about leaving the country that always made her feel liberated and optimistic. The moment the wheels lifted clear of the tarmac she would sense a lightening of her spirit, sniff the possibility of adventure on the recycled air. She needed that feeling now more than ever.
She left without saying goodbye.
There was no passport control at Farnborough, no security, no queues for X-ray machines amid chaotic scenes and screaming infants; instead checking in at Farnborough airfield was a simple matter of presenting herself to the immaculately dressed woman on the reception desk, a little like checking into a five-star hotel. Then a car took her right up to the bottom step of the stairway and she climbed aboard Aleksandr Lubin’s lavish jet.
Yummy.
There was rich, and there was Russian-billions rich. The jet was the kind of thing that drew the line between them.
Generous padded seats were upholstered in the softest buff leather, the carpet beneath her feet was a hugely impractical cream pile, every surface gleamed with silver or tortoiseshell. Even the seatbelts were something special, a wide strap of resilient material she didn’t recognize, some kind of microfibre, like the Japanese football boots some of her clients had fallen in love with, the buckles glinting with platinum plate.
She inhaled deeply, smelling the money. Men like Lubin in the world were a reminder that there was always plenty more out there to be had. Money kept you safe. With money you need never feel quite so afraid.
Growing up she had craved the kind of security that money could buy. Her own home, something permanent in her ever-shifting life, a certain future. And just when it looked possible, on the brink of partnership, things were plunged back into doubt. It didn’t seem fair.
It’ll be okay.
The first time Liam stole something, the first time she knew of, she made him take it back.
‘Are you stupid or something?’ he had said, facing his little sister with undisguised annoyance. ‘What if I get caught?’
‘Didn’t you think about that when you were taking them?’
It was only a pair of jeans. Levis. Fifty pounds or so, new. But more than either of them could afford. He had tucked them under his parka and dashed out of the store. By the time the security guard made it to the shrieking alarm Liam was long gone.
‘Of course I thought about it,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t get caught, did I?’ He tugged at the security tag and looked around for a tool to take it off without damaging the denim. ‘I can get thirty pounds for them easy.’
‘You’re not keeping them? You went to all the trouble of shoplifting and you don’t even want them?’ She had long lusted after a pair of Levis. They were just the thing to show off her fourteen-year-old body, all legs and subtle curves.
‘Not as much as I want thirty quid,’ said Liam.
‘If you want money so much then get a job,’ she said. She had started with a paper round, then a shop and then she’d been working behind a bar for three months, lying about her age and flirting like crazy to try to make tips. Every time a customer told her to ‘have one for herself’ she put ice and lemon into a glass of tap water and one pound fifty into the glass at the side of the till. Liam was eighteen and unemployed. He wasn’t even looking.
‘Take them back,’ she repeated. ‘For me.’
He said that he would, but she was pretty sure he never did. Why would he? Thirty quid was a lot to them back then.
Look how far she had come.
A long way down.
A pretty blonde stewardess dressed all in white offered her a glass of champagne before take-off, but she asked for a bottle of water instead, and when it came it came perfectly chilled on a tray next to a glass of ice balls and a twist of lemon.
Her mobile phone rang. Leanne.
‘I’ve got Mr Welstead on the line,’ she said. ‘Shall I put him through?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and waited until they were connected.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
The Welstead boys had moved into a flat she had found them in Fulham, the perfect pad for two newly minted millionaires, and headed north, home for a visit, with diamonds for their mother.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘The boys are on their way back down.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I need … I suppose you could call it reassurance.’
A nervous father. Perhaps the diamonds were too much; perhaps he was afraid that the boys would change. He’d be right, they would change, but she was happy to tell him whatever it was he wanted to hear.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
‘I heard a nasty rumour,’ he said.
‘About the boys?’
‘About you.’
It had only been a few hours since Jackson shook her world. Yet somehow, and he refused to say how, two hundred miles away, the Welstead boys’ father had already heard that she was in trouble.
‘I would hate my boys to be caught up in anything untoward,’ he said.
‘They’re not,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
‘It’s not true?’
‘It’s a misunderstanding.’
He paused. ‘Isn’t that … I’m sorry, but isn’t that what they say in the films right before they disappear with the money?’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Your assistant said you were just about to get on a plane.’
