Текст книги "The Billionaire Banker"
Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
Eight
The driver is standing outside the car by the time she gets to it. He touches his cap. ‘Miss Lana Bloom.’
She nods breathlessly.
‘Good morning. Peter Edwards,’ he says, by way of introduction and opens the back door for her. She sinks into the fragrant, immaculately pale interior and he shuts the door after her. Along the building she sees the heads of all her neighbors. The leather under her palm is soft and cool. Peter gets into the front and looks at her in the rearview mirror. He has soft brown eyes that crinkle in the corners. He takes a white envelope from the passenger seat and twists around to hand it to her. ‘Our first stop is the doctor. This is for him.’
‘Thanks,’ Lana says, and takes the letter. It has her doctor’s name written in blue ink. It is unsealed. The glass that separates them closes and the engine hums into life. She opens the letter and reads it. It is a request for her medical records.
Her mobile lights up. It is Jack.
‘Hey,’ he says. His voice is bright and full of life.
‘Hey,’ she replies matching his brightness.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Come on… I know you better than that. Spit it out, Lana.’
‘OK, but not on the phone. Are you coming down this weekend to see your mother?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you then.’
‘No, you won’t. I’ll come by my mum’s for dinner. You can tell me then.’
‘I’ve got a date.’
There is a silence. ‘Really? That’s great. Anyone I know?’
‘You don’t know him, but you might have heard of him.’
‘Well?’
‘Blake Law Barrington.’
‘The Blake Barrington.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve got a date with a Barrington? How? What are you not telling me, Lana?’ He sounds worried.
‘It’s not really a date, but I can’t tell you on the phone.’
‘You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?’ he asks apprehensively.
‘No, Jack. I’m not. I’m doing the only thing I can do.’
‘It’s something to do with your mum, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh! Shit, Lana. You didn’t.’
‘I did.’
‘You’re better than this.’
‘Jack, my mum’s dying. She’s stage four. She doesn’t have months to live. The doctors have given her weeks.’
‘Oh, Lana. Can’t we borrow the money?’
Lana’s laugh is bitter. ‘Who can I ask, Jack? Tom? And if I ask Tom what will I need to do for the money?’
‘What do you need to do for the money now?’
‘What I am doing won’t land me in prison. It’s just sex, Jack.’
Jack goes silent.
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s for a month.’
‘That long?’
‘It’s a lot of money, Jack.’
‘Don’t give the shit a day more than a month.’
‘I won’t. I’ve got to go, but I will see you during the weekend. And thanks for caring about me.’
‘It’s just a bad habit.’
‘Jack?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I miss you, you know.’
‘Just be safe, Lana.’
‘Bye, Jack.’
‘Bye, Lana,’ he says and there is so much sadness in his voice that Lana wants to call him back and reassure him that it isn’t so bad. She is not selling her soul, only her body.
In the doctor’s surgery Lana passes over the envelope and is ushered into a room with the nurse who asks and does the necessary with brisk efficiency. Afterwards, she discusses several options and recommends Microgynon.
‘Take it from today. Since your last period ended two days ago you should be protected immediately, but just to be safe use a condom for the next seven days,’ she advises. Twenty minutes after Lana entered that small blue and white room she has a prescription for three months’ supply of contraceptive pills.
The receptionist has an envelope addressed to Mr. Jay Benby for Lana. This letter is sealed.
Lana thanks her and goes outside. Peter jumps out of the car and opens the door for her. He goes around the back of the car and gets into the driver’s seat.
‘If you give me the prescription, I’ll pick it up for you while you are at the solicitors.’
For some strange reason Lana feels the heat rush up her throat.
‘I have daughters your age,’ he says kindly, and Lana leans forward and hands him the prescription. ‘Thanks, Mr. Edwards.’
‘No worries.’
‘Er… How long have you been working for Mr. Barrington?’
‘Going on five years now.’
‘Is he… Is he a fair man?’
Peter Edwards meets her eyes in the mirror. ‘He’s as straight as a die,’ he says, but by his tone Lana realizes that he will volunteer no more than that. She turns her head and watches the people on the street.
The solicitor’s offices are in an old building in the West End. She is surprised to note that it is not the slick place she had expected. The hushed air of importance, mingled with an impression that nothing much ever happens here, makes it feel more like a library. A receptionist shows her into Mr. Jay Benby’s room.
