Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) (3 page)

‘My sister Caroline,’ Mark explained in a voice that was weaker than ever. ‘She’s going to stay and take care of things in the house.’

‘And you?’ I asked, watching as Caroline stomped off to give some instructions to the handyman working outside, her loud patrician tones already ringing out. Her bulky noisiness was in such contrast to Mark’s slim, quiet elegance that it was hard to believe they had the same parents. ‘Is she going to take care of you?’

I was still absorbing the news that Mark was sick, and wondering how serious it was, as he refused even to say what exactly was wrong with him.

‘Of course. Very good care. She’s excellent at all of that.’ Mark smiled, and the sight made me want to cry. It was supposed to look cheerful but his thin lips stretched over his bony face gave him a rictus grin. I realised suddenly that his teeth and eyes looked enormous in his head, huge but yellow-tinged and unhealthy.

He’s really ill,
I thought, with something like astonishment. Of course I knew he was ill, but people get sick and then get better. Unless they get sick and then sicker, and then sicker still and then . . .

‘Actually, Beth,’ Mark said, making as though to lean towards me confidentially but then not finding quite enough strength, ‘did I tell you my operation is tomorrow?’

I shook my head, hoping that he couldn’t see the blur of tears in my eyes.

‘Oh yes, I’m top priority. Into theatre first thing, and eight hours on the operating table. It’ll whizz by because I’ll be the closest thing to dead there is without actually being dead. At least, I hope I don’t end up dead, that really isn’t the idea.’ Mark chuckled at his own little joke. ‘So think of me recovering in my hospital bed while you’re waltzing around St Petersburg – but Caroline will make sure I’m taken care of, don’t worry.’

I’m staring up at the light above the bed, and I realise I’ve been counting the little halogen bulbs over and over while I think about Mark. The operation must have been yesterday. It was on his neck, so I’ve no idea if he’ll be able to talk, even assuming it was a success.
Oh God, I hope it was a success.
I’ve grown to love Mark, as a friend and mentor and an inspiration for how to live life beautifully. He’s been so much more than an employer to me.

I pick up my mobile and my thumb hovers over it for a moment, then I put it back down on the bed beside me. I won’t phone him with this particular news, not yet. There’s no nice way to tell him that Andrei intends to throw him under a bus – and I might yet be able to salvage the situation. After all, there is the mysterious trip at 2 p.m.; perhaps I could try exerting some influence over Andrei then.

Yes, that’s definitely the way. I’ll try and appeal to Andrei’s decency. I’m sure he has some. And I’ll wait to see how Mark is doing before I tell him anything else.

With that decided, I sit up and think about ordering lunch, so I can be ready to go at precisely two o’clock.

I’m ten minutes early in the lobby, just in case. At five minutes to two, Andrei comes striding out of a lift, wearing his dark-blue silk and cashmere overcoat. Everyone notices him at once and watches him, some subtly, others openly staring. His energy radiates out and draws every eye. Besides that, he’s physically interesting to look at: he’s tall, broad-shouldered and his face is almost handsome. It’s craggy and tough, its heavy features and obstinate mouth given something extraordinary by those blazing blue eyes.

It’s strange to remember that I’ve seen those eyes soften to a hazy sky-blue, and that unsmiling mouth curve into a smile meant just for me. And I’ve heard that hard voice become mellow and murmur strange promises and predictions that touched something in me even while I was pulling away.

‘Good. You’re here,’ he snaps.

Nice to see you too!

Actually, I prefer this Andrei. I can deal with a bad-tempered, selfish, spoilt Andrei. I find it harder to know what to do with a softer, sweeter, more human, more vulnerable Andrei.

Stop it. Don’t go there. Don’t even think about it.

Just then I notice that Andrei is not alone. There’s a woman behind him, dressed in a long black coat and the round dark fur hat I’ve seen on so many people here. Wisps of fair hair are escaping from beneath the soft fur, and her face is pale and fine below. She is expressionless, and keeps one hand resting on a large leather bag that she wears with the strap across her body. I notice that she’s quite a bit taller than I am.