‘A short trip. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.’ She looked at the paperwork in her hand, the Welstead contract not yet signed, and a hard ball of fear bounced in her stomach, making her feel sick. Part of her couldn’t believe that this was happening and was in a dizzying state of shock, while the other part, the efficient businesswoman, was working damage control.
; ‘Mr Welstead,’ she said, ‘sir, please, you have to tell me how you heard about this. I promise you everything I’ve done has been one hundred per cent legitimate, my whole career. These allegations won’t stay around, but rumours like this can be very damaging to everyone concerned. Someone told you? Who was it?’
He paused. ‘He didn’t tell me his name.’
‘An anonymous tip-off?’
‘He said he was press. I felt stupid even calling you, but now it turns out there’s some truth in it … well, I just don’t know any more.’
‘There’s no truth in it,’ she insisted.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said. ‘He was right about that.’
Yes, he was right. She was in trouble. More trouble than she had realized. There was a potential press leak at Legends and they had gone to where it would hurt her most. She should expect a story about herself sometime soon. Great. Jackson would love that. If she was still in the heart of the company Jackson would do whatever he could to protect her reputation, call in a few favours, place a call to a sports editor and promise him an exclusive something somewhere down the line. But now? She couldn’t be certain.
Surely there would come a point where she was more trouble than she was worth.
Insecurity began to chew into her calm exterior. Was she so valuable to Jackson, personally and professionally, that he would never walk away?
She reassured Mr Welstead and was reasonably confident that she had allayed his fears. For now. He was so new to this world that he wanted to believe in her. Someone else might not be so trusting.
It’ll be fine.
The engine gathered momentum and they started down the runway.
She sipped her water and started reading the fine print of the thick contract in front of her, checking things she didn’t like with spiked grey pencil marks.
It was still a work day.
10
If you ever want to feel like the heroine from a cold-war thriller, then travel to central Europe at the onset of winter. Two weather systems collide there, the Arctic blast from the north and the Siberian winds from the east, and when they meet they are so happy to see each other they sit still for months, sucking every last drop of warmth from the air. The chill is unmistakably foreign, but not at all like the scented Alpine winters or the damp wet days of Milan or Paris. It is the kind of cold that nobody should survive; it is dangerous and romantic, and it only takes a moment to understand something of the people who live in a place like this, how hard their lives must be, how desperate you could easily become in a place this cold.
And inevitably the mind will turn to thinking of things that men and women might do to keep warm.
When she stepped out of the plane the cold hit her smack in the face, through the wool of her coat, through the soles of her Gucci boots and up the ankles of her sleek grey trousers. All over her body hairs stood up in protest.
The landscape was white with snow for as far as she could see and it seemed impossible that planes could come and go in icy conditions that snatched every warm breath from your mouth like some evil spectre.
She rushed across the tarmac to arrivals. Every time she took a breath it was cold enough to be mildly painful.
The men in immigration carried guns, a common sight in foreign places, but one which always caused her a shiver of illicit excitement. She was bewildered by the indecipherable language on the signposts, a language where vowels did not seem to exist. It all seemed far too exotic to be such a short flight away from the familiar.
She was whisked past a small queue to a private office where a swarthy Pole waited for her.
He didn’t say a word as he studied her passport. He was young and handsome and she committed his face to memory in case she wanted to use it in a fantasy later.
She suspected that she might.
He nodded her through without a flicker of expression, and even though she tried to break his brooding silence with one of her very best smiles he didn’t crack. His short cropped hair was trimmed with military precision so that she thought it might feel like suede under her fingers.
Then she was thrust back into the real world again, away from the privilege of private aviation and into the general melee of a small international airport.
The arrivals hall was tiny and crammed with glamorous-looking women in thick coats and fur-trimmed hats; all the men seemed to be hanging back and smoking heavily. Many people were holding bunches of flowers, waiting for loved ones. She pushed through them all.
The immediate need to deal with a new place and the sensations that come with it was a comfort to her. Anything to block out the thoughts of what was happening back at Legends.
She saw a card with her name on – Mr Sam Sharp. Obviously Lubin hadn’t done his homework like she had. Immediately she felt that if there was an upper hand to be had here, then she had it.
The driver didn’t say anything, just flicked his cigarette aside and led her to his car. He was easily over six foot tall, heavyset, with a scar above his left eyebrow.
‘Is it always this cold?’ she said.
Scarface said nothing.
