The Tides of Change Page 15

  The stale air stank of chemicals and Peaches felt a wave of revulsion overcome her, so that she had to hold her cuff over her mouth and stifle a gag. Yana walked over, leant down and woke the woman up.

  Immediately the woman snapped upright, pulling out a garish ginger wig from the side of her chair and yanking it down on her head like a hat. She kept on the dark shades and Peaches could understand why she’d need them. The bright fluorescent light overhead made everything seem brutally stark.

  Yana spoke to the woman for a few moments.

  ‘This is Irena,’ Yana said eventually to Peaches, her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  Peaches didn’t move. Could Irena really be related to her? She felt her sense of revulsion growing. And shame, too, that she was reacting this way. But surely there must be some mistake? Irena was so old, and so far removed from anything Peaches was used to. Her illness had stripped her totally of any feminine qualities.

  ‘Come nearer,’ Yana said.

  Peaches forced herself to walk closer. Every step made her feel more and more self-conscious and more and more ashamed. Could Yana see her lack of compassion? Her Western prejudice against the elderly and sick?

  Peaches stared at the old woman, trying to look as neutral as she could. Up close, she saw that Irena was much younger than she had thought: no more than sixty perhaps. Her cheeks had been made up, but beneath the cosmetics, her skin had an unnatural yellowy-greenish tint. The cancer, thought Peaches, not age.

  Irena spoke quickly in Russian to Yana. Her voice was hoarse and hostile.

  Peaches sat down heavily on an orange plastic chair. Again, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Again, she thought of her bed and how easy it would be, even now, to leave. To turn her back on this place and never look back.

  Instead, she looked at Irena, this woman who might be the only family she had. Shouldn’t there be some instant recognition? Wouldn’t a genetic link spark some reaction in her? In them both?

  But there was nothing. All Peaches saw was her own reflection in the giant lenses of Irena’s sunglasses. No answers. Nothing but her own questioning face staring back.

  Peaches looked up at Yana, who was patting the old woman’s shoulder, as if soothing her. And it was only then that Peaches realized that Irena was mumbling something barely audible.

  ‘What is she saying?’ Peaches asked Yana.

  ‘She asks . . . who are you? Who sent you?’

  ‘My name is . . .’ Peaches paused. She remembered what the lawyer Ron Wallace had told her. ‘Tell her that once, a long time ago, I was called Anna. And that Mikhail Gorsky sent me.’

  But Yana didn’t have to translate. At the mention of Mikhail Gorsky, Irena rose from her chair, emitting a terrifying scream. Then she lashed out, her bony arms flailing towards Peaches. The needle wrenched from the vein in her hand. Blood flew in a livid spurt.

  Peaches yelped. She scrambled backwards out of the way, the chair under her.

  ‘Stand back,’ Yana shouted at Peaches, who stumbled away, flattening herself against the wall by the door.

  What the hell was going on? Was Irena crazy?

  Peaches stared on horrified as Irena kept screaming and flailing around. Then she collapsed on the floor. She was gargling, choking. Her bare feet were kicking, as if someone were strangling her.

  Yana pressed a rubber button high up on the wall and shouted something into an intercom.

  Peaches wished she could disappear. Wished she’d never come. Wished she’d never spoken. Her mouth and throat felt like they’d been filled with sand. She struggled for breath as she watched Irena’s fit worsen, and Yana’s attempts to control her grow more panicky by the second.

  Oh my God, Peaches thought. What have I done? What if she dies?

  She watched in horror as blood trickled down Irena’s chin. She’d bitten her tongue. Yana lunged forward and gripped the old woman’s jaw, holding it open.

  Just in time, the door burst open behind Peaches and a couple of male staff in green overalls rushed in with a trolley. They lifted Irena on to it, struggling as she thrashed, finally manhandling her so that they could secure her legs with barbaric-looking leather straps. And still Irena screamed.

  Yana grabbed a syringe from one of the male nurses and plunged it into Irena’s thigh.

