by Alison Bond
‘Possibly. Or possibly they are just using the company as cover.’
‘And the other deposits?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe from the same place, but I just don’t know.’ She could hear the finality in his voice and it alarmed her.
‘So this loans company,’ she said, ‘we can go after them? Find out who they are fronting?’
‘We can try,’ he said, ‘but it’ll likely prove fruitless. After all, hiding people is what these companies are paid to do.’
She gritted her teeth to stop her anger and disappointment becoming tears. ‘And you, Mr Royston,’ she said. ‘What are you paid to do?’
She slammed down the phone. She knew an impasse when she heard one. But she would still get a bill for his services, even though the information he had provided her with was utterly useless. She felt like throwing something across the room. The frustration of being denounced for a crime you didn’t commit was maddening. At least when Liam was jailed he knew he was guilty …
Stop. It was an ugly comparison. She was ashamed.
Perhaps it was time to admit that she couldn’t find the answers that she craved on her own. She needed help. Until a few weeks ago she would have asked Jackson. Jackson would have known what to do next. Frighteningly, she was running out of options.
She unpacked and took a shower, trying to wash away the disappointment of a dead end. Afterwards she flicked through the television channels looking for English, finding none. She glanced at herself in the mirror. These weeks on the road had wrecked her appearance. Standing on too many terraces in freezing temperatures had made her lips chap and her skin protest by breaking out in small red patches across her forehead and cheeks. She had hardly worn the power suits she had carefully packed in tissue paper and instead buried herself beneath winter layers, conducting much of her business standing on muddy training pitches, grateful for her rubber-soled sheepskin-lined boots.
Beneath her clothes her skin was pale and dry. It was all she could do to shower when she got to each depressingly similar hotel, never mind exfoliate and depilate and moisturize.
No wonder she felt like crap.
‘Does this hotel have a spa?’
Leanne didn’t bother to wonder why she was asking an assistant hundreds of miles away instead of sticking her head into reception to find out. ‘You’re kidding! This is a budget tour. Cheap hotels, you said. “All I need is a bed and shower,” remember?’
‘A girl can hope,’ said Samantha.
‘There’s not much, a stack of four-star hotels west of the old town. You want me to switch you?’
‘No, this is fine.’ Funny how modest your tastes became when you were footing the bill yourself. She tried to imagine Jackson being comfortable in a tourist-class hotel like this. He’d be in a courtesy car to five-star luxury before he’d even put down his suitcase. Having to carry his own suitcase would be enough to send him scuttling towards the nearest power shower. But he’d earned his luxuries. She was just starting out. He’d told her stories of the early days, running Legends from a quarter-share of a hot-desk in Soho Square. So, no matter how fat her various savings accounts and investments were, she must cut back on indulgences. Perhaps being brought up in a succession of frugal households had lasting benefits. She congratulated herself on her humble tastes.
‘You want me to book you a one-day pass into the fanciest, most luxurious spa in Zadar?’ said Leanne.
‘Hell, yeah.’ If she could only relax, then surely the next step would become more clear.
Her skin was being worn down to the bone. She was scrubbed and buffed and rubbed by a briskly efficient mute who looked as if her last post was with the Croatian shot-putting team. The friction between the sea salt and her damp, oily skin was creating so much warmth that she felt like a fillet of hot smoked beef smothered in Maldon flakes.
Which was appropriate because this room looked like a place for preparing meat. The stone floor and cold plastic surfaces were clean and bare.
Her tormentor grasped her arms roughly and forced her onto her side so that she could better attack the small of her back with persistent little punches that felt like a drum roll. After a few minutes of that she washed her down with a showerhead, the cold water like pinpricks on her raw skin, the grease and salt swishing down the plughole in the concave tiled floor beneath her down-turned face. Then she slathered her in foul-smelling mud and a layer of clingfilm and, as a final indignity, set a kitchen timer for twenty minutes before she left the room.
Her skin tingled.
She wondered idly if Leanne had sent her here as a joke, but grudgingly acknowledged that the sprawling hotel above this basement torture room would suggest that luxury lay beneath. And admittedly her fiery body was invigorated and alive. The same could not be said for her mind and spirit, still tired from so much use, and so in the warm fug of mud-scented steam she drifted off to sleep.
The shrill bell of the kitchen timer woke her and she was hustled under a power shower to wash away the mud. Her skin felt like cashmere. Then she was led to a room that belonged in the kind of spa she’d had in mind, all soft colours and mood lighting. She lay on her front and swapped her towel for a small white sheet, which covered her now peachy bum and not much else.
A slight, blond-haired man entered the room and folded back the sheet right to the curve of her bum.
‘Are you comfortable?’ she was asked, and she grunted assent.
Her nose filled with the sultry scent of sandalwood and jojoba as slick hands massaged her back and shoulders with essential oils. She murmured with pleasure, her mind playing back the last couple of weeks, thinking not of its labours but of its rewards. She’d found a kid in the Ukraine who could be the next Andriy Shevchenko, she’d wooed a Romanian international unhappy with his current representation and here in Croatia she had signed up a rock-solid goalkeeper that had never left the country and never played against a team that might test how good he really was.
