Mark Burnell - The Third Woman

‘And you don’t work for Leonid Golitsyn?’

‘Never heard of him.’

She looked around – where was Medvedev ? – and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were …’

‘Have we met before?’

‘That’s original.’

‘I know. But have we?’

It occurred to Stephanie that they’d both thought they’d recognized each other. She’d thought he was Medvedev. And he’d thought she was … who ? The moment he first saw her, who had she been to him?

‘I don’t think so.’

He offered his hand. ‘Well, I’m Robert. Robert Newman.’

‘Hello, Robert. Claudia Calderon.’

‘Calderon – you’re from Spain?’

‘Argentina.’

‘Lucky you. One of my favourite countries.’

Stephanie swiftly changed direction. ‘So … what do you do, Robert?’

‘Depends who’s asking.’

‘That makes you sound like a gun for hire.’

‘But in a suit.’

Which he wore well, she noticed. He has them made . Grey, double-breasted, over a pale blue shirt with a deep red, hand-woven silk tie.

‘They’re the ones you have to watch,’ Stephanie said. ‘Like the vicar’s daughter.’

His laugh was soft and low. ‘Then I guess I’m in … finance.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘My background is oil.’

‘But no dirty hands?’

‘Not these days. When I was younger.’

She could believe it. He was perfectly at home in the Lancaster’s bar, in his expensive suit, with the heavy stainless-steel TAG-Heuer on his wrist. Yet she could see the oil-fields. In his eyes, in the lines around them, across hands made for manual labour.

He summoned the bartender and said to Stephanie, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

A question she’d been asked too many times by too many men. But she didn’t mind it coming from him. He hadn’t made any assumptions about her. Not yet. Usually, the men who asked her that question were already deciding how much they were prepared to pay for her.

She had champagne because she felt that would be Claudia Calderon’s drink. That or Diet Coke. Newman ordered another vodka martini.

‘You live in Paris, Claudia?’

‘I’m visiting.’

‘Staying here, at the Lancaster?’

‘A man who gets right to the point.’

‘It’s an innocent question.’

The bartender slid a glass towards her.

‘No, I’m not staying here,’ Stephanie said. ‘What about you?’

‘I live here.’

‘In the hotel?’

‘In the city.’

‘How original. An American in Paris.’

‘If you consider a New Yorker an American …’

‘You don’t?’

‘Not really. I think of New York as a city-state. America’s another country.’

Which was something she’d felt herself. In New York, she’d always been at home. In the rest of America, she was constantly reminded of how European she was.

She tried to push past the remark. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘I’ve had a place here for ten years but I don’t use it much. I travel a lot on business.’

‘Where?’

‘The Far East, the Middle East, the States. All over. What about you? What do you do?’

Now that the moment had come, she couldn’t pass herself off as an art consultant. ‘Take a guess.’

He gave it some thought, allowing her to look at him properly. He had short dark hair and attractive dark brown eyes. His tanned face looked pleasantly weather-beaten for a businessman. In his forties, or perhaps a young-looking fifty, he appeared fit for a man with the kind of life he’d described.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘You know, looking at you, I really can’t think of anything.’

‘You’re straying.’

‘Straying?’

‘This is supposed to be a polite conversation. There are rules. One of them is: don’t even try to think. Thought breeds silence. That’s not allowed. If you can’t come up with anything decent to say, say something shallow.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘I’m surprised. All that travel, all those hotels. This can’t be your first time.’

‘My first time?’

‘Being approached. In a bar. By a woman.’

His smile was the wry badge of the world-weary. ‘I guess that depends on where you’re going with this.’

Stephanie smiled too. ‘That’s very neat.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘Maybe this is what I do. Approach strange men in hotel bars.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t have the look.’

‘What look’s that?’

He sipped some vodka. ‘Desperate predatory allure.’

Stephanie arched an eyebrow. ‘Desperate predatory allure? I like that. But it puts you at risk of sounding like an expert.’

‘Well, you’re right, of course. I’ve been in many bars. There have been many … situations . And they never fail to disappoint.’

‘No value for money?’

‘I quit before it gets to that.’

‘Naturally.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t expect you to admit it.’

He took his time, sizing her up, deciding about her. ‘You always this direct?’

‘Only with complete strangers.’

‘Because you can be, right?’

‘Yes. Liberating, isn’t it?’

He nodded, comfortable with her; neither threatened, nor encouraged. She hoped he wouldn’t spoil it by saying something crass.

‘I guess that’s the game we’re playing.’ He rolled his glass a little, watching the oily liquid swirl. ‘Strange how that works, though. That you can say anything to someone you’ve never met before. The kind of things you wouldn’t say to someone you know.’

‘It only works when you think you won’t see them again.’

‘Like now?’

‘Yes. Like now.’

Newman said, ‘Scheherazade.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to excuse me.’

Stephanie turned round. A woman had appeared on the far side of the bar. She had beautiful thick black hair. A dark, liquid complexion set off the gold choker at her throat. Slender with curves, she wasn’t tall, perhaps only five-four, but she had poise and presence. Heads were turning.

‘Your date?’ Stephanie asked.

How typical, she thought, that she should be the one to be crass. Newman seemed to find it amusing.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Claudia. A rare pleasure.’

And then he was gone. Stephanie looked at the woman again. She recognized the face but couldn’t remember her name; high cheekbones, large dark eyes, a wide mouth, which now split into a smile, as Newman crossed the floor to meet her.

The phone behind the bar began to ring.

Scheherazade who?

They embraced, his hand staying on her arm. She glanced at Stephanie then whispered something to him. They laughed and then settled on the only spare sofa.

‘ Excusez-moi … ’

She turned round. The bartender was holding the phone for her. She took it and pressed the receiver to her ear. Over the crackle of bad reception, she heard an engine. Car horns blared in the background. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Fyodor Medvedev.’ His American accent was clumsy, words shunting into one another like old rail wagons in a verbal siding. ‘I’m sorry to be late. I’m in traffic. Not moving.’

‘At least I know you’re in Paris.’

He didn’t get it. ‘I will be at hotel in ten minutes. Mr Golitsyn wants to see you now. Is okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Room 41. Emile Wolf suite. He waits for you.’

As she handed the phone back to the bartender, the name came to her. Scheherazade Zahani. A favourite of Paris-Match and the gossip columns. Usually seen at the opera, or stepping out of the latest restaurant, or on the deck of her one-hundred-metre yacht at Cap d’Antibes.