  A moment later, Irena stopped bucking against the straps and her scream lessened into more of a wail.

  An agonizing, soul-ripping wail.

  ‘What did you do?’ Yana said to Peaches accusingly, her previously friendly face now clouded with anger. She was sweating, her neat hair dishevelled from her frenzied struggle to control Irena.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . I’m sorry,’ Peaches managed. Her heart was in her throat, her hand over her mouth as the trolley passed her. Irena’s head snapped around to face Peaches. The dark glasses had fallen away.

  Peaches let out a terrified whimper.

  Where Irena’s eyes should have been were two holes. Blackened. Mangled. Scar tissue.

  As if . . . Peaches couldn’t even bear the thought . . . as if someone had deliberately burnt her eyeballs out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Frankie removed the black silky eye-patches, not that she had been sleeping. The air stewardess in the smart silk blouse, the same colour as the private jet’s beige leather seats, leant over her, holding a silver tray with a single glass of pink champagne on it. Sunlight poured in through the windows, bathing everything in gold. Gentle jazz played softly, drowning out the soporific buzz of the engines.

  ‘Would you like another glass before we land, Miss Willis?’ she asked with a practised, glossy smile.

  Frankie sat up straight in the giant squashy seat. ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling back and taking the champagne.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Frankie watched the stewardess walk away in her perfect high heels and start polishing the shiny surface in the plush galley kitchen, exchanging a discreet word with her male colleague – the only other member of the cabin crew.

  Frankie took a sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles fizz in her mouth. She longed to admit that only a few hours ago she’d been a stewardess herself. And now she was the one being served. She wanted to blurt out how bizarre it felt – and how amazing!

  But what was she thinking? There was no way she could tell any of this to the cabin crew. They were doing their job and being professional and Frankie knew if she said anything, she’d just look stupid. Why should they believe her? Or have any sympathy at all? She was being flown, on her own, in this private jet.

  It was real, she thought, looking out of the window down at the blue sea and small islands off the North African coast. She was about to land in Marrakech. To be with Alex. She could barely sit still or keep a straight face.

  The six-seater plane was compact and apart from the captain and two cabin crew, Frankie was the only passenger on board. But its bijou size certainly didn’t mean that it skimped on luxury. Frankie couldn’t believe the vast difference between flying privately and flying cattle class, as she was used to.

  It was all so easy. She’d been whisked into the airport in a waiting Mercedes, straight on to the tarmac and out to the gleaming white Hawker 800 XP with its blue and red stripe. And, in no time at all, they’d taken off. No queuing, no questions. It had been easier than taking a cab.

  On board, she’d been offered all sorts of goodies: a gourmet meal, fine wines if she’d wanted them, a luxury aromatherapy kit, but Frankie had refused them all, preferring instead to hide behind her eye-patches. Because she didn’t want all this luxury. She wanted Alex. Without him, this all felt too much. Like she didn’t deserve it.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything,’ Alex had reassured her earlier when they’d had a brief conversation, after she’d lied to Richard about her departure from Pushkin. She’d had to fake deep shock and she wondered whether Richard had believed her at all. But Alex hadn’t seem fazed. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Probably la
ter on tonight. And in the meantime, you’ll be completely looked after.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Frankie. Trust me,’ he’d said.

  Easy for him to say, Frankie reflected. It was still a huge deal for her, to put herself in his hands like this. She had no idea what to expect, no idea how their time together would be. She felt as if she’d stepped off a cliff and was now freefalling. Exhilarating as it was, it was also scary as hell. Having agreed to all this, she couldn’t even begin to imagine where she might land up.

  But she didn’t have long to mull it over. All too soon, the plane touched down at Menara airport, and once again, Frankie was amazed by how quick and easy it all was. There was a jeep waiting for her on the tarmac and Tariq, the driver, explained that Alex’s riad was in the heart of Marrakech’s old medina, close to the souks. Like all riads, it had once been a garden house, built around a courtyard, but this one was special. It was one of the grandest in the old town, with a Moorish mosaic dating back centuries.