The room smells faintly of polish. The carpet is green, his table is an old antique inlaid with green leather, and the old-fashioned, mahogany bookshelves are filled with thick volumes of law books. Behind Mr. Benby there is a dark, rather grim painting of a countryside landscape in a gilded frame. The painting is so old that the sky is yellow in some parts and brown in others. Mr. Benby rises from the depths of a deeply padded black leather chair. His grip is very firm and his smile serves as a polite welcome. He is wearing a dark, three-piece suit and a red, silk tie. And his hair—what little is left of it—has been carefully slicked back.
He waves his hand towards one of the chairs in front of his desk and she sees that he is wearing a ring with a large, opaque, blue stone on his little finger. It strikes her as incongruous. She remembers a story her mother once told her.
He was rich and wore a turquoise ring from Nishapur on his little finger.
Everything else about Mr. Benby and his office says, Trust me. I’m good for it. The opaque ring alone screams, I’m a liar.
After exchanging brief pleasantries he pushes a stapled, thin bunch of papers towards her. ‘Here is your contract.’
She looks at it. Consensual Sexual Acts and Confidentiality Agreement.
‘You are within your rights to take it home, read it yourself and if you prefer, get your own lawyer to look at it, but no amendments can be made to it.’
Lana bites her lip and eyes the contract. ‘Can you show me where it says I will receive the hundred thousand pounds?’
He appears surprised. ‘Of course,’ he says. His kind don’t talk about money openly. They just bill you. He turns the contact to its second page and puts a clean, blunt finger to the clause that she is asking for.
She sees that it clearly states that she will be paid the sum as soon as she signs the contract. She looks up at Benby. ‘Do you have a pen?’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Don’t you want to read it first?’
She shakes her head.
He looks at her sternly. ‘This agreement has been drawn up so there is never any…misunderstanding. You must be fully aware of the gravity and nature of the contract you are about to sign and agree to abide by its conditions. There are some clauses in there that are of utmost importance.’
‘Like what?’
‘The most important being the confidentiality understanding. This clause means that you will never be able to write a book, sell your story, or reveal any personal details about Mr. Barrington or his family. There is no information, even outside of sexual activities, that may be revealed to anyone. Not even friends or family. You can never bring a guest to the apartment you will share with Mr. Barrington. This clause applies to family, friends and acquaintances. In the event that they reveal anything, you will be held liable.
‘Please pay particular attention to this section.’ He stabs a stubby finger on the paper. ‘It expressly prohibits any form of recording device while in the company of Mr. Barrington.’
She nods.
He clears his throat. ‘And you must practice some form of birth control. In the event that you get pregnant you must terminate the pregnancy immediately.’
Lana stares at him. What kind of people are these?
Undaunted by her astonished face the lawyer carries on talking, ‘You must understand that this contract is binding. At the dissolution of your relationship you will not receive anything more than is already stipulated in this contract. Other than the agreed sum you will not seek further financial gain, notoriety or advancement in any form as the result of this relationship. Breach of contract or failure by yourself will result in immediate termination of the agreement, and in the case of breach, the offended party may seek all remedies available at law or in equity. This section shall survive termination of this agreement and remain in effect for the rest of your life.’
‘Fine.’
‘One more thing. Mr. Barrington wanted me to emphasize that the contract will be for three months.’
‘I thought it was going to be for one month?’
The lawyer’s face does not change. ‘Your services will be required for the period of three months.’
Lana presses her lips together. She was very drunk last night, but she is sure he said one month. ‘Can I speak to him?’
‘Of course.’ He picks up the phone and speed dials his client’s number. ‘Mr. Barrington, Miss Bloom would like to have a word about the length of the contract.’ He pauses to listen to something Blake says. ‘Yes, she has.’ Then he passes the phone to Lana and quietly leaves the room. Lana waits until he closes the door before she speaks. She is dismayed to hear her voice sound uncertain and timid.
‘Hello, Blake.’
‘Hello, Lana.’ His voice is different than she remembered. Colder; he seems a total stranger.
She swallows. ‘About the duration of the contract. The lawyer says…’ she begins.
‘Sorry, Lana, but that is not negotiable,’ he says, not sounding sorry at all.
‘Oh.’
‘Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘Er… No.’
