One Way or Another: A Novel (32 page)

“I know about the red-haired girl,” she said, surprising him. “The one you sketch continuously. How do I know that?” She reached in her bag, pulled out a sheet of sketch paper folded into quarters, opened it up, showed Marco his own drawing of Angie Morse, one of the many he had done.

“Where did you get this?”

“Ahmet took it from your bag. When your back was turned, I suppose.” She shrugged and gave him that tight smile of hers. “Mr. Ghulbian is not above a little petty larceny, Marco, you must know that. Of course he’s rich, he can pay for anything he wants, including women, but that red-haired one did not come cheap.”

Marco bent to fix the lead on Em’s collar. The dog sat up, ready to go. “The red-haired young woman’s name is Angie Morse,” Marco said. Then added, “But why do I guess you already knew that? I also believe you know where she is.”

Mehitabel said, “You mean if she is still alive, don’t you?”

“I think I have to ask Ahmet about that.”

Marco and the dog were already on their way out.

56

Mehitabel had three tasks. The first was to shop for a ball dress for herself, the second was one for Lucy, and third—outrageous, she thought, but she would do as Ahmet asked—for Angie. Angie who anyhow by now should be dead and gone and no longer a worry, though why Ahmet did not see this, did not envision the danger of keeping the woman alive—barely, by now—did not see he ran the risk of his losing everything, she could not comprehend. And all for a barmaid-hostess who’d never meant anything anyway, until Ahmet had made something of her. Women like Angie were the fluff in men’s lives, not to be taken seriously, meant to be used then discarded, sometimes with an expensive goodbye gift, sometimes not even the “goodbye.” And sometimes never to be seen again. Which one was Angie to be? Mehitabel wondered.

First, though, she called Lucy, tapping her nails impatiently against her phone as the number rang and rang without even a “sorry not here at the moment” message. Typical of Lucy, she thought, not a care in her head for the person calling, for anyone but herself. She remembered Ahmet saying, “Well, after all, she is only seventeen,” which, in legal terms was a definite danger mark.

Sex with an underage girl was not anything Ahmet would normally have worried about, but Mehitabel knew he would not step over the line with Lucy. The girl came from a well-known family, a family with connections, a background he did not possess. Any legal fight between the billionaire and an underage female of Lucy’s background was sure to leave Ahmet the loser, not only monetarily, but morally. He would be destroyed. Which is exactly what Mehitabel wanted. How to achieve that was the question, and that question was still on her mind when she at last got Lucy on the line.

“Good morning, Lucy,” she said in her best “nice girl” voice, though “sweet” was not something she could ever manage.

*   *   *

“Who is this?” Foggy with sleep, Lucy glanced at the bedside clock, a pretty little silver Tiffany that had belonged to her mother, with numerals so large she never had to open her eyes wide to catch the correct time, which suited her just fine. “It’s only nine thirty, for God’s sake.”

Mehitabel said, “Not that I believe ‘God’ cares what the time is, but I do and you should. This is Mehitabel. Mr. Ghulbian has put me in charge of equipping you for the Marshmallows ball. He wants you to be even more beautiful than you already are. I’m quoting him on that. Besides, all the media will be there—TV, magazines, newspapers. Mr. Ghulbian would like to feature you in these publicity shots, he tells me it will prepare you for your future career.”

Lucy lay back against the pillows, puzzling over exactly what her future career was supposed to be, other than working as Martha’s helper, and anyhow she had a dress and did not want to go shopping, especially with a person she privately called “that woman.” Martha did not like Mehitabel and neither did Lucy, in fact, “creepy” was the way Lucy thought of her, though why that was, she did not understand. Still, and she’d bet she was not the only one, somehow she did not think Mehitabel was the winner in the popularity stakes, though admittedly Marco did want to paint her.

“I have a perfectly fine dress I can wear,” she said, thinking of the gray chiffon from the yacht party. “Martha will see I look all right, so no need for Mr. Ghulbian to worry.”

“He asked me personally to take care of you.” Mehitabel was insistent. “Especially since he has a piece of jewelry he wishes you to wear. So you see, Lucy, the dress has to go with the jewels.”

