Secrets After Dark Read Online Free Page A

us.
    ‘I want you to have the full experience,’ he says as the stewardess goes off to fetch it. ‘I wouldn’t usually advise drinking at work, but just this once...’
    Before long, we have flutes of cold champagne, the bubbles popping quietly against the glass, and lunch is served: a delicious light autumnal meal of cold roast pheasant with a salad of chicory, squash and pear, and cubes of thyme-scented sautéed celeriac. A tiny apple charlotte with Sauterne custard follows, and then a plate of creamy ripe cheeses with fresh-baked oatcakes. Mark and I chat as we eat, and I could almost believe we were in a luxurious restaurant rather than flying at 35,000 feet over the Channel and across France.
    As we approach Nice airport, I remember James’s warning words about going into Dubrovski’s orbit and wonder what exactly I’ve let myself in for. Am I going to be sitting down to dinner with the Russian mafia tonight? I imagine Dubrovski like a Russian Al Capone, big stomach straining behind a waistcoat, and a dinner table lined with men in dark suits, pistol handles bulging at their armpits, chewing gum and staring implacably from behind sunglasses, all on a hair trigger, ready to start a firestorm if someone coughs out of turn. Maybe I’d better practise a few of my kick-boxing moves when we land, just in case. I smile to myself. I already appear to think I’m in some kind of Bond movie... I’d better rein in my vivid imagination or I’ll give myself nightmares.
    And my mafia scenario is not the only thing I’m imagining. As we begin our descent, I tell myself sternly to get a grip. All secret inner fantasies banned! Dominic won’t be there and I probably won’t even hear his name. In fact, it’s bound to be tedious and I’ll long to be home again. I’ve probably had the best bit with this flight .
    I yawn, just to show myself how very grounded and realistic I am.
     
    Evidently, for Mark, all this is familiar. When we’ve landed and the pilot has brought us to a halt by the terminal, he calmly unbuckles his seat belt and tells me that our car will be waiting for us.
    I don’t know how the usual customs, security and passport control is bypassed so easily but once again, a black car with shaded windows is waiting for us on the tarmac, and within minutes we are gliding on to the French roads and away. Mark hands me back my passport. I never even saw it being returned to him.
    ‘That’s the way it works when money is involved,’ he says, seeing my expression. I can’t help thinking that it makes a bit of a mockery of the laws the rest of us have to abide by. I could have just smuggled anything I liked into the country, but I keep quiet. That’s going to be my modus operandi on this trip.
    The weather is hotter and brighter than it was in London. The October day here is a bright shining blue, the sun low and dazzling in the sky. The cashmere sweaters that I brought already seem redundant and my red bikini more enticing.
    ‘How far away is the house?’ I ask Mark.
    ‘About an hour or so,’ he says. ‘It’s in a very beautiful place. You’ll love it.’
    ‘How long have you worked for Dubrovski?’ I ask, curious.
    ‘About five years now. Ever since he began to make really serious money. It’s impossible to have the kind of art habit that he has without it. He wants old masters and famous names. He wants to be like Francis I – with the Mona Lisa hanging in his bathroom. A Rembrandt in the hall; a Titian in the boot room. For him, it’s the ultimate way of expressing his success. And that is where I help him: I’m always on the lookout for the kind of work he’ll appreciate, and he calls on me for my expert opinion when he finds something he likes. It’s a good arrangement, as I understand his taste and he trusts me completely. He pays me a handsome retainer so that I can be at his beck and call, and of course a healthy commission too, on everything I purchase for him.’ Mark smiles happily.