Authors: Primula Bond
‘Some sideline! What was her mainline?’
‘She ran a couple of boutiques. One in Switzerland and later she opened one in Marylebone.’
‘What sort of boutiques?’
‘Fashion. And then she branched out into accessories.’
We caught each other’s eyes in the mirror. Hers were two black slits above her thin red mouth. Mine were huge with questions.
‘Accessories. Right. Like handcuffs? Catwoman muzzles? Whips?’ My hands flew up to my mouth. ‘So how on earth did you get involved, Crystal? Were you friends?’
She picked up a vicious-looking comb and worried at a knot of hair until it unravelled.
‘She placed an advert, about a year before the end of their marriage. Discreet demo model for the private shows she staged to encourage her more timid celebrity customers. Gustav was refusing to be part of the underground business by then, although he oversaw the filming of the installation. Then the dreadful showdown occurred and she, and the brother, were gone.’
Down in the street we heard the melodic honk of the car horn.
Crystal’s eyes glittered in the bright morning light flooding in from the three arched windows. The brush resumed its work and jerked my head backwards.
‘Margot hasn’t left the building, though, has she? She’s still up here, getting in the way.’ I tapped my head. ‘I need to know what I’m up against.’
Tangle sorted, Crystal brushed so briskly that it hurt.
‘You’re up against a spectre, nothing more. But everything about her was toxic. They were a toxic mix. At first her, ah, hobby was only indulged when she was at the house in Lugano. But then her buyers and clients became international and started clamouring for more access, and so their home in Baker Street became the club. The punters loved the illusion of the respectable old English town house being the facade for all that debauchery, and that’s why it was the obvious place to keep the collection even after they both moved out.’
I shook my head in disbelief. My hair swished like silk. ‘No wonder it felt like a mausoleum.’
‘It went to her head. She was the queen bee in that house. She paraded her obsession in front of him, cajoling and threatening him if he didn’t join in. It got out of control. Mind games and bullying.’
‘I don’t understand why he would preserve it as an exhibition if it made him so unhappy?’
Crystal bent her head in agreement. ‘I agree. I’ve tried to persuade him to sell it or just destroy it. But it’s an investment. It still makes huge amounts of money. He’s an entrepreneur, remember. Sees potential in the darkest of corners. Maybe he’s holding it to use against her one day. But it’s poisoning him, just like she did. Women like that are very devious about the ways they wound and men are too proud to fight back.’
‘I know all about what goes on behind closed doors. But in the end it’s only–’
‘Sticks and stones. Yes. But that woman could have cut you down at fifty paces with just a look, let alone words. And then finally when he did fight back she carried out her ultimate threat.’
‘Ultimate threat? You mean stealing his brother?’
‘His only remaining family. He’d cared for the boy since he was tiny.’ Crystal stares at the wall above the mirror for a moment, as if the lives she’s described are scrolling across it like an old cine film. ‘But when she left, I decided to stay.’
I took the brush off her and stood up. ‘So you and Gustav were lovers?’
She actually laughed, then. A surprisingly tinkly, musical laugh, like sleigh bells.
‘Oh no, you’re barking up the wrong tree there, my little lotus blossom! Men aren’t my thing, even charismatic ones like Gustav!’
I wish she was here now. Cold and peculiar as she is, she makes me laugh. I am getting used to her being around; my maid, the kindly shadow over my shoulder. And how much light has she shed, in one short conversation!
‘Come on, Dickson,’ I am bleating now. ‘At least let me stay in the car until he gets here. It’s freezing, and I’m starving. It’s been hours since you made me those smoked salmon sandwiches.’
‘Yeah, he’s told me what an appetite you have. That’s why I have to go to the shops, Miss. The cupboard is bare.’
‘So take me with you. I’ll show you what grub I like.’
He takes his chauffeur’s cap off and rubs his gloved hand over his totally bald pate. There’s the tattoo of a slender woman’s leg, foot pointing like a ballerina, winding up the back of his neck.
‘No can do. My orders are to leave you here, Miss. He told me you’d be fine. A tough nut brought up in the middle of nowhere, is what he said.’
‘Marooned, more like.’
Dickson shrugged awkwardly. ‘Just my instructions.’