“Funny.” Lucy twisted a strand of blond hair absently in her fingers the way she did when she was bored or tired. “I always thought it was the other way round. Dress first. Then the bits and pieces, shoes, bracelets, tiaras,” she laughed at that idea, “came last.”

“These are important,” Mehitabel said firmly. “They are usually kept in a vault at the bank but we shall get them out specially for you. I’ll come round and pick you up in, say, half an hour?”

Lucy wondered why it was people were always wanting to come and pick her up in half an hour when the truth was she had only just gotten out of bed and had not yet so much as swallowed a cup of coffee. She glanced into the cubbyhole kitchen, saw the pot was still plugged in, found it still warm, poured what dregs were left into a mug which she first had to empty out. She didn’t bother to rinse it under the tap, after all she wasn’t about to get foot and mouth from whoever had drunk from it last. She smiled, thinking of Martha’s face if she had seen what she had just done, and maybe Martha was right and she should straighten up her slovenly ways, get her act together, become a woman. Soon to be an eighteen-year-old woman.

So okay, maybe she would make a splash at the Marshmallows ball, maybe she would let Ghulbian get her a dress to go with his jewels so she could show him off. Or at least his money, she thought with sudden mind-numbing truth. Ahmet was okay but he was old and he was too rich and he was—her heart skipped a beat just thinking about this—dangerous.

Why she’d thought that, she was not quite sure, but there was something about him; his smiling, friendly, though not fatherly, behavior told her he was after her, and she didn’t like it. Yet sometimes it gave her a thrill. Hey, a rich guy is after me, she could tell her friends. Old as Methuselah. Think I’m too young for him?

Remembering Mehitabel, she suddenly made up her mind. “Thanks, but no,” she told her. “I have a perfectly nice dress I want to wear, and if Ahmet’s jewels don’t match, then let some other girl wear them. I’m sure he knows plenty of women. Thank you, Mehitabel,” she said, ever polite, as she clicked off her phone. Then she called Martha.

*   *   *

Martha had not meant to go back alone to Marshmallows but, as always, there was a hitch in the plans. Morrie resolutely refused to accompany her, said she could fire him if she wanted but that was it. Of course she had not fired him, but remembering her last creepy visit to the house she’d needed someone to go with her. She got Marco on the phone.

“I’m scared of that place” was her opening line, which, of course, immediately got his interest, and his concern.

“You’re talking about Marshmallows?”

“Damn right, and I have to go there to take care of details for the ball this weekend.”

“I’m surprised anyone is going to the ball since Ahmet does not appear to have friends.”

“He has now. Everyone I know was invited and most accepted out of straight curiosity. Besides, it promises to be the most extravagant bash of the year, it’ll probably go down in history, at least it will if the media have their way, because every single one of the social correspondents is coming. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, Marc, and I am really nervous now.”

“So, what can I do?”

“Just be there with me. We have to make sure the driveway has been re-graveled, that new trees are planted, and the lanterns are arranged in those crappy little twisted things that pass for trees at that place, that the dance floor is waxed, the electricians are setting up for the microphones, that the platform for the band is finished, that the swimming pool has been covered where the rock group will play so people can dance; that the buffet tables are lined up along the route from kitchen to dining room, where small tables should be set with crisp white linen and fine china. And pray that none of the guests will run off with the solid silver cutlery Ahmet insists on using, though it’s worth a friggin’ fortune. Why oh why, Marco, does that man always have to show how rich he is? Why can’t he just get over it and behave normally?”

“The truth is, Ahmet is not normal. Better get used to that idea, my love, because I can bet you will see both sides of that turbulent personality this weekend. If Ahmet does not get exactly what he wants, exactly what he paid for, there will be hell to pay.”

Remembering Ahmet’s angry words about getting exactly what he paid for, Martha felt her heart sink. She should never have taken on this job. And that cow Mehitabel was right, it could make or break her. Still, she had her team: four women and two men who worked with her, knew what she wanted almost before she asked for it. And who never minded either running out for coffee or joining her at the end of yet another shattering day for a glass of wine and a bit of a laugh, which certainly helped make her world go round. But most of all she wanted to be with Marco. She suddenly needed most desperately to see him, to feel his arms round her, rest her head in the crook of his shoulder, smell his own incense of lime and vanilla and sheer lovely sexy-man flesh.