  But Frankie was hardly listening. Instead, she stared out of the window, marvelling at the sights around her as the jeep entered the city and inched through the noisy narrow streets.

  Having spent so long at sea surrounded by modern luxury, it felt wonderful to be here in an old city, with all its hustle and bustle. Everywhere she looked, colour blazed, from the red dusty walls to the shimmering cloths hanging on the market stalls alongside piles of fruit and exotic vegetables, shiny copper pots and brightly patterned carpets. And the noise enveloped her: children laughing and playing; Moroccan music booming out from the street cafés; merchants haggling on street corners.

  The jeep slowed as it turned off a side street from the market and manoeuvred through the narrow lane, past a motorbike repair shop with engine parts and wheels scattered everywhere, before stopping beside a dusty high terracotta wall with an imposing wooden gate.

  An old man in a fez was sitting on a stool outside, smoking. When he saw the jeep, he jumped up, pushing his rifle on to his back.

  Frankie felt a shiver of alarm. Was the armed guard here for her? she wondered. For Alex? Or for the property? She didn’t know, but she didn’t like it. She’d seen too many guns back home and she knew what they meant. They meant division and intimidation, and everything she’d left South Africa to escape.

  What kind of world did Alex really inhabit? And was it one she belonged in, too?

  Tariq got out of the jeep and spoke to the guard, who then opened the large wooden gate, allowing Tariq to drive them through.

  The guard closed the gate after them, sealing them in. Silence descended.

  It was as if they’d come through a magic doorway. As if the motorbike repair shop and the bustling city on the other side of the wall didn’t exist at all.

  A clear fountain trickled water into an enormous marble carp pond. Yuccas and palms rose to the blue sky above. Parrots squawked as they flitted between the exotic foliage.

  Frankie stepped out of the jeep and looked up. It was breathtaking. Intricately carved marble and woodwork shutters rose up around her. Through an archway at the far end of the courtyard she could see that the inner garden gave way to a stunning fresh-water pool and, beyond, the dense foliage of the grounds were filled with blossoming trees and lush palms.

  In a daze, Frankie followed Tariq to the entrance of the riad, with its ornate curved steps and hanging lanterns. Inside, old-fashioned wooden fans beat the humid air, casting shadows on the sparkling mosaic floor.

  Tariq introduced the housekeeper: an old lady who spoke no English. She took Frankie’s bags and led her through to the sitting room, with its low leather seats and billowing muslin curtains, then pointed up the stairs. Then, bowing, she retreated, gabbling something to Tariq that Frankie didn’t understand.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Tariq told her. ‘You must make yourself at home. There’s food in the kitchen.’

  Frankie wanted to call out to him, to ask him to stay, but he seemed reluctant to be inside. She remembered what Alex had said about not having servants here, about having a place that was just his.

  Wow, she thought. She felt incredibly, intensely alive.

  She was really here. Free. Free from Pushkin. And this place! She twirled around, taking in the splendour. It was as if she’d stepped into a dream. It was grand yet homely; exotic yet modern. It oozed old-world charm and eclectic good taste. No wonder Alex loved it here. She was totally enchanted.

  Nervously, she started exploring, stopping occasionally just to check she really was alone. But the only sounds she heard were the squawks of the parrots and the occasional muffled beep of a car horn from the city beyond.

  She slowly walked from room to room, amazed at all the beautiful artwork and treasures that Alex had collected: old Moorish oil paintings, fine porcelain urns, antique tiles and intricate silver vases and lanterns. In one of the rooms downstairs there was a collection of what looked like antique percussion instruments: odd-looking drums and brightly painted wooden flutes. It felt so intimate to have the chance to look around his house like this.

