One Way or Another: A Novel (33 page)

“But we
know
who he is, everybody does, it’s all been written about, we’ve seen him on TV, at events, at his wonderful party on the yacht.…”

“We saw what Ahmet wanted us to see. He’s not like us, Martha. That man is riddled with secrets. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘straightforward.’ Ask him a simple question, how was your day, how are you doing, I guarantee he’ll have three different answers ready.”

Martha slithered out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her, suddenly chilled. “Oh, I don’t know, I think he’s okay under all that…”

“All that
what
?”

She sighed; she understood what Marco meant. “Oh, all that … niceness, I suppose. The generosity.”

“Like, for instance, offering to buy Lucy a dress for the ball? When I say ‘offering,’ I get the feeling he was
insisting.
What kind of man does that, Martha?”

“A man in love?”

“A man
obsessed.
Lucy is on his mind and I wouldn’t be surprised if he intended to marry her.”

Martha jumped to her feet, the sheet still clutched around her nakedness. “Are you out of your mind? Lucy is underage, she still behaves like a child, for God’s sake, she wouldn’t even consider a man like that, my God, to
her
Ahmet is old. And that’s the cardinal sin when you are seventeen.”

Marco took her hand, drew her back onto the bed, waited for her to calm down. “Let’s put it this way, sweetheart, he’s not only old, he’s dangerous. He has secrets, he has a past, he’s ruthless and right now I get the feeling he’s hiding something. And Mehitabel—”

“That cow.”

“Mehitabel, the cow, is helping him. I’m willing to bet she knows everything that’s going on and right now I also get the feeling she is a woman scorned. She knows Ahmet has another female on his mind.”

58

ANGIE

There are times—sitting here on the hard little blue brocade sofa in my pretty little prison, a room I know inch by inch and could probably replicate in a drawing if I were asked to in a courtroom, though I understand of course there is no chance of that ever happening—still, there are times when I almost begin to like my small habitat, the way I imagine a snail must its shell. It fits snugly round me, eight feet by ten—I know the dimensions because I have paced it out, heel to toe, the old-fashioned way. It’s certainly better than my original squalid cell under the roof where either the sun beat down with stifling heat, or rain poured with a sound like a railroad engine, slamming down with the weight of the world from a leaden sky I could hardly see.

When I was first moved from the attic and saw the small round porthole window, I believed myself to be back on board the
Lady Marina.
I’d welcomed the idea, thinking of the clean wind, the rushing of the sea against the hull, perhaps the sudden end that awaited me, once again, beneath the crystal clear Aegean. There seemed no purpose in continuing to live. For what? For whom? Surely Ahmet had tortured me enough. Every man must reach a point of satiety, where there is no more satisfaction to be gained from inflicting pain and torture on a victim. And what must he do then? Finally kill me off, of course.

But, here I am, hidden away again, though at least now I have a proper room, a proper bed though just a narrow cot, and a proper bathroom with a tub and a walk-in shower, all done out in beige marble like in a hotel. Could this be a hotel they had taken me to? I feel like Alice in Wonderland: I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and discovered a whole new world. If I pull the chair over to the round window and climb on top of it, I can even glimpse a circle of wet-looking parkland with scrubby trees along a gravel drive and other, new trees in wooden crates. There are people working out there, real people, men in shirt sleeves spading the new trees into a series of holes dug all the way along that drive. After they’ve done this, a whole other crew comes in behind, stringing up tiny fairy lights, as though for a party.

That was it! Of course, Ahmet was throwing a party to celebrate the “opening” of his new house. The “home” he had always wanted.

There was a noise outside my door, that clack-clacking I knew meant Mehitabel. She entered without knocking, just to catch me off guard I suppose, though what I might have been doing, imprisoned as I was without any means of escape, I don’t know.

She flung open the door and stood there, looking at me. Over her arm she carried a plastic garment bag.

She walked into the room, threw the garment bag onto the chair, came over to me at the window, and stood with her face in mine, inspecting me.

“You look terrible, Angie,” she said, finally.

Did I need her to tell me that? And why was she bothering anyway?

She went back out the door, reappeared moments later rolling a small suitcase.