She was calling him from her car, having run yet another errand, hot and sweaty, hair a limp wreck, nerves frazzled, her morning’s makeup long gone, not even a touch of lip gloss. “I’m coming over right now,” she warned him. “Just as I am, in sweatpants and furry slippers, in need of a shower and a hug and a kiss.”

“Which do you want first, baby?” She heard him laughing as he rang off.

Oddly, what she said to him when she arrived was not the “I love you” Marco expected. Instead she said, “I’m really worried about Ahmet and Lucy. He had that woman call my sister to arrange to take her out and buy her a dress for the ball. A
dress,
” Martha added, with a frown of anger, “that would go with the jewels he wants her to wear. No, wait a minute, that wasn’t exactly what Mehitabel said. I believe it was the jewels Lucy
would
wear.”

Marco’s brows rose. “You mean, like it or lump it?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, and that’s why I’m worried about him.”

Marco went to the fridge, took out a bottle of Chablis, found two glasses, poured the wine. He handed a glass to Martha, walked her over to the long sofa, with the old shawls and quilts he used in his work thrown over it, sat her down, adjusted a cushion at her back, removed her slippers, swung her legs up, then sat beside her and lifted her legs onto his lap.

“So, okay, tell me all about it, honey,” he said.

Martha took a deep breath. “So, okay,” she repeated his words, “I know I’m working for him. He’s my boss. It’s a major commission, the biggest I ever had. It’s extremely important to me, not simply that I’ll be making a great deal of money and Ahmet is a generous man where money is concerned, at least where Marshmallows is concerned, he is, but I can’t stand him. Marco, something is wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, I can’t say exactly why or what, but I remember the bad vibes at that house, I can still hear that strange scream in my dreams. My skin crawls whenever I think of being alone there.”

“Then you must never be alone there.”

57

Martha was finally in the place she wanted to be, in bed with Marco. She had shed her old sweatpants and T-shirt, soaked herself in a long, hot bath, which Marco had drawn for her, making sure the temperature was perfect by putting his finger in the too-hot water and scalding it.

“It’s okay, it’s not my painting hand,” he’d said with a grin though it hurt. Later Martha tenderly applied a pat of butter to the wound, her grandmother’s remedy, she remembered. Marco didn’t think much of it anyhow; he licked off the butter, said he needed toast to go with it, wrapped a grungy old paint rag around his finger and got back to the work he’d been doing, which was making love to the woman in his life. The love of his life.

“The thing is,” Martha said, finally unraveling herself from his arms and sitting up. A frown scrunched her brow as she thought about what she wanted to say.

“The fact is, Ahmet believes this ball will be his social validation. It’ll make him a member of a club he believes exists, but not for him. He hasn’t been able to penetrate that other world, as he thinks of it, because he does not belong, he is a foreigner, an unknown—apart from his good works, that is—and there are many of those, I can attest to that. Ahmet certainly puts his money where his heart is, if of course we believe he has a heart. But I can tell you a lot of money has gone to help young men in trouble, and in a quiet way, so it’s not self-seeking.”

“In a way
it is
self-seeking. It’s my belief Ahmet is making up for his own past, that once he was like them. Come on now, Martha, nobody could have such a squeaky clean background, emerging from obscurity the way Ahmet did. Have you—
we,
anyone we know, ever checked his background, that amazing life story of rich Greek Egyptian parents who lost it all in the crash and have never been heard of since? Though, according to him, they paid for a good education, got him on the road to success. Do you know who Ahmet’s mother is? Do we even know her name? Is Ghulbian his
real
name, or just made up to prevent anyone getting at the truth? I tell you, I’m
painting
that man, I
see
the secrets hidden in his eyes, the face he keeps impassive by sheer strength of will—and a lot of practice, I’d bet on that. Ahmet has trained himself never to react, never to give his game away, never to let anyone know exactly what he is thinking. ‘Spontaneous’ is not a word we might ever use to describe your friend. He allows us to see only what he wants us to see. Even I, concentrating on the man’s face, looking for his deepest emotions under the smile, the flat eyes, cannot find the truth about who he is.”