  In the main library, she stopped, awed by its vastness and the intricate woodwork of the bookshelves and the pointed mosaic arches running to the high dome above. She ran her hands over the laden shelves, poring over Alex’s book collection. The expected business books on management strategies were there, but also history books, thrillers and biographies of Machiavelli and Garbo. Plus an impressive array of photography, art and cartoon books and even an instruction manual for a hot-air balloon. It seemed that his taste encompassed everything.

  In another room, she leant by accident on one of the walls, which slid back, revealing an enormous plasma screen and a vast collection of DVDs and CDs. Everything was here, from romantic Russian composers like Rachmaninov through to jazz and modern stuff that Frankie loved too, like the Eels and the Killers. She picked out a CD that looked like local Moroccan music and tried to work out how to insert it into the complex system.

  She looked around, wondering why there weren’t more photos. There was only one – of Alex, smiling on a luxury fishing boat. She picked it up and ran her finger over his face. God, he was handsome!

  Soon he would be here.

  And what would happen then? she wondered, her stomach filled with butterflies. Being alone in the riad together . . . how would it be? And what about later? Would they share a room? Would they sleep separately? Suddenly, she thought about his body when they’d been scuba-diving and she felt breathless and hot with longing.

  Surely it would be wrong to sleep with him right away? Surely he would think she was too easy? Surely it would be better to keep her distance and let things take their course?

  But then she couldn’t exactly play hard to get now! Not after what had nearly happened in his study. And not now she was a guest in his house.

  By herself in his house.

  With no crew, no servants, no bodyguards. It felt thrilling . . . naughty even, to be so alone. Frankie realized that it had been months since she’d had the luxury of her own company, with no one to scrutinize or criticize her. It felt wonderful.

  She showered and dressed, selecting her best set of pretty silk and lace underwear. Would Alex be seeing it tonight? Would he like it? Was it classy enough for him? Her mind whirred with questions.

  Downstairs, in the hexagonally shaped kitchen, she found the fridge and opened it to find it well stocked, including a jug of freshly made pink lemonade. She looked through the cupboards until she found a glass and poured herself some. Then she opened a screen door in the corner, which led to a set of stone steps. Holding the lemonade, Frankie climbed up the stairs until she was out on the top of a tower on the rooftop.

  She gasped, stunned by the view. The sun was setting, casting a deep pinky-red hue over the sky. The old city, with its palm trees and mosques, its tall buildings with their haphazard television aerials, was all slowly dissolving into dusky dream-like silhouette.

  She sipped
her drink, captivated by the sounds coming to her on the warm breeze, the beep of the traffic horns, the whine of motorbikes, music on a far-off radio. And the smells too, of stewing meat and warming spices, of orange and lemon blossom.

  Beyond the city, she could see the mountains falling into deep purple and grey relief.

  She sighed and stared south. The fact that she was on the same continent as her home, even though she was thousands of miles away, somehow made her feel grounded. It made her miss her parents too. She didn’t think about them often, but now she wished they could see her. She bit her lip, smiling to herself. She was here as Alexei Rodokov’s guest. She wondered where it might all lead.

  Hearing a beep, she leant over the parapet to see Tariq’s jeep speeding through the gates into the dusty courtyard. And even before it had fully stopped, Alex was jumping out of the passenger’s seat.

  ‘Alex!’ she cried out. ‘Oh my God!’

  She ran inside and down the stairs and found herself in another corridor. She hurried along it, behind the beautifully carved sandalwood screens, which threw patterned shadows on to the wall.

  ‘Frankie! Frankie!’ Alex was calling, bounding up the stairs.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, reaching the door at the end of the screens and bursting through into his arms.

  All she saw was his smile. He picked her up and twirled her around. She squealed with delight.

  ‘So?’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘What do you think? Do you like the old place?’

  ‘I love it,’ she said.

  He tenderly clasped her face in his hands and pulled her tightly to him. When his lips touched hers, she felt as she had done in his office on Pushkin, as if her insides had turned molten.

  For a brief second, she thought again about perhaps taking this all a little slower. About pulling away. About telling him to stop. That they should wait.