I eyed her warily; I knew she was up to something.

“In the garment bag you will find the dress you are to wear tonight.”

My eyes almost bugged out of my head. “Tonight?”

“Yes, Cinderella, you will go to the ball.”

She laughed as she said it. I’d never heard Mehitabel laugh before, never so much as seen her smile, but there it was, a little tinkling laugh like a proper lady taking tea with friends, instead of confronting the woman she obviously considered her enemy and who anyhow was socially beneath her, the barmaid, hostess, club girl.

I had a quick flashback of that life, that normal, ordinary, functional kind of life lived by many young women. In a way it’s women like myself who make the world go round, offering our drinks, our chat, our temporary companionship, attracting customers into our bars and sending them out again, a little happier, a little more attention paid to them, a smile on their faces. Nothing much maybe, but it still counts for something, to give another human being a small pleasure, that of being acknowledged, accepted, admired even. It was my talent, and I was proud of it. Now, though, I was nothing and I knew it.

Yet, here was Mehitabel, unzipping the garment bag, taking out the hanger with a beautiful dress, velvet, black as the dark side of the moon, long narrow sleeves, low V-neck, tightly corseted waist, spilling into a swirl of a skirt, the folds of which were cut so as to make a woman look slender yet feminine and which I knew would swish sexily around my knees as I walked. If I ever wore this dress, of course.

I made no comment, watching as Mehitabel took a pair of simple black suede heels from a box. I could see the number 8 on the side. My size. She upturned another bag, Victoria’s Secret, spilling out a slew of lacy underwear, all in black.

Two bags were still unopened. She turned to look at me, slender as a knife blade in her gray silk shift, belted at the waist with a chain of gunmetal and silver. Sleeveless, it left her arms, with their long muscles, bare, skimming just above her knees, fitting her body like it had been made for her. Which, remembering having my short black work skirts tailored to fit closer, I guessed it had, and by a master couturier, I’d bet. There was nothing cheap about Mehitabel, except her brain perhaps. And probably her background. I was suddenly curious about that, I wanted to know who my jailer was, why she was.

“Mehitabel?” I suddenly found my voice and she glanced up, surprised.

“I was wondering,” I said, managing a smile, which felt so alien I almost did not know what my face was doing, “I was wondering, Mehitabel, if you would at least talk to me.”

She stood, arms folded across her chest, feet slightly apart, so totally in charge it scared me all over again. She looked capable of anything, but then what did I care? I had nowhere to go, only down.

“What I wanted to know, before … well, before anything else takes place, is actually who you are. Where you come from. Who your family is. I remember my mom so clearly, it’s as though she’s with me, even now. I wondered about your mother. I mean, she must have cared for you, raised you, picked you up from school, cooked pancakes for Sunday breakfast, told you bedtime stories.…”

Her face was inscrutable and I hesitated. “Oh, Mehitabel, we are just two women alone here, in this mess together. I don’t know how or why I ended up here but you had a choice. You still have a choice. You can get out of this, Ahmet doesn’t own you, he doesn’t own me. Surely you know that?”

To my surprise, she lifted her chin higher, gave me a long, assessing look, almost a smile, just a hint of a change in her mouth, in her eyes. Then she said, “I know everything, Angie. Never forget that. And I will take care of it, in my own time. Remember that too. Meanwhile, you are to have your hair back, or a replica of it anyway.”

She took a wig from the plastic bag, long, softly curling red hair that was so like my own used to be.

“Put it on,” she said. “First the mesh cap, then the wig.”

She handed them both to me and I did as she said. It was like being reunited with myself. The hair swept my bare shoulders, I patted it around my face, pulled tendrils forward. I had no mirror but it did not matter.

She said, “Now put on the dress.”

I slithered into the black velvet. She came and stood behind me, tightened the corset laces, fluffed out the skirt. It felt silky, delicious, I knew I must be dreaming, and then she said, “Now, lift your hair up out of the way.”

I did as she asked, lifting my neck as she clasped a golden necklace around it. Lacking a mirror I put up a hand to touch it, knew instantly it was another gold Cartier neck chain with the panther clasp. To replace the one I’d lost in the Aegean. And, again, my initials.
AM
.