‘Well, have a good day then, and I will see you tonight.’ There is a click and the line goes dead. Lana replaces the phone slowly. It dawns on her then that Scott Fitzgerald was right—the rich are different. They are unashamed by their ruthlessness. The lawyer, who must have been watching an extension light, walks into the room.
‘All sorted out?’
‘Yes. Where do I sign?’
‘You do realize that you will have to read it at some point as there are other clauses than the ones we have discussed in there that you must adhere to.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you acknowledge that you have received, read and understood the terms and conditions outlined, and agree to abide by the said terms.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ he drawls and looks at her expectantly. She realizes he has opened the contract up at the last page.
‘Sign here.’ She signs. Her hands are dead steady. ‘And date it here.’ She dates it. He opens another contract. ‘Sign and date again please.’ When she raises her head he is watching her steadily. He smiles coldly. It occurs to her that he believes his dealings with her to be beneath him. She is expensive trash. He has thoughts about her that are unflattering.
‘Well, that’s that, then. Here is your copy.’ He presses a buzzer that brings his secretary.
‘Helen here will take your bank details and tell you everything else you need to know.’ He half stands and holds his hand out. ‘Thank you, Miss Bloom. Please do not hesitate to call me if you have any further queries.’
In the back seat of the Bentley, Lana finds a Boots bag and inside it her prescription.
She asks Peter to stop at a cash machine. She pops her debit card into the hole in the wall and can hardly believe it. One hundred thousand and thirty-two pounds, seventy pence. By heaven!
At the precise moment that Lana is staring at her newly resuscitated bank balance, Blake is ending a call from his solicitor. Looking up, he sees a reflection of himself in the highly polished doors of the lift he is waiting for. He watches himself curiously. He is grinning quite foolishly.
Nine
‘Hi, I’m Fleur Jan,’ the publicist says, coming forward, her hand held out to Lana. She is Polish and her eyes are very large and a much deeper blue than Lana’s. She is wearing false eyelashes that she bats with great effect and her hair is cut very short around her lovely face. Dressed in a brown pencil skirt and a pink top she is effortlessly chic. ‘What we will be doing today has nothing to do with publicity for the company, but Blake knows how much I love shopping so he asked if I wouldn’t mind going shopping with you. Of course I said yes,’ she explains with a twinkle in her eyes.
‘Cool,’ Lana says, some of Fleur’s enthusiasm already rubbing off on her. Fleur is a good change after the drawling Mr. Benby.
‘He mentioned formal attire, beachwear and a pair of new trainers.’ Lana nods. The man is thorough, she will give him that. ‘Do you want a coffee or tea or shall we hit the road?’
‘Hit the road.’
They walk together to the lift. Fleur calls it and turns to Lana. ‘Do you have any specific shops or do you want to leave it to me?’
‘You decide everything.’
And that turns out to be an excellent decision as Fleur proves to be an expert shopping companion. She knows exactly where to go to get what.
Their first stop is Selfridges. Fleur guides her to a cosmetics counter. ‘The girl can make a monkey look sexy, so listen carefully to her advice,’ she says about a sweet-looking girl standing behind the counter called Aisha. Lana is popped on a high stool, given a hand mirror and taught how to make the best of her make-up.
‘You have such beautiful skin,’ Aisha admires with a warm smile.
‘Have you ever tried wearing waterproof mascara?’ Fleur asks smoothly. Lana looks at Fleur. Her face is innocent, but it is clear that Blake has mentioned something about her smudged mascara. Together the three of them choose two lipsticks, some sparkly eyeliner, cream blusher and waterproof mascara.
‘Now to the perfume department. Something terribly exotic to go with your dark hair and gorgeous eyes.’
Then they go upstairs and pick out a green and blue bikini and a transparent blue wrap-around. Afterwards, Peter drops them off at the front entrance of Harrods. Lana has never been inside before, but Fleur seems to know her way around, and they quickly make for the first floor where they pick up what Fleur calls the basics: a white blouse and plain black trousers. They walk out of the side entrance of Harrods on the east side and enter Rigby and Peller. Fleur has made Lana an appointment for a fitting. The woman who calls her into the changing room is middle-aged with large strong hands.
‘Most women are walking around in the wrong bra size,’ she says, and makes Lana bend over while she fits her with a bra. It turns out so is Lana. She is not a 34A but a 32B. When Lana has chosen the designs she wants Fleur flashes her company credit card.
