Gold Diggers (37 page)

Imogen Sanders, one of the UK’s top casting directors, worked out of an office in a little row of pastel-coloured mews houses in Notting Hill. After spending ten years in LA working with some of the biggest names in the film industry, she had returned to her home town to set up on her own. Right now, Imogen was the hottest casting agent in the capital; she was the woman who producers and directors turned to when they were looking for hot British talent.

‘So, tell me about yourself, Summer. Your likes, dislikes. What you want to do with your life,’ said Imogen, smiling kindly at Summer Sinclair. In her twenty or so years in the business, Imogen had seen hundreds, if not thousands of models, desperate to move into acting. While most of them had a face that the camera loved – big mouths, button noses, perfect ivory teeth – only a handful of them had the x-factor to make them into stars. Imogen had already seen Summer’s showreel before she had got here – just a few rushes from some cable TV show which was endearing in its raw naïvety, but Summer’s beauty was unmistakable and she certainly had on-screen charisma. The question was: could she act? If she could, thought Imogen, Summer Sinclair could make
the hottest entrance to the movie scene since Cameron Diaz blasted onto the screen in
The Mask.

‘Tell you about myself?’ smiled Summer trying to relax into her brown leather armchair. ‘Well, as I’m twenty-four, I guess I’m a geriatric model. I came back from Japan to ease myself into retirement, but my TV career has kind of taken off. I got my break into TV when the “On Heat” presenter literally jumped ship; she’s cruising the Med with her multimillionaire lover as we speak,’ she smiled wryly.

Imogen nodded, urging her to say more.

‘Likes and dislikes? I like being in love, chocolate biscuits and sailing. I don’t like sitting in front of you with no acting experience to my name. But I’ve spent a lifetime on photo-shoots and I feel like I’ve spent my whole life playing a part as Molly Sinclair’s daughter, even though I don’t really like parties and the London social circuit.’

Summer looked at Imogen anxiously, having no idea whether she was making a good impression or embarrassing herself totally.

‘My dear, most of us spend half our lives acting, even if we don’t realize it,’ she said, taking a sip of water. ‘As for your lack of acting experience, we’re not looking for someone with a CV as long as Julia Roberts’. This is going to be a blockbuster movie, but the producers and the director are looking for an unknown or a relative unknown for the female lead.’

‘How come, if it’s a big-budget picture?’ asked Summer, confused.

‘Unknowns are getting more of a shot in bigger roles in Hollywood these days,’ Imogen explained. ‘Traditionally the studios wouldn’t take a chance on an actor with no track record: big names equalled big box office. But when half the budget is going on special effects these days – and
Krakatoa
is going to have
incredible
special effects – the studio
might not want to pay a big A-list female lead twenty-five million dollars.’

‘I suppose not, when she’s going to get upstaged by a volcanic eruption,’ smiled Summer.

They both laughed. Imogen liked her and she knew Luc, the director, would like her too. Summer’s was a fragile, refined beauty, but there was a toughness behind her eyes that suggested she had been through a lot. And she was going to have to be tough if she wanted to survive in the Hollywood jungle.

Imogen passed Summer a copy of the script; she could almost feel the pages crackle with excitement and promise.

‘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!

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, it 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.’

‘I have tried to join Hamilton’s. Are you aware of it? It is the most exclusive club. But they, how do you say, blackballed my application. It is ridiculous. Do they think Russians are thugs? Criminals? Not worthy of drinking with them?’ Karin noticed that Mikhail’s hand had curled into a fist. ‘I have a good mind to buy their little club and close it down.’

Karin cleared her throat. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Mikhail. My late husband was on the membership committee of that club. A lot of his friends are still members. I’m not making any promises, but how about I introduce you to some of them socially and see how you all get along?’

Mikhail’s fingers began to uncurl. ‘Really? That would be most kind of you,’ he said, smiling. ‘Very kind indeed.’

After lunch, Adam and Mikhail went into the library to talk business, leaving Daria and Karin alone.

‘Would you like the grand tour?’ asked Daria, seeing Karin’s eyes darting around. ‘We only finish the property six months ago, so some of it is still new to me.’

‘Oh, yes please.’