We’ve got company?
My heart sinks.
This will put an obstacle in the path of talking to Andrei about Mark.

Andrei gestures to his companion. ‘Beth, this is Maria. She’s my assistant today. Come with me, we’re leaving immediately.’

I fall in obediently behind Maria, and we follow Andrei out, looking like a rather comical trio of large, medium and small. The car is just outside and a moment later we’re back in its delightful warmth. I shiver after my brief experience of the freezing air outside. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere as cold as St Petersburg. Thank goodness Andrei didn’t feel like a trip to Siberia.

Andrei and Maria talk as we set off, and they talk for the rest of the hour-and-a-half journey, but as every word is in Russian, I understand nothing. I concentrate hard for a while, attempting to decipher what I’m hearing, but it’s pointless. Maria has taken a notebook out of her capacious bag and is scrawling across the pages in what looks like impenetrable scribble.

As we leave the most prosperous part of St Petersburg, the lights become less golden and gaudy. It’s almost dark already, and I feel suddenly very tired. Leaning my head back against the leather headrest, I can’t fight the sudden weight in my eyelids, and the inner pull towards unconsciousness. I try to stay awake, but I simply can’t.

When I come to, we’ve pulled to a halt in a small car park in front of a large, grey, institutional-looking building.

‘Come on, sleepy,’ Andrei says, his voice rough but not unkind. ‘We’re here. You’ll be woken up by what’s inside, don’t worry about that.’

I shake my head to dislodge the sleepiness, a little bewildered. A moment ago I was lost in a vivid dream in which I was at home, arguing with my mother about something. What was it? Oh yes, she was telling me to come home. ‘You’ve been away long enough,’ she was saying sternly. ‘I don’t like it, Beth!’ and I was exasperated, trying to explain that I couldn’t just come home, I had to wait for Andrei’s private plane and . . .

‘Come on, Beth!’ snaps Andrei.

The driver is holding the door open. I climb out, burrowing down into my coat as hard as I can. The cold is cruel, biting through my coat and clothes as though they’re not even there. I need to get out of this bitterness soon; my feet are already numb from the icy ground and my skin is prickling all over in protest at the sensation of freezing air sucking out all its warmth.

Andrei leads the way along a path around to the front of the building, and Maria and I follow, concentrating on not skidding on the path, which is still icy despite being well gritted. At the front door, the building looks even bleaker, its four grey storeys stretching up, with shutters closed and not much sign of life anywhere.

‘Where are we?’ I ask, not able to keep my mouth shut any longer.

‘You’ll see,’ Andrei replies shortly. He presses a button mounted at the side of the doorway. I think I can hear noise from behind the thick door, a kind of high-pitched wailing. Then, a moment later, the door is pulled open and a middle-aged, grey-haired woman is standing there, dumpy in a plain skirt and jumper, starkly outlined against the flood of light coming from inside. She sees Andrei and gives a big gasp, her eyes widening and her mouth broadening into a smile. The next moment, she has begun to chatter excitedly in Russian and, to my astonishment, she has flung her arms around Andrei, despite his bulky coat, and is hugging him tightly.

From within the building comes more high-pitched chattering and noise: the babble of voices and the sound of small shoes, scraping chairs, clattering feet on stairs. We must be visiting a school or . . .

We’re going inside. The woman has released Andrei and is now pulling him by the hand while she calls out loudly to the people inside the building. Maria is beside me, a big smile illuminating her pale, rather sharp face. Now I’m beginning to guess and, as soon as we step into the large, brightly lit hall, blessedly warm compared to the chill outside, I know for sure.

Around sixty children aged from about three to around ten have grouped themselves in the hallway at the foot of a staircase. They are muttering, whispering and fidgeting but as we stand in front of them, they fall silent, and sixty pairs of eyes turn to another figure, a woman standing in front of them, who lifts her hands, counts them in and begins to conduct as the childish voices suddenly soar into song.

