The Tides of Change Read online

  Whatever the truth was, something about his carefree smile unsettled her. He was a marked man. He may be enjoying himself in the sunshine, but Emma knew what she’d come here to do, and she knew that it was going to be far from easy.

  ‘It’s so good of you to bring me, Yolanda,’ Emma said, forcing a smile on to her face as Yolanda caught her up.

  ‘Darling, I’m used to being a social pariah. If you want to throw yourself into the lion’s den, then be my guest,’ Yolanda said. ‘I admire your courage.’

  Emma knew what she meant. She’d received a few frosty nods of acknowledgement when they’d arrived, but most people had ignored her completely. And now, as she looked over at Lola Reed and smiled, expecting her old friend to come over and give her a hug, Lola deliberately turned her back.

  Yolanda saw the snub too. A sly smile laced with Schadenfreude crossed her face. Emma prickled, but she wasn’t fooled for a second. She knew Yolanda hadn’t asked her here out of sympathy or friendship, but because it gave her a better grandstand from which to gloat.

  Well, Emma thought, Yolanda wasn’t the only one being two-faced today. Little did Yolanda suspect from the way that Emma had buttered her up for a last-minute invitation that Yolanda had been her last resort. All of Emma’s usual sources for event tickets had suddenly dried up and no one had been willing to do her a favour.

  ‘Take no notice of that silly cow,’ Yolanda said loudly – but not so loudly that Lola Reed might overhear.

  Yet Emma couldn’t help feeling riled. She knew Lola and her husband Martin well. They’d been pals at so many social occasions, sharing tables at Ascot and picnics at Glyndebourne. They’d even come to the Platinum Ball.

  ‘She’s just cross because Martin had to dump their place in Tuscany after Julian’s thing fell through and she didn’t have a chance to show it off.’

  Emma knew how much the castle had meant to Lola. She’d even put her in touch with her Italian contacts and knew that Luigi Montefiore had cut her a deal on the exquisite stucco paint job as a personal favour to Emma. So how dare she treat Emma like this now? What had happened wasn’t Emma’s fault. And it wasn’t Julian’s either.

  ‘Martin, along with everyone else, knew the risks,’ Emma said, failing to mask the outrage she felt.

  ‘Maybe they’ll see that in time.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘You know: Lola, Joss, Katia, Rebecca. At the moment all they can talk about is how much they’ve lost.’

  ‘But I’ve lost the most out of everyone, don’t you think?’ Emma said.

  Yolanda patted her wrist. ‘Of course you have, darling.’

  Emma had certainly found out who her friends were, and it was none of those bitches. She’d had more sympathy and support from Frankie and Peaches than from any of the women she’d known for twenty years and had thought were her closest friends. And Emma vowed to herself now that, whatever happened, Lola and the rest of them would never have the satisfaction of hearing how much they’d got to her. Especially from Yolanda.

  She could feel Yolanda staring at her, hoping for a reaction – some tears maybe. But Emma forced herself to be strong. She pictured Frankie on her left and Peaches on her right. They might not be here in body, but they were here in spirit, thinking of her now, willing her mission here today to be a success. Think of the risks they’d taken themselves, she told herself: Peaches aboard Pushkin; Frankie drugged in Tortola. Emma wouldn’t let them down now the time to play her part had arrived.

  She raised her binoculars once more, rising above Yolanda’s comments. In the vernacular favoured by Peaches Gold, Emma thought, Yolanda and the others could go fuck themselves. She was going to make every one of them eat their words. Every one. They’d never have her respect now, no matter what happened. And once she’d cleared Julian’s name and done whatever it took to get Wrentham back, they’d be sorry. Emma knew that she’d come on too great a journey ever to return to the person she’d once been. All the things that concerned those judgemental women: their homes abroad and new season’s wardrobes – didn’t matter a stuff any more. It was all horse shit.

  And if Yolanda thought that Emma was here to show face, to claw back some kind of pitiful social footing with them, then she was very, very much mistaken.

  Oh no, she was here to hunt much bigger game than that.

