The Flirt (30 page)

O
livia stood miserably backstage in the Nemisis 2000 pyramid, watching as minions wearing headsets and talking on mobile phones rushed back and forth in a state of organized hysteria.

Arnaud had sent a car. No message; no reference to anything that had happened between them. She was expected to be there, that was all. It was her duty.

So here she was, squeezed into the Chanel suit Arnaud had biked round for the occasion. She wondered if he’d chosen it himself. More likely one of his PAs had done it. There were shoes and a bag, coordinated but not matching. Beautifully tailored, outrageously colored, it was the uniform of her class; just the right combination of fashionable and traditional. Blonde hair, smooth and shiny, neat figure, manicured hands, tasteful jewelry—no one would ever imagine she was anything other than the perfect corporate wife. All topped off with the tense little smile; back molars grinding together behind a quick flash of white teeth.

Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich had arrived with his entourage, looking very tanned and handsome in his white tennis outfit. Some marketing men were trying to show him the shoe with its exceptionally springy sole but he was in the middle of trading some shares over the phone and waved them away.

Olivia couldn’t concentrate. I’m a lesbian, she thought over and over. I have to stop being a lesbian. What could she do? Cold showers? Maybe she could just go back; think herself straight again. Did it show? Could people tell?

Across the room Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich paced back and forth. He was considered a great heartthrob in the tennis world. Nearly six foot seven, he was a giant of a man, and yet he moved with the natural physical assurance and economy of a great athlete. He radiated a magnetic, larger-than-life presence that was difficult to take your eyes off. And he was incredibly successful, reputed to be as ruthless off the court as on, in matters of both the heart and business.

“
Da. Da. Da.
” He paused to take in his reflection and adjust himself in his shorts. “
Da.
”

He turned, spotted Olivia and flashed her a wide Wimbledon Win smile.

She smiled back weakly.

Nothing, she despaired. Here is one of the most famous playboys of the age and I feel nothing!

Then the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. All the hysterical people on headsets paused mid-sentence.

Arnaud had arrived.

Strutting toward her purposefully, he looked older than she remembered and shorter.

She stood up, dutifully.

“Olivia!”

Why was he shouting? “Yes?”

He grabbed her arm, practically dragging her around the corner, into a small office filled with spare sound equipment. He slammed the door.

“My God, Arnaud! What are you doing?” Struggling not to trip over a pile of extension leads, she shook him off. “Stop man-handling me!”

He turned, hands in pockets. “You look so nice, darling. Do you like your gift?”

Had he gone completely insane?

“It’s fine,” she said, tugging the jacket straight again. “Though it isn’t really a gift, is it, if I have to wear it.”

He laughed, circling in front of her. “You don’t have to wear it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But life is expensive, don’t you find? Too expensive to navigate alone.” He was taking something out of his breast pocket. “Especially if one has seen better days,” he added, handing it to her.

Her heart seized.

They were the Smythson’s cards; her cards!

“Where did you get these?” she asked, suddenly terrified.

“What does it matter where I got them?” he shrugged. “The important thing is that I do have them. And it looks to me, my dear, as if you’ve been having some sort of pathetic, middle-aged affair.”

Olivia stared at the cards, mind reeling. Was it Leticia, the girl in the lingerie shop? Had she gone to Arnaud with the threat of selling her story to the papers and he bought her off? Or had Gaunt been spying on her?

“You’re wrong,” she murmured.

“Am I?” He tossed his hair back. “My lawyers seem to think otherwise.”

“Lawyers?”

He came up behind her, traced his fingers lightly along her shoulder. “Yes, you remember: lawyers. Men who take money away from unfaithful, ungrateful people and keep it for themselves. Unless, of course, no action is taken. In which case, they’re despondent. But marriage isn’t to be taken for granted, is it? I don’t know about you, but I have no desire to simply throw away
the past. However, I think you’ll agree, things cannot go on as they were.”

It was hard for her to think; even to see.