I don’t recognise the tune or understand any words, but the song is absolutely beautiful. I think it must be something to do with Christmas, but perhaps that’s because I can see that there are strings of home-made chains made from shiny paper strung from the walls and twisted up the stair rail. Of course, Christmas is coming . . . it’s December already.

The children have a shabby look about them, with their well-worn trousers, skirts and jumpers, but they are clean and bright-faced. I watch the very littlest, the ones with angel faces, who don’t yet know their words but are singing along as best they can. Then I see the older ones, earnest, missing teeth, concentrating hard as they watch the teacher, or being distracted by a friend’s nudging elbow or an enticing bit of fallen paper chain. There are all sorts of children: pigtailed girls, girls with flowing hair pinned with sparkly clips, girls with thick glasses, girls in trousers and girls in dresses. There are boys with buzz cuts, boys with ponytails and others with mullet affairs. There are angelic-looking boys, and boys with bruises and grazes, plump-cheeked lads and gaunt, skinny things who look like they could eat all day and still be hungry. All are singing.

I look over at Andrei and I’m amazed. He’s smiling in a way I’ve never seen before: broad, open and full of pride and pleasure. He’s clutching his hands in front of him and rising up slightly on his toes in time to the music. He looks as pleased as any father at his child’s carol concert.

So this is Andrei’s orphanage. He told me on the plane that he sponsors an orphanage, and that his wish is to make the place as full of colour and fun as he can, so that it’s not like the grim place where he grew up. I look around: yes, despite the functionality of the place, there’s colour too. Plenty of it. Pictures are everywhere, bright cushions are on chairs, there are patterned rugs on the grey linoleum floor. It’s a cheerful place, despite having the unmistakeable air of an institution rather than a home.

I look back at the children. Which one would Andrei have been most like? That round-faced, blue-eyed boy singing his heart out? Then I see a boy at the back. He’s about ten and taller than the others, so he’s tucked himself away where he can’t be noticed. Perhaps he’s shy about his height, or doesn’t like singing. He’s thin-faced, probably because he’s growing so fast, and he’s singing through barely moving lips, as though he’s doing it because he has to. The boy’s expression is unreadable and then he glances over at Andrei and his face takes on a look of absolute hero worship.

I’m blinking back tears as the song comes to an end and the children look to Andrei with their bright eager faces. He gives a great booming laugh, and claps his hand, his applause muffled by his big gloves. He says something in Russian, which makes the children smile, and I can tell he’s praising them. Then he makes another announcement as he pulls his gloves off, one that makes the children gasp and chatter excitedly. The middle-aged woman who greeted us at the door bustles forward and begins giving out loud instructions. Within a few minutes, the children are neatly seated on the floor, and Andrei is speaking to them. I can’t follow what he’s saying, but the children often pipe up with an answer to his questions, and he makes them laugh too. As he speaks, their faces get brighter and happier, and then they all make an ‘oooooh’ noise and turn to look at the front door. It opens at that moment, and in comes a huge Christmas tree, already decorated and being carefully carried in its tub by two men in overalls.

The children laugh and clap as it’s taken across the hall and put in a place of honour. A plug is inserted into a socket and the switch turned on, and the children sigh with delight as the lights spring into twinkling life. It looks beautiful, hung with baubles and chocolates, and topped with a golden star.

A chair is produced and Andrei sits down on it. Another workman appears carrying a huge sack and, under Maria’s direction, he puts it down next to Andrei. I sidle over to the wall, and find a chair where I can sit down and watch. It’s a beautiful hour to witness. Andrei calls out name after name and each time a child excitedly clambers to their feet, picks their way to the front and comes to Andrei to receive a gift from the sack. The room is soon split between those clutching a present and those waiting in tense desperation to have their name called. Every one, from the tiniest fat-kneed three-year-old to the skinniest ten-year-old, gets summoned for a quick word with Andrei and the presentation of a gift. The boy who had stared adoringly at Andrei during the singing can barely speak when it’s his turn, he’s so overcome, but Andrei shakes his hand in a manly way, claps him on the back and sends him back to his seat elated.

So that’s what he’s doing. He’s giving them a father figure. Someone to love. Someone to please.