  Emma let the conversation pause for a minute and then asked, ‘And what of the Khordinskys? Are they coming today?’

  Again, Emma saw that sly smug smile flicker over Yolanda’s features. ‘Not as far as I know. Natalya is busy redecorating Wrentham, so she says.’

  Emma felt Yolanda’s casual remark like a carefully aimed dart. Once again, she forced herself not to react, but she still felt her voice tremor as she asked, ‘So you see her, then?’

  ‘Her, yes, him . . . not so much. He’s so rarely in the Cotswolds. Either he’s in their Chelsea place or he’s abroad. But they’re very nice. You’re lucky they took Wrentham off your hands. It could have gone to somebody awful. I think they’ve taken over from you rather well.’

  What a bitch! Emma bit her lip. Yolanda would be sorry when Emma got Wrentham back. She’d never set foot in it again. Emma was going to remove every trace of the Khordinskys for ever, including all the horrible toadies like Yolanda who’d sucked up to them in the wake of Julian’s death. The thought of it buoyed her up.

  ‘Well, she can do what she likes to it,’ Emma said. ‘People will still think of it as mine. You know, it’s such a shame that you missed the Platinum Ball, Yolanda. People remember a party like that for years and years.’ Emma had no doubt that this was going to be reported straight back to Natalya Khordinsky. ‘I mean, the Khordinskys might think they’ve arrived by getting hold of my . . .’ She paused deliberately. ‘.. . I mean, Wrentham. But where’re their social credentials? Surely they need to put their money where their mouth is and show everyone that they mean business. But maybe all their money is just hearsay. You never know.’

  ‘Oh no. They’re loaded. Everyone knows that,’ Yolanda said with a frown, but Emma could tell she was getting somewhere. Yolanda was so transparent. She could almost see the seeds she was planting growing inside Yolanda’s mind. ‘Well, between you and me, Emma,’ she suddenly added, ‘I do think that Natalya is keen to get herself established here. You know, introduce Yuri to the right sort of people.’

  ‘I see,’ Emma said, pretending to give this serious consideration. ‘Well, if I were Natalya Khordinsky, I’d get straight on the phone to someone like Damien, who catered the Platinum Ball, and throw a big party. And Damien would definitely be the best person for the job, as he knows Wrentham so well.’ She glanced up at Yolanda, pleased to see she was taking in every word. Emma casually put the binoculars to her eyes again. ‘But then it would be so hard getting hold of him. He is the best.’

  ‘But he knows Wrentham, you say? So it wouldn’t be a risky job for him,’ Yolanda said. ‘So he might do it . . . ?’

  ‘Well, I suppose, if Natalya Khordinsky by some miracle could get hold of him, she should get Damien to organize an event to launch the Khordinskys into society properly. I happen to know that the English Ambassador to Russia, Hugo McCorquodale’s old friend Willy Woolcott, is in town in a couple of weeks. A guest like him would certainly give the Khordinskys credibility.’

  ‘The Ambassador to Russia?’

  ‘Sure. And it would be enough of a draw to get everyone along and make a big show. But I guess Natalya doesn’t really know anyone well enough to help her. Or have the competence, or confidence, or’ – and here Emma glanced pointedly at Yolanda – ‘the social contacts to pull it off. Which, to be honest, does provide me with some comfort. And, between you and me, amusement. I’ve moved on from Wrentham, but unfortunately for the Khordinskys, so have the social set who used to hang out there with us. You know, the right sort of people.’ Emma paused, just long enough to let this last comment sink in, and to enjoy the dawning comprehension and resulting flash of anger in Yoland
a’s eyes as she realized how badly she’d just been insulted.

  Yes, Emma thought, satisfied, that party at Wrentham would be announced within the week. She pointed to the pitch. ‘Oh look,’ she said. ‘It’s starting.’

