get on top of all the pesky admin. At this rate I may consider going home early for Christmas, once we’re back from our trip. I wonder how long Mark is going to be in hospital and if he will want me here while he’s recuperating. I’ll have to ask Caroline about it and discuss what’s best to do.
Just then an email flashes into my computer inbox. I see that it’s from Andrei, and a swirl of apprehension turns nastily in my stomach. I knew it was only a matter of time before he called on me again. The last thing he said was that there was a job he wanted me to do, and there was no way he was going to let me out of his life, not after what he said on the plane.
I know I’ve been pretending to myself that I can handle Andrei Dubrovski and shake him off as easily as Dominic seems to think I can, but the truth is that I’m just as entangled with him as ever – more, because of Mark.
I click on the email and open it. It reads:
Beth
I need you this evening. Come to Albany at seven o’clock for an important meeting.
A
As usual, his tone infuriates me. No pleases or thank yous or any social niceties. Andrei is incapable of basic politeness, it seems. He still assumes I’m at his beck and call whenever he likes.
The problem is, I am. He’s got me just where he wants me.
I fire back a response saying I’ll be there. It’s a good job that I haven’t got any other plans.
There’s something particularly Christmassy about Piccadilly. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned feel to the buildings, the grand old houses that are now shops and galleries. Perhaps it’s the bright arcades with their tempting displays of jewels, silver and leather. It’s probably because of the landmarks like the Ritz, draped in lavish Christmas decorations and sparkling with lights, the Royal Academy and the pale blue frontage of Fortnum and Mason with its Christmas trees and the glittering window displays full of lavish food and drink. Whatever it is, it’s hard to ignore, especially in the frosty winter darkness.
There is Albany House, set back from the main road with its small private car park in front of it. Thousands of people must walk past it every day, not knowing that behind its classical exterior lie dozens of luxurious apartments where poets, politicians and film stars have lived. This is where Andrei has chosen to make his London home, right in the centre of the glamorous heart of Mayfair, inside the establishment itself. There is privacy behind these walls, which is no doubt why he chose it. Without belonging to this place, no one can wander in. Porters guard the main entrance and a camera is focused on the back door that can only be opened with a security card. No doubt Andrei feels safe and anonymous inside this bastion of privilege.
The porter recognises me as I enter and says a cheery ‘Evening, ma’am’ as I pass the tiny lodge. Not so long ago I came here every day to catalogue Andrei’s art collection and arrange its display in his Albany set. It feels like another lifetime.
I go down the Rope Walk to Andrei’s staircase, wondering what he wants me to do. I’m apprehensive: not only does he have power over me, but that he knows it too. He’s not the kind of man to shy away from getting what he wants by whatever means necessary. I just have to hope that I’ve got the inner strength to face him down. If I can get away from him, I’ll have removed the final obstacle to being with Dominic.
I knock on the front door, banging the great fish-shaped brass knocker. The door is answered at once by Andrei’s bodyguard, who beckons me inside. I can hear the murmur of voices from the drawing room and I check my watch. It’s not seven o’clock yet. Whatever this important meeting is, it seems to have started.
The bodyguard, as silent as ever, leads me to the drawing room, opens the door and gestures for me to go inside. I step in and see several men sitting on the sofa. Andrei is in an armchair facing them, and
Just then an email flashes into my computer inbox. I see that it’s from Andrei, and a swirl of apprehension turns nastily in my stomach. I knew it was only a matter of time before he called on me again. The last thing he said was that there was a job he wanted me to do, and there was no way he was going to let me out of his life, not after what he said on the plane.
I know I’ve been pretending to myself that I can handle Andrei Dubrovski and shake him off as easily as Dominic seems to think I can, but the truth is that I’m just as entangled with him as ever – more, because of Mark.
I click on the email and open it. It reads:
Beth
I need you this evening. Come to Albany at seven o’clock for an important meeting.
A
As usual, his tone infuriates me. No pleases or thank yous or any social niceties. Andrei is incapable of basic politeness, it seems. He still assumes I’m at his beck and call whenever he likes.
The problem is, I am. He’s got me just where he wants me.
I fire back a response saying I’ll be there. It’s a good job that I haven’t got any other plans.
There’s something particularly Christmassy about Piccadilly. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned feel to the buildings, the grand old houses that are now shops and galleries. Perhaps it’s the bright arcades with their tempting displays of jewels, silver and leather. It’s probably because of the landmarks like the Ritz, draped in lavish Christmas decorations and sparkling with lights, the Royal Academy and the pale blue frontage of Fortnum and Mason with its Christmas trees and the glittering window displays full of lavish food and drink. Whatever it is, it’s hard to ignore, especially in the frosty winter darkness.
There is Albany House, set back from the main road with its small private car park in front of it. Thousands of people must walk past it every day, not knowing that behind its classical exterior lie dozens of luxurious apartments where poets, politicians and film stars have lived. This is where Andrei has chosen to make his London home, right in the centre of the glamorous heart of Mayfair, inside the establishment itself. There is privacy behind these walls, which is no doubt why he chose it. Without belonging to this place, no one can wander in. Porters guard the main entrance and a camera is focused on the back door that can only be opened with a security card. No doubt Andrei feels safe and anonymous inside this bastion of privilege.
The porter recognises me as I enter and says a cheery ‘Evening, ma’am’ as I pass the tiny lodge. Not so long ago I came here every day to catalogue Andrei’s art collection and arrange its display in his Albany set. It feels like another lifetime.
I go down the Rope Walk to Andrei’s staircase, wondering what he wants me to do. I’m apprehensive: not only does he have power over me, but that he knows it too. He’s not the kind of man to shy away from getting what he wants by whatever means necessary. I just have to hope that I’ve got the inner strength to face him down. If I can get away from him, I’ll have removed the final obstacle to being with Dominic.
I knock on the front door, banging the great fish-shaped brass knocker. The door is answered at once by Andrei’s bodyguard, who beckons me inside. I can hear the murmur of voices from the drawing room and I check my watch. It’s not seven o’clock yet. Whatever this important meeting is, it seems to have started.
The bodyguard, as silent as ever, leads me to the drawing room, opens the door and gestures for me to go inside. I step in and see several men sitting on the sofa. Andrei is in an armchair facing them, and
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