Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

According to the profile Jason Whitehurst had a son, but there was no wife. Charlotte was relieved about that. Wives were a complication she could do without. Some simply ignored her, others treated her like a daughter, the worst were the ones who wanted to watch.

Jason Whitehurst was in conversation with a couple of contemporaries, the three of them standing together with large brandy glasses in their hands. She walked right up and introduced herself.

“Ah yes, the old Baron told me you’d be here,” Jason Whitehurst said. His voice was beautifully clipped and precise. He left his friends with a brief wave.

She liked that, there was no pretence, no charade that she was a relative or a friend’s daughter. It spoke of complete self-confidence; Jason Whitehurst didn’t have to care what anyone else thought. He could make a good patron, she thought, people like him always did. A man who had made a success of his life wasn’t inclined to quibble over trivia. Not that money ever came into it. There was an established routine, no need for vulgarity. And Baronski would never tolerate anyone who didn’t play by the rules.

While she was with him, the patron would pay for all her clothes, her travel, incidentals; and there would be gifts, mostly jewellery, perfume, sometimes art, once a racehorse (she still laughed at Baronski’s consternation over that). After it was over, after the patron had tired of her, Baronski would gather in all her gifts and pay her a straight twenty per cent.

“Are your bags packed?” Jason Whitehurst asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jason, please, my dear. Like to keep an informal house.”

She inclined her head.

“Good,” he said. “We’ll be leaving Monaco right after this blessed fandango.”

“Baronski said you were voyaging to Odessa,” she said. Always show an interest in their activities, make them think everything they do is important.

Jason Whitehurst stared at her. “Yes. Have you been to Odessa before?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Beastly place,… I do a little trade there, no other reason to go. Lord knows what’ll happen now Turkey’s plugged in with Egypt, though. Still, not your concern. Phone your hotel, tell them my chauffeur will pick up your luggage; he’ll take it down to the airport for you.

“Pardon me?”

“Now what?”

“I thought we were voyaging on your yacht?”

Jason Whitehurst pulled at his beard. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or angry.

“Ought to read your data profiles a little closer, dear girl. Now then, I’ve got some people to see here first. So, in the mean time, I want you to find Fabian, get acquainted.”

“Your son?”

“That’s right. Do you know what he looks like?”

She remembered the picture in the data profile, a fifteen-year-old boy with thick dark hair coming down over his ears. “I think I can recognize him, yes.”

“Excellent. Just go where the noise is loudest, that’s where he’ll be. Now then, a few words of caution. Little chap doesn’t have many real friends. My fault, I expect, keep him on board the Colonel Maitland all the time. Not terribly used to company, so make allowances, yes?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. I’ve told him you’ll be meeting us here. Splendid girl like you is exactly what he needs. As you can imagine, he’s looking forward to your company enormously, so don’t disappoint him.”

“You want me…?” Charlotte trailed off in surprise.

“You and Fabian, yes. Problem?”

The idea threw her completely. But in the end, she supposed, it didn’t make any real difference. “No.” She found she couldn’t look Jason Whitehurst in the face any more.

“Jolly good. I’ll see the two of you in about an hour in my car. Don’t be late.”

Jason Whitehurst marched off, leaving Charlotte alone with the realization that no matter how well you thought you knew them, the ultra-rich were not even remotely human.

Fabian Whitehurst was easy enough to find. There were only about fifteen boys and girls in their early teens at the ball, and they were all clustered together outside the entrance to the disco. They were giggling loudly, red faced as they swapped jokes.

Charlotte made a slow approach across the ballroom, taking her time to study them. She was only too well accustomed to the inherent brattishness of the children of the rich. Spoilt and ignored, they developed a shell of arrogance early in life, treating everyone else as third-class citizens. Including Charlotte; in some cases, especially Charlotte. Her throat muscles tensed at the memories.

These seemed no different, their voices grated from ten metres away, high pitched and raffish. The girls had been given salon treatments, fully made up, their hair in elaborate arrangements. They nearly all wore white dresses, though a couple were in low-cut gowns. There was something both silly and sad about the amount of jewellery they wore.

The boys were in dinner jackets and dress shirts. Charlotte was struck by their similarity, as if they were all cousins. Their cheeks chubby, moving awkwardly, making an effort to be boisterous. She imagined someone had told them this was the way you had to behave at parties, and they were all scrabbling to conform.

Then she caught sight of Fabian Whitehurst, the tallest of the group. His face didn’t have quite the pampered look of the others. She could see some of his father’s characteristics in his angled jawline and high cheekbones. Hahdsome little devil, she thought, he’ll be a real handful when he grows up.

Fabian suddenly looked up. For the second time in one evening, Charlotte felt flustered. There was something demanding in his gaze. But he couldn’t keep it going, blushing crimson and dropping his eyes quickly. She waited. Fabian glanced up guiltily. She lifted the corner of her mouth gently, a conspiracy smile, then let her attention wander away.

Julia Evans was dancing on the ballroom’s wooden floor, with some ancient nobleman sporting a purple stripe across his tailcoat. Maybe there were penalties for being so rich, after all.

Charlotte knew that if she had that much money, she would’ve taken her pick of the handsomest young blades, the ones who could make her laugh and feel all light inside, and screw protocol. She took another sip of champagne.

“Er, hello, you look awfully bored,” Fabian said. He was standing in front of her, an oversize velvet bow tie spoiling the sartorial chic of his tailored dinner jacket. His shaggy hair was almost falling in his eyes as he looked up at her, he flipped it aside with a toss of his head.

“Oh dear, does it show?” she asked encouragingly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see all the other youngsters watching them with eager envious expressions.

“No. Well, sort of, a bit. I’m Fabian Whitehurst.” His eyes darted down to her cleavage, then away again. As if it was a dare.

“Yes, I know. Your father said I’d find you over here. I’m Charlotte Fielder. Pleased to meet you.”

“Crikey!” Fabian’s gasp of surprise was almost a shout. He blushed hotly again at the solecism, his shoulders hunching up in reflex. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You? You’re Charlotte?” And for a moment every aristrocratic pretension was stripped away, he was an ordinary incredulous fifteen-year-old who didn’t have a clue.

“Fraid so.” Training halted the giggle as it formed in her throat. But he was funny to watch.

“Oh.” A spark of jubilation burned in Fabian’s eyes. “I wondered if you would care to dance,” he said breathlessly.

“Thank you, I’d like that,” she said, and drained the glass.

Fabian’s grin was arrogant triumph. They walked into the disco together, past Fabian’s astonished friends. He gave them a fast thumbs up, lips curling into a smug sneer. Charlotte’s serene smile never flickered.