  Horses thundered past, churning up the perfect turf, wheeling in groups like cavalry in battle formation, or splintering off in ones and twos as play cracked back and forth. But Emma wasn’t interested in the flow, or outcome, of the match, only in Alexei Rodokov. Her binoculars stayed on him the whole time. She could tell how aggressive and competitive he was, but she also saw him smiling at his team-mates and working with them. She thought again about what Frankie had told her last night on the phone, all she’d discovered from hacking into Forest Holdings, and felt the burden of what she must do weighing down on her.

  There was an almost palpable buzz of excitement as the match finished. The Mavericks had won, trouncing the Guards team in style. As was traditional, all the ladies were invited on to the field to press in the clods of earth with their elegant shoes.

  Emma could feel all eyes on her. But she held her head up high. She walked straight over the pitch, stonewalling Lola Reed, and on to the main players’ marquee, following the line of horses being led through to the Players’ Enclosure.

  Rodokov dismounted, but didn’t leave his horse’s side. Two security men were guarding the gate, checking the security passes of the riders on their way through. They were pros, wearing head-mikes, muscular and lean. Half the royal family were here today: it was hardly surprising that security was tight.

  Rodokov held up his pass for inspection, then led his horse through the gates. Emma slowed and turned around. There was no way she was going to be able to bluff her way in after him.

  Think, she told herself. What would Peaches or Frankie do? She had to find a way in. They were relying on her. And time was running out.

  Emma looked around and noticed a handsome older player leaning over a table in the marquee. His security pass was clipped to the back of his jodhpurs. She watched him look her appreciatively up and down as she approached.

  She felt awkward and so damn obvious. But she had to get into the Players’ Enclosure and talk to Alexei Rodokov right now. Before he left. This was the only place they knew for certain that he was going to be. And without any access to his diary, this could be the only opportunity for any of them to get to him for months.

  You can do this, she told herself, arranging her face into her most flirtatious smile. She’d handled Vincent Detroy, she reminded herself, so an old boy like this should be no problem.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, noticing that his shirt was the same colour as the team which had just lost. ‘That was jolly bad luck, you know. I think you deserved to win. And if the rest of your team had played half as well as you, you would have, too. I’m Emma, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Although, I’m absolutely positive we’ve met before. I couldn’t forget a face as handsome and distinguished as yours . . .’

  The man positively glowed at this unexpected flattery. ‘Lionel Blakeley,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘May I offer you a glass of champagne?’

  Taking her arm, he led her towards the bar. He flinched only slightly when she allowed her hand to come to rest just at the top of his jodhpurs and gently applied pressure. Then he smiled, no doubt thinking that his luck had just changed for the better. The whereabouts of his security pass was, without doubt, the last thing on his mind.

  Ten minutes later, after fobbing off Blakeley with some very bogus promises to meet him later, Emma flashed his pass at the guard, pretending she was talking to a trainer on her phone. She kept her thumb over Lionel Blakeley’s ID, giving the guard a grateful smile when he waved her through.

  Act as if you own the joint, and it was amazing how many people believed that you did. It was a lesson Emma had learnt from the Khordinskys – from the way they’d moved like cuckoos into her former house and life.

  Well, Emma was a quick learner. And now she was turning the lesson back on them, to get what was hers by right.

  Inside the enclosure, Emma calculated that there must be at least thirty huge horse boxes, with the teams’ logos emblazoned on the sides. People were everywhere: riders, trainers, grooms and ground staff.

  Emma followed the horses into a paddock beyond the lorries where the stables were. The riders were all chatting excitedly as the grooms threw blankets over the steaming horses. She searched the men’s faces, ducking through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the red-shirted riders. Then she saw him.

  ‘Excuse me. Alexei Rodokov?’ she asked, approaching the group of players.

  Alex turned away from his conversation. He looked confused, as if trying to place her.

  It was definitely him: just as Peaches and Frankie had described and yet disarmingly different too. He’d taken off his riding hat and his hair was wet with sweat. He pushed it back from his face. Emma supposed it was impossible to describe someone’s charisma and their natural charm, but it radiated out of Alex. He had amazingly long eyelashes, she noticed, which counterpointed his rugged, handsome face, making him seem friendly and approachable.

