How Not to Shop (38 page)

He'd made a terrible, hideous mistake.

What madness had possessed him?

He had to win her back and marry her. He only hoped he hadn't left it too long. Five days had gone past, and hadn't he noticed so many times before how men circled Svetlana like wolves, ravenous for an opportunity?

Of course she hadn't told him anything about this girl from the Ukraine! The girl might turn out to be a fraud. Svetlana was volatile, insecure and totally stressed out, Harry had convinced himself. The girl had no doubt turned up looking for money and if Igor found out, he would use this as an excuse to try and take everything away from his ex-wife.

How could Harry have been so unsympathetic? How could he have run from her, instead of running to help her?

And he could help her. He was her divorce lawyer. He was the one who should be reinforcing the rules he'd helped to draw up. He was the one who could have an injunction taken out banning Elena from contacting her mother or speaking to any member of the press about it.

Harry pulled in to the kerb behind a vast black limousine that was parked outside Svetlana's house. The driver was holding open the passenger's door and as the front door of the house was open, Harry expected to see the love of his life walking out any moment now.

Where was she going? Whose car was this? Then he remembered: it was Saturday. It was the day the boys were with their father, who often sent his car, although his house was only a few streets away. Here they came now: Petrov and Michael, the younger boy following his older brother. Harry couldn't help smiling at them. They were so small and so serious in their blue blazers with their thick black hair in heavily fringed pageboy cuts. They reminded Harry of his boy, Robin. All grown up now, of course.

'Hello!' he called over to them and both serious little faces turned in his direction, 'off to the old man's for a jolly afternoon?'

'We're going on holiday!' Petrov said with a flash of smile, 'he's taking us skiing!'

'Well, well! How marvellous! Have a wonderful time, won't you?'

Petrov gave him the thumbs-up.

'Is Mummy at home?' Harry asked.

'No,' Petrov said. He disappeared into the car and Michael followed.

The driver closed the door and because the tinted windows were so dark, the boys were immediately hidden. The driver then moved round to his door, stepped into the car and started up the smooth Rolls-Royce engine.

Harry stood on the pavement to watch them leave, giving a cheery wave. He was caught up in memories of when Robin was a boy, heading off for school on the other side of town in his taxi every morning, looking just as small and as serious as these two . . .

It was only as the car rounded the corner of the street and disappeared from sight that it struck him as strange that the boys weren't taking any bags if they were going on holiday.

And if they were going away, wouldn't their mother be here to wave them off? She was very protective of her sons. In fact, she had never given Igor permission to take them away before. If this was their first holiday, why was she not here?

Growing more and more uneasy, he felt in his jacket pocket for his phone.

Then Maria poked her head from the front door of the house. 'You come in, Mr Harry?' she asked.

'Just one minute, my girl . . . where's Svetlana?' he asked.

'She meeting
man
for lunch' – this came with as much of a disapproving roll of the eyes as Maria thought she could get away with. 'Boys go to see father like every weekend,' she added.

'But they said they were going on holiday, skiing?'

'No, no, no.' The maid shook her head.

Agitated now, Harry speed-dialled Svetlana by pressing '1' on his phone. It rang and rang, with an infuriatingly long pause between the rings. There was no voicemail because Svetlana didn't do messages. Harry looked at his phone in frustration. He'd have to send a text. He was going to be 56 in two weeks' time and texts were not exactly his forte.

He fumbled for the buttons and began the agonizing process.

'Bows.'

No.

'Cows'

NO! Goddam the stupid bloody predictive text setting, but he had no idea how to turn it off.

'Boys hone.'

DRAT!!

'Boys gone ball me.'

Well that was going to give her entirely the wrong message.

'Boys snatched,' he managed at last.

That was enough, that would do.

He pressed send. Then waited, out there on the pavement with Maria still standing at the front door looking at him in confusion, for Svetlana to reply.

What if she didn't? What if Igor was busy sneaking the boys out of the country while Svetlana was being wined and dined by . . . another suitor? Already? But he didn't doubt it, women like Svetlana were never left alone for any length of time. That was a plain and simple fact.

Once children were out of the country, Harry knew just how hard it was to get them back. It was a lengthy, expensive legal process and Igor had enough funds to keep it going for years.

He began to pace the pavement.

'Where is she?' he asked Maria. 'Do you know which restaurant?'

The maid shrugged. 'Come in,' she urged.

But then Harry's phone began to ring.

'Harry? What is this?!' Svetlana sounded angry. 'Why are you joking with me? I'm busy.'

There were many niceties to be sorted out between them –
Sorry I walked out on you, do you want me back? I'm desperate to have you back. Who the hell are you lunching with?