‘Do you know, Dickson, all I dreamed about when I was stuck in that house on those wretched cliffs was being in the middle of a city, part of a herd, hemmed in by buildings and streets, assailed by strange music, foreign languages, aromatic smells and exotic food. And being warm. Always warm.’ I rest my hand on his bulky sleeve. ‘Stay here and tell me your story.’
‘Nothing to tell.’ He brushes my hand off as if it’s a speck of dust. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. After I’ve bought the food I’ve got to check progress with the land agents and then I’ve the afternoon off. I do have a life, you know. Between you and me I’ve got a friend who works at the Alprose chocolate factory over the way. She’s waited for me all this time, would you credit it? Then the boss wants me back on duty to sort out your dinner.’
I take a good look at Gustav’s chauffeur-chef in this stark white light. Usually I only see the back of his head. Occasionally catch a glimpse of him in his chef’s whites in Gustav’s kitchen, tenderising meat and blending mangoes. Difficult to tell how old he is. Around Gustav’s age, maybe. They’ve been together a long time, apparently, boss and manservant. Batman and Robin.
‘I thought this was going to be a dirty weekend for me, too.’ I scuff my feet grumpily, clapping together the beautiful leather ski gloves with a mother-of-pearl shimmer that Crystal has given me, trimmed with silver fox fur to match my hat.
‘I’m sure he intended you to enjoy the view while you wait, Miss, you being artistic and all that. It’s beautiful here. Look.’ He waves his arm around the mountains surrounding the lake and the pastel buildings reminiscent of the islands of Venice lounging around the water’s edge. ‘Italian on the one hand. Swiss on the other. See that pretty church tower up there? That’s the chapel where they were wed.’
‘Don’t want to hear it, Dickson!’ It’s almost a sob. ‘Come on. What am I going to do in this smelly old yard if he doesn’t show up?’
‘You can ride, can’t you? Horses, I mean?’
I glance around. So that’s what this is. A stable yard. But most of the loose boxes look shut and bolted.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I used to ride a lot in Devon when I was a kid. It was the only fun I was allowed to have. And that would explain why Crystal dressed me up as “Equestrian Barbie” this morning. But how does Gustav know that?’
‘Perhaps the whip gave it away?’
I gasp and go bright scarlet.
Dickson chuckles and taps the side of his nose like a gangster. ‘You don’t think he’d invite any random bird to stay here, would you? It used to be his favourite place in the world. He hasn’t shared it with any of the others.’
‘Others?’
‘You know. Floozies. Girls. Blimey, is that the time! I really must be going before all that lovely chocolate melts. My weakness, you see. Sweets. Chocolate.’ He licks his lips.
‘Mine too.’ My breathy laugh is snatched quickly by the cold. I can’t hear any hooves, or snorting, or jingling of bridles. His words are clanging in my ears. ‘Bring me back some, will you?’
‘Sure. But riding is the order of the day first. That’s all I know.’
‘You can’t eat horses. Or fly home to London on one. I don’t like it here, Dickson.’
‘I daresay he’s testing your patience, Miss Serena. And your stamina.’
I catch a light in his eye as he looks me up and down. What have the two men been saying about me? ‘Either way you have to do as you’re told. We all do. We’re all marked.’
‘Marked?’
He jams his cap back on. ‘It means no-one else can have you. You belong to him.’
‘I don’t belong to anyone, Dickson!’
‘You do. You signed your life to him, remember? We all sign contracts. That’s how he operates, how he keeps his people in line. He learned the hard way never to trust.’
‘Well, he has a funny way of keeping his side of the bargain, winding me up like a bloody puppet then rejecting me.’ I push past him to get to the car. ‘I’m not his property, and nor are you.’
Suddenly a blinding light flashes from somewhere. Dickson jumps straight into a defensive position, hands out in a karate block. The light flashes again in a kind of code, and Dickson gives an embarrassed cough.
‘He can see us. He likes to take a powerful telescope with him on his hikes.’
I flick a V sign in the direction of the cable car station. ‘Who’s the voyeur now, Levi?’
Dickson salutes smartly. ‘Message received and understood, Boss. Never disobey him, Miss. He can be fearsome when he’s roused.’
‘You’re all just frightened of him.’
‘No. We understand him. We know why he lost his mojo. We do what he pays us to do, he looks after us.’ He eases his bulk back behind the steering wheel. ‘But I tell you it’s not worth disobeying him, or playing games.’
‘Spooky. That’s exactly what Crystal said.’
