Gold Diggers - Page 103

‘Don’t worry,’ said Imogen, ‘this is just a read-through, we’re not doing it to camera or anything. So take your time and start whenever you’re ready.’

Summer looked down at the pages intently, although she did not need to read the words. She had received the script a few days before and had repeated them over and over until they had become part of her. The scene was powerful, packed with emotion. In it, Marien, the character she was auditioning for, had just survived the initial blast of the volcano, but she had just found her sister dead and was screaming her anger and frustration at the sky. Summer took a small breath and closed her eyes just for a moment, thinking about her experience at Ricardo Lantis’s mansion and that night in the pink bedroom, and suddenly the rage welled into her throat. She opened her mouth and the words poured out. It was like music to Imogen Sanders’s ears.

Wow! thought Imogen, unable to take her eyes from Summer’s face. This girl is fantastic!

53

As Adam’s Learjet banked into Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport, Karin leant over to peer out of the window. The city was one of her favourite places in the world with its romantic wedding-cake buildings and tsarist glamour, today lit up by bright sunshine. She had grown up in the dying days of the Cold War, when Russia was seen as a sinister state, a vast nation that had presidents with their finger on the nuclear trigger, bread queues, cold winters, wolves and snow. But a very different Russia now lay a thousand feet beneath her. A country of division. Poverty still gripped the nation, but there were pockets of immense wealth and luxury. Moscow was now a city where armour-plated Hummers and Bentleys drove the freeways, where beautiful girls dressed in Prada and Gucci and where the chic restaurants rivalled those in Manhattan. The price of a Karenza swimsuit, however, sold in the grand GUM department store, was still a good deal more than the average annual wage.

‘Thanks for coming, honey,’ said Adam, smiling over from the cream leather seat opposite her. ‘You know I’m grateful.’

‘My pleasure,’ smiled Karin. She wanted to reassure him but, looking at his drawn face, she could tell he was anxious. Only six weeks earlier, the Midas Corporation had put forward a bid to build a huge skyscraper in the centre of Moscow. It would have been a vital foothold in Russia’s burgeoning luxury real-estate market for Midas – much desired by the company. But Adam’s tender had been turned down; Moscow still fiercely guarded its own territory, and contracts were routinely handed out to the richest, best-connected Russian developers. Adam had been bitterly disappointed until Mikhail Lebokov, an oligarch with interests in everything from oil to construction, had called about the possibility of subcontracting the development to the Midas Corporation. Mikhail had requested a meeting at his dacha – his second home just outside Moscow – to discuss it further.

Adam had been excited by the call and was confident of reaching a deal; Mikhail had purchased three Midas penthouses in Miami and New York, and was known to be a big fan of the company’s work. But the fire in the Kazakhstan mine had changed everything. The Russian newspapers had jumped on the story and Adam had spent the last week on a damage-limitation exercise, trying to demonstrate that there was no breach of safety regulations. But he had no idea whether it would affect Mikhail’s desire to work with the Midas Corporation.

‘Do they live nearby?’ asked Karin. She was already hot, despite the air-con in the back of the car. Summers in Moscow could be sweltering, and today was sticky and warm, with no breeze. She had changed into her most glamorous Russian wives outfit: tight Dolce & Gabbana black trousers and a Chloe vest with a smattering of diamonds around her neck and wrists.

‘They have an apartment in Moscow,’ said Adam, watching the city fly by. ‘But no Muscovites of their wealth stay in the city in the summer. They all have dachas just outside in the countryside.’

They travelled for thirty minutes west of the city down the Rublovka highway. Here the buildings thinned and made way for heavy woods of birch and pine, the strong sunshine making patterns through the branches on the road in front of them. After half an hour, they turned off the highway and wound through a series of smaller roads dotted with clusters of expensive-looking dwellings. Karin peered over the top of her sunglasses. She had never been this far out of Moscow before. She had always imagined Russian country homes to be like Hansel and Gretel cottages, but these were like small but showy mansions, albeit surrounded by redcurrant bushes and a clear, cloudless blue sky. She pressed her nose against the black glass as they drove past, taking in the high walls, security cameras and iron gates.

‘Is it one of these?’ asked Karin.

‘These are probably worth ten million dollars a throw, so I doubt it,’ smiled Adam. ‘I think Mikhail will have gone for something a little more impressive.’ The car took a right-hand turn up a gentle slope into a more thickly wooded area and they stopped outside a huge pair of cherry-wood gates. As these swung open, Karin had to gasp.

‘You’re right, i

t is impressive,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to like it here.’

Mikhail Lebokov was around forty. He had dark hair flecked with silver and, although he was not a handsome man, his muscular physique and alert blue eyes gave him a striking look. His wife Daria was even more impressive. In her mid-to late twenties, her dark blonde hair fell straight and glossy down her bare back. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips were full and smiling. She was beautiful.

‘Welcome Adam and Karin,’ said Mikhail, leading them into the house. There was a Japanese theme throughout. The floors were made of cherry-wood and bamboo. In the heart of the dacha was a courtyard walled with glass, at the centre of which was a steel pond of koi carp and water lilies. On the way out to the terrace, Daria told Karin there was a whole wing for staff at the back of the house, which included a French chef, Thai masseur and an English butler, who had once served in the household of a minor royal.

‘You must be hungry after the long journey, da?’ said Mikhail, motioning into the vast grounds. A sumptuous lunch had been spread out on a long cherry-wood table, covered with an ivory parasol the size of a parachute.

As Karin sat down she took a moment to assess Mikhail. He was polite and gracious, she thought, watching him direct the butler to bring them cold drinks, but there was a distance to his manner that suggested Adam might have an uphill battle securing the skyscraper contract. She was glad she was prepared.

‘Karin. I saw you looking at the art on the way through the house,’ said Mikhail. ‘You like the Bacon and Warhols?’

‘Of course,’ she said. She had heard that Mikhail was an important collector of art; he was the rumoured buyer of a $50-million Picasso at auction, and she had been genuinely impressed by what she had seen on the walls. ‘However I like the Russian art even more.’

Mikhail looked confused. ‘The Kandinskys and Chagalls are in the bedroom and library. I don’t think you have been there yet.’

‘I actually meant the two works by Nesterov in the corridor behind us and the Grigoriev over there. That one was painted during the artist’s time in France, I believe.’

‘It is my turn to be impressed,’ said Mikhail with the hint of a smile. ‘Few Western friends recognize important Russian artists.’

Karin nodded thoughtfully. ‘Most people seem to think Russian art is all about Malevich, Chagall and Kandinsky, but I am a big fan of the artists less well known to the West.’ She shrugged modestly. ‘I have to thank my late husband. He was an art historian and owned a gallery.’

As lunch was served – Sevruga caviar, cold meat and exotic salads – Mikhail leant across the table and began to talk with passion about his collection. As he listened, Adam threw Karin a grateful glance and she smiled back. The truth was, Sebastian had never had any real interest in Russian art at all. But Mikhail was not to know that.

Finally Mikhail turned to Adam. ‘And how are you enjoying London?’ he asked, draining some mineral water from a crystal tumbler. ‘It is easier for Americans to fit into the London establishment than us Russians, yes?’

‘I haven’t had any problems so far,’ he replied cautiously, detecting an edge to Mikhail’s voice.

‘What about the gentlemen’s clubs? Do you belong to those?’

Adam shrugged. ‘Clubs like White’s, you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘That English old-boys’ club scene isn’t really my thing, to be honest.’

Tags: Tasmina Perry Fiction
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