‘Now let’s go get the good stuff,’ says Fleur, batting her eyelashes.
‘How much are you allowed to spend on me?’ Lana asks curiously.
‘Actually,’ Fleur says, ‘Mr. Barrington didn’t see fit to set a limit.’ She winks conspiratorially. ‘So we make hay while the sun shines.’
They walk around the back of Harrods and down Old Brompton Road. Fleur is a mine of information. She knows everything about fashion, what’s in, what’s out, what’s so in, what’s so out, what’s in if you are not really in, what gets the best second-hand prices when you want to flog it.
She suggests a beautiful red and silver handbag in Gucci. ‘To die for,’ she says.
‘It is a limited edition. Pure crocodile skin,’ explains the snooty-faced sales assistant helpfully.
‘OK,’ Lana says, bewildered by the price tag. She stands by the counter while Fleur pays and wonders what sort of reception she would have received if she had come alone. ‘Let’s go,’ Fleur sings merrily.
Then Lana is being led into Chanel. All her life she has dreamed of owning a Chanel bag. Once someone gave her a fake Chanel bag for Christmas and she waited until a reasonable time had passed before giving it away to a charity shop. If she couldn’t afford the real thing she didn’t want to pretend.
Fleur is clever. It is as if she understands; here her suggestions are unnecessary. All she says is, ‘Choose.’ Lana feels she is in Aladdin’s cave. She cannot choose. In the end she goes for the classic black with the leather interlaced gold chain strap. But when Fleur goes to the counter she says, ‘We’ll have the pink one too.’
‘That’s nearly seven thousand pounds!’
‘Yes, but we have no limit. Besides, every girl needs a pink handbag. What else can you carry when you want to dress in white?’ Fleur says reasonably and phones Peter to come and pick up the packages.
Almost in a daze, Lana is led into and out of a string of designer boutiques. Most of the shop assistants seem to recognize and head for Fleur immediately.
‘Cupboard love,’ Fleur dismisses, as they flutter around her with accommodating smiles. ‘I am often here helping the wives of our high profile Middle Eastern clients spend their money.’ Fleur seems very sure of exactly what will look good on Lana. They buy a cream and gold suit, a red cocktail dress; a backless, sequined, black evening gown, and a sleeveless signature dress from Pucci, and of course shoes to match. Fleur decides that Lana will need a black pair of court shoes for the trousers, dainty diamond-studded stilettos, two tone sandals, tall brown boots, and multi-colored, ultra fashionable platforms.
‘Right, we are almost running out of time, but first a quick trip to Versace. Versace can be too gaudy and whorish, but this season they have something that I think will suit you perfectly.’ That something turns out to be an electric blue shirt that is almost the same color as Lana’s eyes and skin-tight black leather trousers. ‘Exactly as I thought—fantastic,’ she says, pleased with herself.
Fleur looks at her wristwatch. ‘Perfect timing. Let’s have some tea.’ Once again Peter comes to collect the packages, and they find themselves a table in a French patisserie full of women. They order cream tea. Lana bites into a buttered cream and jam filled scone ravenously.
‘It is wonderful that you can eat so much and still be so slim. I have to be careful,’ Fleur says, sipping lemon tea and breaking off small crumbs of her croissant.
‘Missed lunch,’ Lana says, swallowing.
Once Lana catches Fleur looking at her with an unreadable expression.
‘Do you have to do this often for Blake?’
‘To be perfectly honest, I have never done this before or heard of Mr. Barrington asking anyone else to do something similar, and though I was flattered to be asked, I was also dreading it. I thought you would be a brash gold-digger, but you are an unassuming breath of fresh air. I am glad to have taken you around.’
After tea, Lana and Fleur climb into the Bentley and Peter takes them to a hairdressing salon that belongs to one of the top hairstylists in the country. They go in and a young girl with bright red hair comes to greet and lead them into a private area. Two glasses of champagne arrive on a tray.
‘Go ahead,’ Fleur encourages. ‘You’ll be grateful for it when you are at your next appointment.’
‘Why? What’s next?’
Fleur smiles cheekily. ‘Full body wax.’
Lana’s jaw drops when the celebrity stylist himself appears. He noisily air-kisses Fleur on both cheeks and does the same with her. Then he stands back to look at Lana thoughtfully. Tipping his head to the side he reaches for her hair.