“Maybe we could have some sort of life together. Though to be quite honest, this is enough to have you out on your ear without a penny. Do you understand that? That is a point I wish to make perfectly clear: no court in the land would do anything else.”

She felt faint; sick. “Yes, Arnaud.”

“Good.” He squeezed her arm affectionately. “I think it’s time you gave up the gallery, started taking your position as a wife seriously.”

She stared at him in horror. “But…but…”

“Are you defying me?” His voice was low, disturbingly calm. “Remember, life is expensive, Olivia. And you’re a little old, don’t you think, to be starting again. What are you fit for? Making coffees at Starbucks?” he chuckled. “I’m being mean, aren’t I? Forgive me. You could always go back home, work in the jewelry department of Saks Fifth Avenue. Now,” he swung the door wide, standing beside it like someone letting out a dog, “go out front and take your seat like a good girl. As far as I’m concerned, this discussion is over.”

Moving numbly, Olivia wandered out of the office, through the clusters of people, all staring at her, toward the auditorium.

Arnaud watched with satisfaction as she nearly collided with one of the catering staff, serving drinks.

It had been worth it, every penny.

She was back. Frail, distraught; eager to please.

Of course, the timing was everything. His mother had taught him that. If you’re going to humiliate someone, there’s nothing quite like a public event.

The makeshift auditorium was full; everyone who was anyone in the London sporting scene was milling about, drinking champagne, eating canapés, working the press. A band played upbeat Latino dance rhythms while beautiful young women in spandex shorts refilled glasses.

Olivia entered unnoticed, stumbling over to the far corner and sitting down heavily in one of the folding chairs.

Betrayal burned across her chest; so much so that she had to resist the desire to double over. Her mind whirred. She was trapped. What else did Arnaud know about her? What were her options?

She gripped the cards tightly.

They had been magical; a passport into a parallel universe where she was beloved, valued, free.

Now they seemed tawdry, pathetic.

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. She had to think; come up with a plan.

Suddenly the gleaming diamonds of her eternity ring caught her eye.

She remembered the day he’d given it to her, after the miscarriage.

It was late in the afternoon when he finally returned from his business trip. Lying on the bed, hollow with grief, she turned. He was standing in the doorway. And before she could even open her mouth, he’d produced the ring box from his coat pocket.

All the words, the tears, pushed aside to make room for a pantomime of delight and gratitude. He would’ve paid any price to keep her quiet that day.

It was always like that; would always be like that. The life her parents led unfolded before her, at her feet. The way was familiar,
well worn; full of lies and deceptions; thousands of compromises all for a scrap of security; a band of hard, shiny stones.

Stillness descended; her head stopped whirring.

All around her, people were laughing, drinking; joking.

So what if she walked away with nothing?

Was she really about to sell herself so short?

Standing, Olivia looked around for the exit.

That’s when she saw her.

Moving languidly, with a self-possession only the most beautiful people have, her sexual energy was enough to part the people around her as she slipped out from backstage.

He’d invited her. Right under her nose.

Olivia didn’t need to be told—the dark-haired girl with the round face and the Gucci dress was his mistress.

But there was something more; she radiated a certain glow.

Opportunity comes in strange guises.

Slipping the cards into her purse, Olivia straightened her Chanel skirt.

And timing was everything.

Arnaud gave a signal and the presentation began. Throbbing futuristic music blared from the enormous loudspeakers. Lights flashed. Two dozen half-naked dancers gyrated out onstage and the disembodied voice of a famous actor boomed, “In all the world only one can be the best. And only once in a generation does the best reveal itself.” The music surged and dancers flapped about in a frenzy of mildly pornographic poses. A huge projection of a tennis shoe appeared on the screen, revolving slowly through space. “Today Bourgalt du Coudray Industries offers you the rare chance to witness the birth of a legend—the Nemesis All-Pro Sport 2000 Tennis Shoe. Not just a shoe, but a whole new way of sporting life for only £299
suggested retail price. And here to introduce this amazing new product is the Men’s Top Seed, Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich, and the man with the vision himself, Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray!”