These, and several more, would form a slate of players that would stand up under the most severe scrutiny. The transfer window was fast approaching. At Legends this window saw tempers flare as millions changed hands. She adored the inevitable mayhem that came from trying to do so much business in a few short weeks. She thrived on the cut and thrust of chaos. It was her favourite time of year.
And right now the transfer window was more important than ever.
She could hardly wait.
Oily hands smoothed over her legs, pushing out the tension that had gathered there, working down to her toes and pulling at each one in turn, then her arms and her fingers.
She must remember to thank Leanne for this idea. She would add it to the list of things for which she had to thank her indispensable assistant. It would be a great shame if Leanne’s dream of being a footballer’s wife and doing nothing all day came true. She was organized and enthusiastic, two traits which would carry her far if she wanted a career. But times change. Women were seeking out traditional roles once more, wanting to be wives with rich husbands. All the hard work done by feminism had been undone by an eternal passion for shopping.
Luckily she had never been one for shopping.
The hands on her body were firmer now. She could sense that she was finally nearing the end of what had turned out to be one of the more satisfying beauty treatments of her life. She savoured the feel of human contact, the thumbs that teased the last little bit of resistance from her muscles until she felt like she couldn’t move if she tried. She hovered somewhere between liquid and solid, between wakefulness and catatonia.
Then the hands stopped. It was over. And she sighed one all-conquering sigh, breathing in again with refreshed body and soul.
‘Hello, Samantha.’
Samanza. She recognized the voice. Russian. But she wasn’t in Russia, she was in Croatia. So she must be dreaming.
‘Don’t fall asleep here,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I have a far more comfortable bed upstairs.’
She clutched at the sheet as she lifted her head to see. ‘Alek?’
Instead of the slight Croatian she had seen when she last opened her eyes, Aleksandr Lubin stood behind her with a slight smirk, his hands glistening with massage oil.
She no longer felt relaxed.
‘What …?’
‘What am I doing here?’ he said, looking intolerably pleased with himself. ‘I would have thought it was obvious. I wanted to see you.’
‘Get out!’ she said, horribly aware of her nakedness, shocked at seeing him. Realizing that his hands had been on her body without her knowledge or consent made her feel frightened. ‘Get out,’ she said again, ‘before I scream.’
‘There is no need to be dramatic.’ He picked up one of the spotless white towels and wiped his hands. ‘It wasn’t easy to find you.’
‘No?’
‘No, I’m lying, it was ridiculously simple. You should be careful. One day it might be someone else, someone who wants to harm you.’
She was utterly vulnerable, lying there unable to move an inch lest the tiny sheet that stood between her and a modicum of modesty should fall.
‘You can’t do this to someone, Alek,’ she said. ‘You can’t just walk in and hijack a massage. It’s over the line, way over. You scared me. Please, just get out.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I was trying to be romantic. You felt wonderful, you know, under my hands. Should I carry on? I have been told I am a skilled masseur. Perhaps a little more intimate?’
‘Leave!’ she said. She picked up the plastic bottle of jojoba oil and threw it in his direction. It was a fabulous shot considering her prone position, and hit him square in the chest, leaving an oily mark in the centre of his perfect dark-blue shirt.
He looked down with displeasure. ‘Now look. I will have to change.’
‘Good. Piss off and change.’
‘You are a very rude woman.’
‘And you’re a very rude man.’
He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Then we should be rude together, do you not think?’
She picked up the closest thing to her, another bottle, and made as if to throw it.
He raised his palms. ‘I’m going, I’m going. Don’t be angry. Meet me in fifteen minutes. I came all this way.’
He left. What an unbelievable nerve. She started pulling on her clothes quickly as she punched out Leanne’s number on her mobile phone.
‘How dare you tell Aleksandr Lubin where I was?’ she demanded. ‘What were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind? Were you trying to be funny?’
‘Whoa, hold on there, tiger. Slow down. Lubin? I told him you were away on business, that’s all.’
‘You didn’t tell him I was in this hotel? In Zadar?’
‘I didn’t even tell him you were in Croatia.’
‘Oh.’
‘Say sorry,’ said Leanne.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Samantha automatically. ‘But he’s here.’
‘Lubin? Wow, what a coincidence.’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing here, but it’s no coincidence, I’ll tell you that right now.’
She shivered, despite the warm room. She hadn’t told anyone but Leanne where she was going or where she was staying. Yet Lubin was outside waiting for her. It made her skin prickle with paranoia. She wasn’t sure if she could ever cope with being with a man so well connected that it would be impossible to hide.
‘What do you think he wants?’
Leanne laughed, that dirty laugh that drove the boys wild. ‘My mum once told me that men are only after one thing.’
Samantha held the phone under her chin while she pulled on her jeans and boots. ‘Come on, seriously,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘He goes for these emaciated little model types.’
‘Stop fishing for compliments,’ said Leanne. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘I wasn’t –’
‘Other line’s ringing, gotta go.’
And Leanne hung up.