‘Oooo,’ he says, rubbing it in his fingers. ‘Virgin hair. You have never bleached or permed it, have you?’
Lana shakes her head.
‘Beautiful. It is a sin to cut such hair. Come, come,’ he says leading her to a single chair in front of a mirror and waiting while she sits. ‘We will leave the length, but we will do something wonderful for this heart-shaped face. We will give it a fringe.’
He picks up his comb and scissors. When he is finished Lana can hardly believe what a difference a fringe has made. Her eyes are suddenly enormous and her little chin now looks delicate and cat-like.
‘Beautiful,’ declares the stylist flamboyantly.
‘Very beautiful, indeed,’ agrees a delighted Fleur.
While Fleur is paying, Lana stares at herself in the mirror. She looks so different she almost doesn’t recognize herself.
‘This is where I say goodbye,’ Fleur says from behind her. Lana turns around to face her. ‘Peter will take you to the beauty salon where you have your last appointment. That over with, he will take you to the apartment where you will soak in a lovely bath and then you will dress in your new clothes. I believe you have a hot date at nine.’
‘Thank you, Fleur.’
‘The pleasure was all mine.’
‘I don’t know if we will ever meet again, but I’ll never forget you.’
‘Nor I you,’ Fleur says, and bending forward plants a light kiss on Lana’s cheek.
Lana’s next stop is in High Street Kensington. In an all-white salon an olive-skinned, middle-aged, barrel-like woman in a white trouser uniform with a clipboard smiles and introduces herself as Rosa Rehon. Rosa is Spanish and has retained her thick accent despite having been in England for fifteen years. She shows Lana into a small room with a beautician’s bed.
‘Ever had a full body wax before?’
‘No.’
‘No problem. We use three different waxes here. For the longer hair, the medium length, and for the pesky short ones.’ The waxes are heating in three pots. Each one is a different color.
‘Shall we do waist down first?’
‘Will this hurt a lot?’
‘Well, it depends on your pain threshold. Some people fall asleep while I am waxing them.’
‘Really?’
Her pearly whites flash. ‘Really. Pop on board. We will start with the legs.’
Lana reluctantly climbs on the bed that has been lined with paper, and lies down.
Rosa paints a thin layer of warm wax on Lana’s calf and lays a strip of cloth on the wax. ‘Ready?’ she asks. Lana nods and she rips.
‘Ow,’ Lana says.
‘The first one always hurts. The next one will be better,’ she says.
She paints another layer of wax and, stretching Lana’s skin, rips it off.
‘Ow,’ Lana says again.
‘It gets better after a while,’ she consoles unconvincingly, and launches into a monologue about how she and her husband have jam sandwiches every night while they are watching TV. ‘Sometimes, on weekends we will turn to each other and say, “Shall we have another?” and we do,’ she enlightens.
Despite a penchant for innocuous jam sandwiches, Rosa turns out to be a hair Nazi. She will not tolerate even the smallest hair anywhere. A painful hour, later Lana is red and hot and stinging all over. She has been asked to assume embarrassing positions so any stray hairs around what Rosa calls the bum hole can be ripped off.
Why would anyone want to do that, Lana thinks.
‘It looks prettier this way,’ Rosa says, as she rips another offending hair out.
‘Ow,’ replies Lana.
When it is all over Rosa squints at Lana’s face. ‘I can do your eyebrows for free,’ she offers. ‘Eyebrows don’t hurt at all.’
‘Yes, I know. Some of your customers fall asleep.’
Again that flash of strong teeth. ‘Well, shall I? I can make them look very beautiful.’
‘OK.’
The Rehons have a son in art school apparently, and Rosa fills Lana in about him while she works on Lana’s eyebrows. When she is finished she applies aloe vera gel before bringing a round mirror and giving it to Lana. The skin looks red and a little swollen but Rosa is right—her eyebrows actually arch and frame her eyes.
After that torture the manicure and pedicure are a pleasure. She watches the orange nail varnish that Billie so painstakingly painted onto her fingers and toes get wiped away. On the drive to the apartment Lana looks at her French manicure. She has to admit it is very pretty.
The car comes to a stop at a tall white building with a glass-fronted entrance.
‘Here we are,’ says Peter, switching off the engine.