  Emma could see immediately why Frankie had fallen for him. She could picture them together so easily. For a second, she was tempted to blurt out that she knew Frankie. That he had to reconsider everything he thought he knew about her. That her so-called relationship with Todd was a sham, and those photos – if he’d seen them – were an outrage . . .

  But at the same time, Emma felt a maternal protective side kick in too. Was Alex really good enough for her Frankie? Did he deserve someone so wonderful having such faith in him? Emma would have to wait and see.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were still assessing, no doubt trying to match a name to a face.

  She saved him the effort. ‘You don’t know me, but we have friends in common. I know this sounds very presumptuous, but would you mind if I had a word with you?’

  The smile disappeared, but he kept on staring at her with those wide intelligent eyes. ‘If you want.’

  ‘In private,’ Emma insisted. ‘It’s extremely important.’

  On hearing this comment, one of his team-mates muttered something to the man standing beside them. A wave of raucous schoolboy laughter rippled through the group but Alexei Rodokov silenced them with a single glance.

  ‘Very well,’ he told Emma, ‘but it will have to be quick. I have a very busy schedule ahead of me today.’

  Alex led her into a nearby stable block. The air was heavy with the steam coming from the horses and the pungent smell of leather saddles and dung. It instantly reminded Emma of the stables at Lechley Park and she thought of Pim and Susie and their desperate situation, how they’d put most of the Park up for sale, dismissed the staff and sold the animals, breaking Susie’s heart.

  ‘Is this private enough?’ Alex asked.

  ‘My name is Emma Harvey. My husband, Julian, set up a company called Platinum Holdings. You probably read about its demise in the press?’ she said, wondering whether she sounded as nervous as she felt.

  Alex glanced quickly at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Emma tried to read his expression. Was he lying? she wondered. It was impossible to tell.

  She felt the gloom of the stables suddenly closing in on her, as if someone had drawn a blind. The weight of optimism and determination that had driven her here seemed to evaporate under Alex’s cool stare.

  Their whole plan, everything, relied on him, but now that she was face to face with him, she realized what a terrible mistake it could all be. What if Alex turned out to be as corrupt as Khordinsky? She felt the information she had that could affect the young man’s life so dramatically burning inside her mind. He was holding a time-bomb and he didn’t know it.

  But she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. That wasn’t the plan.

  ‘My husband, Julian Harvey, set up a platinum mine in Russia,’ s
he said, ‘on a development site sold to him by Dimitry Sergeyokov.’

  Rodokov’s poker face wavered for the first time. She had his attention now.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But you see the mine – everything about the project was fraudulent.’

  Alex narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m really not sure what this has to do with me,’ he said. He crossed his muscular arms and glanced back at his team-mates, who’d set off for the main marquee.

  Emma took a deep breath. She had to get straight to the point. She couldn’t risk him walking away. ‘I’m afraid it has a great deal to do with you. You see Julian committed suicide as a result of what happened. Well . . . that’s the way they made it look.’

  ‘They? Made it look? What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that I think your boss Khordinsky used Sergeyokov to set up my husband. In order to steal all our money, and move into my house.’

  His eyes darkened with warning. ‘You should be very careful what else you say. And who you say it to. These are very serious accusations—’

  ‘But what if I could tell you that I’ve got proof that Khordinsky will frame you for it?’

  Alex looked stunned. He stepped towards her. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  Seeing Alex react like this filled Emma with strength. She knew that there must already be a seed of doubt in his mind, or he would have laughed in her face and dismissed her as a crank, or a blackmailer. Or both.

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘It’s not a joke. I’m serious. Deadly serious.’

  He stared at her for a moment. Searching her eyes. Finding only the truth in what she was saying. She could tell he was flustered. ‘If you have information, then I demand to see it.’

  ‘I have to know that I can trust you. You really can’t tell Khordinsky – or anyone – about any of this.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  ‘No. You see, you may be in great danger. And once you know what we know about the connection between Forest Holdings and Matryoshka-Enterprises—’