me!’ Natascha cried, beginning to scream as though she was being murdered.
‘Then let go!’
‘What the fuck is going on?’
The voice made them both jump, stop and turn. At the sight of the man standing in the doorway, Natascha went limp and stopped struggling. For a moment, Flora thought it was the neighbour from
the apartment across the street, but this man was taller, leaner, with shaggy black hair and deep-set grey eyes, a squared-off chin and bevelled cheekbones. He looked like a Viking and Flora felt
herself go limp too, albeit seemingly for a very different reason.
‘Xav!’ Natascha cried, beginning to struggle again and saying something that to Flora’s ear was incomprehensible (though in fact she felt she’d lost the power of speech,
full stop, not just her command of the French language). Flora stepped back as Xavier crossed the room and effortlessly lifted the stuffed bird off his sister, freeing her.
Natascha scrambled to her feet, dishevelled and furious. Flora had no idea what she was saying to him; she felt the rug had been pulled out from under her again. Two shocks in ten minutes was
not what she needed on three hours’ sleep and only a sushi snack. She took another step back, away from the two of them, feeling distinctly outnumbered.
Xavier turned to look at her. ‘You are from the fine-art agency.’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said quietly, trying to regain some dignity, pushing her hair back from her face and checking her buttons – some of them had been ripped off in
the fracas and she tried to hold her blouse together.
‘And you have told my sister here that you are in charge of this collection?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So then why was the door to the apartment wide open? Anyone could have walked in here.’ He gestured with one arm towards the cone of light pooling in the hall.
Flora stared back at him in horror. She had left her post. Left the apartment wide open. He was right – anyone could have just walked in; he had, after all. ‘I – I – it
wasn’t my fault. She was about to start smoking in here. I had no choice but to stop her.’
She looked across at Natascha, only to find the girl doing exactly, defiantly that –
again
!
‘No!’ Flora shouted, lunging forward and swatting the cigarette out of Natascha’s pout. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot smoke in here!’ she cried,
just as Natascha swung an arm and hit Flora smack in the face.
Flora gasped, her hand flying to her cheek, before the red mist descended and she slapped her back. Harder.
It was Natascha’s turn to gasp but before she could retaliate – again – Xavier stepped between them both. Natascha instead slapped Xavier on the arm as though this was some
sort of attack command.
Flora retreated a step.
‘Stop it! Both of you!’ he demanded.
Both women fell silent, breathless and pumped, their hair and eyes wild, cheeks furiously red and marked with the other’s handprints, their shirts torn.
‘Apologize to my sister,’ Xavier demanded, glowering down at Flora.
She stared back at him, hardly able to believe he was serious, knowing it was futile to expect anything different. What was it Ines had said? Cokehead? Playboy? She took in his pale blue
crumpled linen shirt, barely buttoned up like his sister’s (well, hers too now) and the tails hanging out, beige cargo shorts, suede moccasins. At first glance, he didn’t look like a
society player, a multimillionaire’s scion, but she had a sharp eye from years of working closely with the super-rich and she knew the shoes were Prada, the shirt Zegna, the watch on his
wrist a top-of-the-range Breitling.
‘Go to hell.’ The words were out before she even knew they were hers. She almost jumped at the sound of them. Had she really just said that to her clients’ son?
Something mercurial darted through his eyes, like silver fish in a dark pool, and she knew
‘Then let go!’
‘What the fuck is going on?’
The voice made them both jump, stop and turn. At the sight of the man standing in the doorway, Natascha went limp and stopped struggling. For a moment, Flora thought it was the neighbour from
the apartment across the street, but this man was taller, leaner, with shaggy black hair and deep-set grey eyes, a squared-off chin and bevelled cheekbones. He looked like a Viking and Flora felt
herself go limp too, albeit seemingly for a very different reason.
‘Xav!’ Natascha cried, beginning to struggle again and saying something that to Flora’s ear was incomprehensible (though in fact she felt she’d lost the power of speech,
full stop, not just her command of the French language). Flora stepped back as Xavier crossed the room and effortlessly lifted the stuffed bird off his sister, freeing her.
Natascha scrambled to her feet, dishevelled and furious. Flora had no idea what she was saying to him; she felt the rug had been pulled out from under her again. Two shocks in ten minutes was
not what she needed on three hours’ sleep and only a sushi snack. She took another step back, away from the two of them, feeling distinctly outnumbered.
Xavier turned to look at her. ‘You are from the fine-art agency.’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said quietly, trying to regain some dignity, pushing her hair back from her face and checking her buttons – some of them had been ripped off in
the fracas and she tried to hold her blouse together.
‘And you have told my sister here that you are in charge of this collection?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So then why was the door to the apartment wide open? Anyone could have walked in here.’ He gestured with one arm towards the cone of light pooling in the hall.
Flora stared back at him in horror. She had left her post. Left the apartment wide open. He was right – anyone could have just walked in; he had, after all. ‘I – I – it
wasn’t my fault. She was about to start smoking in here. I had no choice but to stop her.’
She looked across at Natascha, only to find the girl doing exactly, defiantly that –
again
!
‘No!’ Flora shouted, lunging forward and swatting the cigarette out of Natascha’s pout. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot smoke in here!’ she cried,
just as Natascha swung an arm and hit Flora smack in the face.
Flora gasped, her hand flying to her cheek, before the red mist descended and she slapped her back. Harder.
It was Natascha’s turn to gasp but before she could retaliate – again – Xavier stepped between them both. Natascha instead slapped Xavier on the arm as though this was some
sort of attack command.
Flora retreated a step.
‘Stop it! Both of you!’ he demanded.
Both women fell silent, breathless and pumped, their hair and eyes wild, cheeks furiously red and marked with the other’s handprints, their shirts torn.
‘Apologize to my sister,’ Xavier demanded, glowering down at Flora.
She stared back at him, hardly able to believe he was serious, knowing it was futile to expect anything different. What was it Ines had said? Cokehead? Playboy? She took in his pale blue
crumpled linen shirt, barely buttoned up like his sister’s (well, hers too now) and the tails hanging out, beige cargo shorts, suede moccasins. At first glance, he didn’t look like a
society player, a multimillionaire’s scion, but she had a sharp eye from years of working closely with the super-rich and she knew the shoes were Prada, the shirt Zegna, the watch on his
wrist a top-of-the-range Breitling.
‘Go to hell.’ The words were out before she even knew they were hers. She almost jumped at the sound of them. Had she really just said that to her clients’ son?
Something mercurial darted through his eyes, like silver fish in a dark pool, and she knew
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