Arnaud and Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich strutted onstage. Instantly the press surged to their feet and they were engulfed in a flurry of flashing bulbs.

Arnaud looked out into the audience of press and industry dignitaries. There were so many more here than even he’d anticipated. Beaming, he grabbed Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich’s hand and held it high. The photographers went wild. He was at the very center of the universe; the all-seeing eye of the world’s press confirmed that he had made it once and for all. Never again could anyone claim he lived off the money and reputation of his family. He was his own man at last!

“I love this shoe!” Ivaldos proclaimed, as was specified in his contract. “I will win Wimbledon again next year wearing this remarkable piece of footwear genius!”

A roar of applause!

More photos!

Arnaud beamed down at the adoring crowd.

What was that?

His wife, waving?

He smiled and waved back.

Then, almost as if it were happening in slow motion, he watched as she made her way through the crowd, through the sea of flashbulbs, toward Svetlana.

What was she doing?

Then something truly awful happened; the press turned the wonderful warmth of their gaze away from Arnaud.

Instead, the heated conversation between Olivia and Svetlana became their focus. And above all the noise of the crowd and cameras, the words “mistress” and “pregnant” hit him.

Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich let go of his hand.

Once again he was caught in a flurry of flashbulbs but this time it was neither warm nor approving. A barrage of questions hit him.

“Is it true?”

“Is this woman your mistress?”

“Is she really pregnant with your love child?”

“How long have you been unfaithful to your wife?”

“Are you going to have it DNA tested?”

“£299 is a bit much for a tennis shoe, don’t you think?”

“He promised me a life together!” Svetlana seized her opportunity, tossing her head back and pouting provocatively. “I love him and he loves me! We’re going to be happy!”

“That’s a lie!” Arnaud protested.

“It’s all true! I swear!”

Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich stormed off the stage.

The cameras went wild.

“These are utterly false allegations!” Arnaud protested, grabbing the microphone. “I would never be unfaithful to my wife. We have a wonderful, solid marriage built on trust and shared values. This girl is nothing more than an opportunist! Let her say what she likes! My wife is as devoted to me as I am to her. Our marriage will weather this storm!”

He searched everywhere for Olivia’s face in the crowd and he wasn’t the only one. Reporters clambered over one another like insects, trying to find the elegant, betrayed wife in the hottest love triangle of the year.

But she had disappeared.

Olivia lifted the sledgehammer above her head.

“Cunt!” Down it came. Whack!

A fat-faced cupid sailed across the garden.

“Fucking cunting cunt!” She took another swing.

Crash! A dolphin split in two. Water shot out everywhere, spraying her in the eye, soaking the Chanel suit. And a crack formed in the gold bowl of the fountain.

“Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt!”

Smash! Bang! Crash! Pieces of stone flew into the air, landing in the flower beds. She didn’t care. He was a cunt of the highest order! Pregnant! There, right in front of her while he paraded his dumb blonde wife for the world’s press!

She swung the sledgehammer hard, smashing the face off another ugly cherub.

“You fucking cunt!” she screamed, her shoulder smarting from the impact.

Then what was left of the fountain spluttered out and died.

Drenched and struggling for breath, Olivia looked up.

Ricki was standing near the far wall; she’d turned off the water. Olivia leaned against the hammer, staring at her.

“Thanks,” she said at last, recovering herself.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

They surveyed the damage. This was nothing compared to what she was going to do to his bank account, she thought bitterly.

Ricki walked over. “Does it help?”

Olivia shook her head. “Not really. But at least the garden looks better.” She was suddenly exhausted. Sinking down on the steps, she pushed wet hair off her face.

The suit was ruined.

Good.

Ricki sat down next to her. “I’m afraid it’s already hit the tabloids. There’s a crowd of paparazzi outside. I’m really sorry.”

“Pass me that, will you?” Olivia nodded in the direction of the little clutch bag lying on the steps.

Ricki handed it to her and Olivia pulled out a packet of Marlboros. Shaking a couple out, she lit them, gave one to Ricki.