He crosses his fingers. ‘We’re like that, Crystal and me. Go back a long way, since the bad old days. And she’s right. Once you’re over the threshold, on the payroll, it’s non-negotiable. And whether you like it or not he’ll hunt you down.’
I snigger scornfully. ‘My arrangement with him is different from yours. It’s had built-in obsolescence from the start, because it only lasts until Christmas. Or until my last photograph goes.’
‘Good luck with that,’ he murmurs, adjusting the rear-view mirror.
I flounce round towards a low grey stone building on the far side of the yard where I think I can see a dim light glowing. Behind me, the car engine starts up again.
‘For God’s sake, Dickson! At least wait to check that he’s actually coming!’
Dickson tips his cap in a suspiciously jaunty manner, slides the car out of the yard and down the rocky road towards the lake, leaving me hemmed in by the ring of mountains.
‘The pair of you!’ I yell uselessly, my words snatched by the wind as the brake lights disappear. ‘Bloody bastards!’
The day’s exhilaration is gurgling away like so much cold bath water. When I stepped aboard the sleek white jet this morning, saw the Levi font painted along its flank, and then Dickson jumped down from the cockpit like something out of
Top Gun
, I could barely contain myself.
My mood went lukewarm when Gustav wasn’t at Agno airport to meet me. When Dickson changed from Tom Cruise to The Sweeney and guided the silver Lexus along the valley floor below the purple mountains, circled the calm cold lake with its colourful buildings crowding round the shore, then purred up this mysterious-looking road with the overhanging boulders and rocks, I assumed that any minute we’d get to a fairy tale castle with grey pointed turrets and Gustav would be bounding over the drawbridge to greet me.
Tepid is the word for how I’m feeling now, as the bracing air with its tang of glacier slaps at my cheeks.
Oh my God. My bags are in the car. Even my handbag. All I have with me is my camera. Dickson has to come back. This is just a tease. The test he was talking about. Surely he’s not that mean, even if Gustav is.
A church bell echoes round the valley, reminding me that civilisation isn’t so far away. Even the herd of goats just visible further up in the wood must have someone tending them.
I wander back through the arch and take some pictures of it from the forest angle, the ivy clinging to the brickwork for dear life. The black pine trees lean into the wall, dark green branches poking and grabbing, as if determined to break it down and take it over. But as I zoom in on a fragile-looking wild rose, I notice that the brick isn’t as old as it looks. It’s been recently re-pointed.
Dickson isn’t coming back. Ten minutes have passed. There is only the occasional flap of wide wings breaking the silence, a woody crack as something heavy lands on a bending branch, and the whistle of the wind, but even the elements don’t seem able to penetrate this dense forest. There’s only the pervading cold and the metallic light glinting off the lake below as the afternoon draws in.
If this is some kind of sick joke then I am having a sense of humour failure. I have to find shelter. I push open the door of the little building and the dim light turns out to be an oil lamp burning in the corner. Someone has recently put a match to it. No. On closer inspection I see that it’s electric. From the sharp clean smell I can tell that someone has recently polished all the tack arranged on racks around the room, bridles, saddles and martingales, gleaming bits and buckles.
In the darkest corner is an American Western-style saddle strapped to its own frame, broad as an armchair. It gleams with saddle soap and polish. I glance around. Nothing and no-one here. Just me and the wind howling round the building. And presumably somewhere up in the forest, Gustav prowling around with his telescope.
My elegant riding boots ring out in the empty tack room. The dim light outside is laced now with approaching mist. Any minute now it will lower itself over the landscape and smother us all.
I pack my camera away. The only place to sit is that comfortable-looking saddle. I climb up and sit astride it for a moment, taking care not to thump down on my bottom which is still sore from last night’s punishment. I hold myself just above the saddle, my legs spread on either side of the wide seat. I start to rock.
The owners of the stables along the cliffs must have suspected something was wrong at home when I started hanging around for longer and longer. They might not have noticed the odd bruise, but they can’t have missed the fact that I seemed happier talking to horses than to people.
I just told them that my family was busy, that they wanted me out of the house, and after a while the stable owners liked having me around, said I was a great help, paid me to groom and exercise the horses. I spent every weekend and all the holidays galloping across the cliffs or down on the beach, sometimes roaming as far as the moors, especially in the winter when the tourists had gone back to the city.