Cinderella really was ready for the ball!

Mehitabel took my hand in her cold one and led me back to the chair.

“You will sit here, not move a muscle until I come and get you.” She frowned, looking at me, tut-tutting. She had obviously forgotten something. She went to the other bag, brought out a box of makeup, then bent over me, applying a layer of powder, blush, gray eye shadow; no mascara though and no false eyelashes. A dab of lipstick that tasted of cherries.

“Well, well,” she said, taking a step back and inspecting her handiwork. “Looks almost like the old Angie. Not that anyone will see, of course. At least, not at first.”

She handed me a beautiful feather mask on a silver stick. “This is to be a masked ball. No one will know who anybody really is until the moment of unmasking is announced by Ahmet. And then we’ll see what he’ll have to say, won’t we, Angie. I’ve brought you back from the dead, girl. I hope you appreciate that.”

I did, but I wasn’t sure Ahmet would.

59

Martha had done as much as she could to make Marshmallows the party house of the year, but no mellow lighting, no arching rainbows in the sky, no white fairy lights seemed able to soften its harsh façade. Worried, she stood out on the front lawn—the only bit of grass that was real lawn, she thought, remembering she must post warnings: “Do not step on the grass” beyond the back terrace. “Wetlands” she would call it. That would be enough to stop any woman putting her expensive new party shoes anywhere near it. They would stick to the terrace where the massive stone planters had been filled with sweet-scented stocks and fluffy cow parsley as well as the everlasting white roses Ahmet insisted on, as his “signature” flower. Why a man needed a signature flower beat Martha, but the customer was always right.

And in pride of place at the foot of the staircase where it could not be missed by all entering the house, on an easel, stood Marco’s completed portrait of Ahmet. A tough, very immediate image that looked almost slammed onto the canvas, it showed a hard man, a powerful man in his prime. It was there in the confrontational glare in his eyes—he had taken off the glasses at Marco’s request, held them close to his chest as though about to put them back on. And although he was seated in the old captain’s chair, he still looked like a “man on the move,” ready for action.

Ahmet did not like his picture and told Marco so.

“I’d wanted more the classical banker setup, like everyone else in my business,” he said.

Marco dismissed his complaints with a shrug. “You are not a classical banker. You don’t like it, don’t pay me. I’ll keep it myself, show it here in my studio, perhaps send it on to a gallery I know.”

Of course Ahmet could not accept that. He paid and, finally convinced it was a rare honor to be painted by Marco Mahoney, agreed to show it in his house.

Martha herself had found the time to change into the long, slippery, silver-sequined halter-neck dress she’d had for ages and felt comfortable in—and besides, she wasn’t the “star” tonight so what she wore didn’t matter so much. She was the greeter and helper-out.

She wondered where Lucy was, she was supposed to be here with the pizza boyfriend, but as yet there was no sign of her.

Garlands of laurel and bay were slung along the balustrades and over the doors and windows, also lending their more exotic scent. The windows had been left open and the creamy muslin curtains billowed in the breeze. Votives lined each side of every stairway leading into the garden, and fat amber and gold candles centered the tables, tied with a swath of ribbon. Martha had used the same glassware from Biot as on the yacht, and white plates printed with the repeated logo
MARSHMALLOWS
and the party date running around the edge; a souvenir of a grand evening for the guests.

A series of tents, rather than just the one massive one Ahmet had wanted, dotted the front lawn, linked by transparent plastic passageways—in case of rain, Martha had warned Ahmet, because of course he also expected her to have control over the weather for his big night.

A dozen chefs manned the usually empty kitchen, with more outside working the barbecue. Dozens of waiters in white jackets, champagne jammed into huge ice buckets on tall stands, a display of terribly expensive red wine, a Bordeaux from a good year, as well as a lighter Beaujolais, and Sancerre and Chablis for those who preferred white. Perrier water, Badoit, Red Bull, Pepsi, every diet drink imaginable. Nothing was left to chance tonight; whatever any guest wanted Ahmet meant to supply it. Those were his orders to Martha. Who, in fact, was getting a bit fed up of “orders.”