She was driven swiftly through the snowy landscape in a silver Mercedes. They left the airport traffic behind and the roads were almost empty. In these gloomy deserted streets perhaps she should be worried. She watched the white world outside through her misted window and hoped that being worried wasn’t necessary.
She called the office.
‘I’m here,’ she said.
‘What’s it like?’ said Leanne.
‘Odd.’ She glanced at the driver in the rear-view mirror. ‘I feel like I’m being driven by the baddie in a James Bond film.’
‘Cool,’ said Leanne.
‘What if he tries to abduct me?’ she said, only half joking.
‘Think of it as an adventure,’ said Leanne.
‘That’s easy for you to say – you’re not the one in the back of his car driving to God knows where.’
‘Calm down,’ said Leanne. ‘I’m sure he’s lovely once you get to know him.’
‘Anything happening there I should know about?’
‘Something funny is going on,’ said Leanne. ‘Jackson’s been holed up in his office all day with the lawyers. I think maybe someone’s in trouble. Did he say anything to you?’
She would have to tell Leanne the situation before she found out for herself. She had no idea if Jackson would make a comment in her absence, send out a memo telling the entire company that she was under suspicion. It wouldn’t be fair on Leanne to find out that way. But not now. Saying it out loud would be just too hard.
‘I have to go,’ she lied. ‘The James Bond baddie is trying to ask me something.’
‘Good luck.’
What would happen to Leanne? She’d been Sam’s assistant since she was nineteen years old, bringing the same enthusiasm to her job as she did to her social life. Was her job security now precarious too? She would be devastated to leave Legends. How would she ever meet and marry a footballer then?
Despite everything the thought of Leanne hanging around Mahiki trying to score with the top scorers made her smile and forget her troubles long enough to appreciate her surroundings.
It didn’t take long before the traffic started to build and she saw the occasional sign in English directing them towards the centre.
It was a pretty place, especially in the snow. They crossed a wide river and on the other side was a magnificent castle, floodlit and frosted, that looked like something designed by Disney, had Disney been going through a particularly gothic period. The roads became cobbled, and grumbled beneath the tyres. Spires towered on every corner. A tram zipped past them. The pavements filled up with people, everyone wrapped up as warm as they could be and walking fast, even faster than they did in London, anonymous in varying shades of brown and grey, blending into the pavement, into the sky itself.
She would freeze to death out there in her Prada. She searched in her bag for Leanne
’s woollens, but before she had a chance to find them the car stopped in front of a hotel.
‘Here?’ she said.
‘Mr Lubin is waiting for you inside,’ said the driver in perfect English. ‘And I’ll be waiting to take you wherever you wish to go when your business is concluded.’
He gently hummed the James Bond theme tune as he opened her door.
Inside the lobby of the hotel she immediately forgot the bitter cold. An open fire blazed in one corner, smelling faintly of rosemary and thyme, a red velvet chair beside it invited guests to sit and watch the scented flames. It was warm and pleasant, ornate without being dated.
The boots of her heels tapped sharply across an exquisitely tiled floor and the chic receptionist welcomed her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her perfectly made-up eyes.
‘My name’s Samantha Sharp. I’m meeting Aleksandr Lubin?’
‘We have been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Please follow me.’
She led her through to a softly lit restaurant with tables tucked into hidden corners, the occasional clink of cutlery on china the only sound. They went downstairs into the cellar of the building, which was darker still, lit only by candles, three flames on each table sitting in low candelabra on black lace tablecloths.
It was so quiet that she could hear the echo of every footfall on the stone floor.
There was only one customer. Sitting at a table for two, sipping from a glass of icy beer, was one of the most handsome boys she had ever seen.
She knew this was Aleksandr Lubin, but in the flesh he was far more attractive than the blurry photograph she had seen. The idea of having to negotiate a deal with someone so beautiful was preposterous; she would roll over and give him anything he wanted. He should be on a magazine cover somewhere, not sitting and watching her draw close.
He was unquestionably a boy. His face was as smooth as a baby’s, unmarked by times or troubles. He was pale, as pale as a vampire was what she thought, and his thin lips were so red against that pale skin that had he not oozed testosterone from every pore she would have suspected a little cosmetic enhancement. His hair was jet black and cut very short, so that his stark bone structure stood out and his hooded inky eyes flashed in the reflected light of the candles. She knew women who would gladly kill for his eyelashes.