Karin was about to get a lesson in how vast wealth and good taste could make a home into a palace. ‘I am a big fan of your swimwear,’ said Daria, as she led Karin upstairs towards the bedrooms. ‘When Miki said he was due to meet Adam, I insisted you come along too. I read a lot of English magazines, you see.’

Karin immediately liked Daria, who seemed much more approachable than many of the Russian wives she had met in London. In fact, she seemed a little lonely. The dacha was surrounded by high walls, and there had been a platoon of security on the gate when they had entered. Karin suspected it would be like living in a gilded cage.

Still, as they moved through the house, Karin marvelled at every room. Daria’s dressing room was the most spectacular, filled with exquisite clothes of every kind. There was a climate-controlled closet for Daria’s collection of sable minks, and shelves of cashmere sweaters, colour-coded like the rainbow. The walls were lined with rails upon rails of designer clothes, many of them, judging by the cut and exquisite embroidered fabric, clearly couture. On another rack, Karin was pleased to note, were about thirty Karenza swimsuits and bikinis. Catherine the Great was rumoured to have over 5000 dresses, but Daria couldn’t have been far off that number, thought Karin, spying another glass closet devoted entirely to long gowns.

‘Wow,’ said Karin, unable to disguise her envy.

‘I got a taste for clothes when I was modelling in New York,’ she said frankly. ‘You see, I’m from a very small village
near Kiev. My parents were poor. I used to help them on their fruit stall and I wore rags until I was spotted by a model agent. I guess now I am making up for all the dresses I never had when I was a little girl.’

What a transformation, thought Karin, looking at elegant Daria. It was hard to picture her in rags.

‘Do your parents still sell fruit?’ she asked, fascinated.

Daria laughed. ‘Mikhail has moved my parents into the next village. Now they do very little, but I’m not sure they prefer it that way.’

They walked out of the house and into the grounds, slowly sipping iced mineral water from Baccarat tumblers, the smells of the summer countryside – grass, pine and berries – filling the air. After ten minutes of walking they came to a lake filled with tiger lilies. Next to it stood a cherry-wood lodge with a black pointed roof and low eaves. It looked like a painting of imperial Japan.

‘It’s a Japanese teahouse,’ said Daria, beaming. ‘I come in here for calm.’

Her childlike pride in the little house made Karin smile. She was still reeling at the sheer scale and luxury of the dacha, but for Daria, this was clearly the jewel in the crown.

They stepped inside. It had the same cherry-wood floors as the main house. Karin followed Daria’s lead as she took off her heels and changed into a pair of white slippers. They sat down on a teak lounger with cream cushions and Daria poured some tea.

‘Excuse me for asking,’ said Karin, breathing in the cherry blossom from a tree standing just outside the shuttered window of the house, ‘but why exactly do you need calm? Everything seems rather good in your world.’

Daria’s expression instantly changed from the excited little girl playing house to the more knowing expression of a woman who had seen more in her life than most
twenty-somethings. She fixed Karin with a searching look.

‘You are a woman dating a very wealthy man, Karin,’ she said frankly. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what I mean.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ replied Karin, taking a small sip of green tea.

‘My husband has a mistress,’ said Daria simply. ‘It has always been this way since very soon after we married, and until recently I have accepted it. In our circle, a mistress is on the list of things for men to have, like a yacht and a 737.’

Karin saw the sadness in her eyes, and for a moment she thought about her own recent paranoia. ‘I’m not quite sure having a mistress is acceptable,’ said Karin cautiously. ‘But rich men will always take what is thrown in front of them, that’s true. Men are weak, whether they come from Moscow or Manhattan.’

Daria nodded, staring at the branches of the cherry blossom tree waving slowly in the breeze.

‘I have never been worried before,’ she said quietly, ‘but his latest is troubling me. She lives in London, she is very beautiful. Her father is rich, important and connected.’ Her eyes had half closed, making them look feline, like a cat sizing up its prey. ‘I know she calls him all the time. I hear them talking on the telephone when he thinks I am asleep. I think it is getting serious.’

‘But Daria, you’re beautiful. Why would he look at another woman?’ she asked, genuinely curious and surprised at Daria’s candidness.

‘I am his wife,’ shrugged Daria, ‘a mother. This immediately makes me less sexy than a beautiful eighteen-year-old he sees twice a month.’

Karin nodded. ‘And is there anything else that makes you think it’s serious?’