– but there was no time.

'I've just seen the boys leave in Igor's car,' Harry fired out. 'They said he was taking them on holiday, skiing. Is this right?'

'Vat?' came the stunned response.

'Could Petrov have been joking?' Harry asked, 'Could he have misunderstood something?'

'No! He's very smart boy. Oh Harry!'

There was unmistakable fear in Svetlana's voice. 'He's going to take them away to get my house! HARRY!'

'Phone him, right now, then phone me back,' Harry instructed her then ended the call abruptly because he now had urgent phone calls of his own to make.

Mobile clamped to his ear, he headed into the house, and into Svetlana's downstairs sitting room because he would need a table, papers, pens. He had to do everything he possibly could to help her.

Anyone listening in to the round of calls he began now would have heard terse, clipped instructions as Harry Roscoff, barrister, got down to serious business.

'Ronald, hello, how are you old chap, yes . . . 'fraid I need a favour . . . mmm . . . and on a Saturday too . . .'

'Hello, yes, I have an emergency protection order. Fax it to Gatwick, fax it to Heathrow . . .'

'Good afternoon, can you tell me which airports in Greater London are used by private jets? Who clears them for take-off?'

'So it's BAA head office I need . . . that is so incredibly helpful of you.'

Only briefly did he talk to Svetlana. She confirmed that Igor was already in St Petersburg and gave Harry as many details as she could remember about his private plane.

'Come back,' he'd urged her, 'where are you?'

'In France,' she'd wailed.

'France? What the devil . . . Just come home,' he'd instructed. There was no time for questions now.

'Hello, police please, this is a genuine emergency . . .'

'I'm waiting for the necessary legal papers. They'll be ready within fifteen minutes or so . . . but someone will have to serve them at Luton airport . . .'

Would they be in time, he wondered?

Connor returns:

Green and white polo shirt (Gant)
White jeans (Ralph Lauren)
Brown belt (same)
Tennis shoes (Dunlop)
Total est. cost: £280

'He will bend you till you scream.'

'There's no need to be jealous, Annie and I go way back.' With these words, Connor moved his hand onto Annie's left breast and squeezed.

Annie smacked him, but Ed just laughed. He was sitting on the sofa opposite the two of them and found it funny and more than a little bit sexy that his lover was draped across a famous TV star.

But as Connor had mentioned, he and Annie went way back, 'but not back to before I was gay', he had added pointedly, earlier in the evening.

Evening! Ha! Ed flicked a look at his watch. It was only 4.15 p.m. and he was already hammered. Thank God it was Saturday. This was the Connor effect.

Connor had returned in a triumphant blaze to London, demanding immediate partying and celebrating with lashings and lashings of booze. He had touched down in Gatwick at eleven yesterday morning, dumped his bags, had a shower, and rung round all his agents, producers and directors to arrange a series of meetings and lunches. Then he'd re-established contact with his personal trainers and masseuse, and finally, bearing two bags of duty free, turned up this afternoon at Annie and Ed's, where he'd installed himself in the kitchen.

Not to cook, but to busy himself with limes, crushed ice and a blender making sensational margaritas.

'I know, so nineties,' he'd told them, 'but just the thing for a wet Saturday afternoon.'

So they'd moved into the sitting room with an entire jugful of margarita and begun a great long chat session, punctuated only by the comings and goings of Owen and Milo, plus Dave's joyful yip-yapping if anyone so much as walked past the house.

'You have a dog!' Connor had gushed as soon as he'd set eyes on Dave, 'how come you've never even told me you have a dog?'

Annie had rolled her eyes before insisting, 'The dog is nothing to do with me.'

Meanwhile Connor had got down on his knees and started fussing over Dave with the whole tummy rubbing and 'hello boy', 'good boy', 'you like that doncha' routine which separated the dog people from the non-dog people.

The margarita afternoon was allowing them to catch up on all sorts of news. Hector was still in California, sorting out the handing over of the lease, the return of the gym equipment and the hire car. All the 'star management' stuff he seemed to enjoy doing for the man in his life.

'No little American baby come home with you then?' Annie asked, teasing but also curiously concerned to know what had happened to those plans.

'Don't think it was going to be quite as easy as we'd hoped. Turns out you can't just jet in and say "I'm a star" and snatch up a bambina,' Connor drawled, making light of it as he made light of every single thing in his life.

'Although that does seem to work in Cambodia,' Ed couldn't help observing.

'I think it's easier for the lady stars over there,' Connor pointed out. 'Not sure how keen they are on single-sex adopters. They'd probably chop our hands off . . . or worse.'