He was waiting for her in the lobby and, from somewhere, had managed to procure six of the same gorgeous silver roses that he had sent her months ago to celebrate Gabe’s deal.
‘I’m sorry I scared you,’ he said. ‘It was not my intention. Forgive me?’
It didn’t win her over, but she did allow him to take the lead.
He didn’t try to dazzle her with opulence. If he had it might have been easier for her to resist. Instead they went for a walk by the water. Finally she saw the charms of this city, the pastel-coloured houses that climbed the hillside, the ancient rough-stone wall that had safeguarded Zadar for thousands of years and the constant lap of a sea that thrashed with fish, fish being pulled out as quick as the fishermen could cast their lines.
With each step she thought about how good his hands had felt on her skin.
The stone promenade was crowded with tourists taking in the sunset for which the town was famous. Above them the clouds flushed candyfloss pink, blushing before their big performance. Every few yards the soundtrack to their evening changed as a new street musician came within earshot. They seemed to be spaced just so, so that their tunes never overlapped and competed.
They stopped by a man selling fragrant pizza and walked together, eating a slice contentedly along the marina. It occurred to her that maybe he, or more realistically his father, could afford to buy any one of the boats moored there, including one of half a dozen mega yachts at the southern end.
She pointed. ‘Is one of them yours?’
‘Ours is in Spain,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I think. Or maybe Dubai. Why? Would you like to visit her?’
She imagined the Lubin yacht to be like the jet but on a bigger scale. Would she like to swan around the Med on a floating palace? Sure, why not? ‘Is that an invitation?’ she asked.
‘I could make a few calls,’ he said. ‘We could be there tonight.’
What it must be like to live life without having to consider practicalities. No work to miss, no money to stress over, no responsibilities. A normal life was the sort where you daydreamed and said without any expectation, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to jet off to Paris for lunch?’ Lubin’s was the sort where you’d be ordering your pommes frites for real a heartbeat after the whim took you. He was inviting her to live that kind of life with him, temporarily of course, and who knew for how long? But nothing was permanent, so what did it matter?
‘Is that how you found me?’ she asked. ‘You made a few calls.’
He shrugged a half apology. ‘What can I say? The Lubins are well connected.’
The implications of this bounced around inside her head for a while as they strolled along the promenade, looking like any other couple. Did he have the wherewithal to track her flights? Her credit card? Her mobile phone? Perhaps his people had called all the hotels in Zadar or all the football clubs in Croatia to find her. What else might he know?
‘How well connected?’ she asked.
‘Why? Is there something you want?’
Yes. There was something she wanted dreadfully. So much that she lay awake at night worrying that she might never have the chance. ‘I want to clear my name,’ she said.
He crushed his napkin into a ball with his fist and aimed it squarely at a wastebasket, making the shot. ‘Your reputation is important to you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Money comes and goes,’ she said. ‘A reputation is for ever. If you – when you die it’s the only thing that lives on.’
They reached a set of wide steps cut away from the promenade leading to the water. People were sitting here and there, mostly in pairs, watching the sky as it turned from pink to purple. He found a quiet spot and lay down his jacket for her. She heard a ghostly sound, like a pod of whales singing, that seemed to echo all around her.
‘What is it?’ she asked, spooked by the mysterious harmony.
He pointed to the regular gaps cut out of the steps. ‘A wave orga
n,’ he said. ‘Beneath us the sea pushes air through her pipes to make music.’
They listened silently to the rise and fall of the bizarre melody.
She found herself thinking of a day in her childhood, a weekend visit with her mother when they were still seeing her regularly, and they had piled into the car in the middle of the night and driven to the coast to watch a thunderstorm. She had gazed at the angry sea, holding Liam’s hand in the back seat as the waves battered the coastline in the grey morning. She wasn’t scared until they clambered out, unable to resist getting closer, and the wind had been so strong it had pushed them back, blowing hair and sea spray into her face so that she was choking. She wanted to go home then but their mum had insisted that they sleep in the car for a few hours before the drive back. She listened to the gentle music of the Zadar wave organ and thought about the many guises of the sea.
Aleksandr stared at the two tufted islands out to sea and spoke gently, almost to himself. ‘I was ten years old when my mother died,’ he said.
There was a long pause. ‘How did she die?’ asked Samantha. Were those real tears in his eyes, or was it just the salty sea air making them water?
‘They said it was an accident, but I know she was killed. She had been seeing another man; she was with him when she died. That is the reputation she left behind. My father told me the truth about her. He wanted me to know who she really was.’
What kind of father would taint the remembrance of his ten-year-old boy? She would have said so, but she knew enough about their relationship to sense that he wouldn’t stand for any criticism of his beloved father.
‘But how was I to do that?’ he continued. ‘I will never know who she really was, only who she was not. She was not a devoted wife and mother. If she had been, then she would still be alive. My father would have protected her. But he was never the same. To him, her betrayal was as painful as her death.’
The last golden sliver of sun slipped into the Adriatic and he reached for her hand. ‘So I do understand about reputations. If you want me to help you I will. Tell me what I can do.’
She shivered. The night had encroached and she was suddenly chilled, but the thought of getting some answers insulated her.
