One Way or Another: A Novel (16 page)

“Ahmet, please.”

“Ahmet, sir.” She suddenly did not quite know what to call her client. “But whoever did this spent a lot of money and very little time, and had absolutely no taste.”

Ahmet roared with sudden laughter and she swung round to look at him. Instead of being pissed off that she had dismissed his entire home as rubbish, he seemed to think it the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed through his laughter, “as you English would say, you do not mince words, woman.”

“I have found that a waste of time. A client hires me for my experience and my reputation, and my good taste. Whomever you took on to do this cheated you and I’m sorry because it obviously cost a lot of money. Far more,” she added, looking more carefully, taking in with her experienced eye the proportions, the ceiling height, the depth of the windows, “far more than I will charge you.” She turned to look at him again. “That is,
if
you hire me. I warn you, though it won’t be what you paid before, it still won’t be cheap.”

“
Cheap
is not what I’m after, Miss Patron.” Ahmet threw out his hands. “Oh, hell, I’m going to call you Martha. I think we are going to get to know each other very well, and I can’t keep up this formal business, calling you Miss Patron every time I get you on the phone. But anyhow, sometimes you get ‘cheap’ when you’ve paid a lot for it. That’s unfortunately what I got.”

“I’ll clear it all out, send it to the auction house, see you get fair value, though I’m not guaranteeing you’ll get what you paid.” She knew Ahmet had been overcharged, that was what happened to very rich people who somehow never seemed to know the true value of anything much, other than in a business deal, buying and selling property, shares, boats, Caribbean islands … then, they were on top. She did wonder, though, about the beautiful, creepy Mehitabel. Surely it was one of her jobs to keep checks on her employer’s purchases, see that he was billed what had been agreed, make sure he got receipts for the taxman.

“What I’m going to do is come back here with my assistant and measure every room in the house, every passageway and corridor and kitchen alcove. We may end up doing quite a bit of restructuring, Ahmet.” She threw in his name with a smile. He gave her that too-intimate smile back and, embarrassed, Martha turned away, adjusting her scarf so it floated over her breasts, over the sweater. Her jeans were tucked into flat black boots and she carried her coat, the waxed green English three-quarter-length jacket known as a Barbour, always seen at country events, or now even on London’s Knightsbridge. It had become ubiquitous, fitted all occasions, rain or shine, and that’s what a trip to the countryside always involved. Rain or shine.

Today she was lucky and had gotten the shine, something she thanked God for because in this low-slung land, under the looming clouds, this house needed all the help it could get.

“Tell me, Ahmet,” she said as he walked her back to the car. “What made you choose this part of the world? Was it simply the house? Or…” she flung out her arms, “do you like all this marsh?”

Ahmet was silent for a moment, thinking about it.

“Well,” he said finally, “since the house was already here, I obviously was not the first to find the place interesting. Exciting too, in a way. All this beautiful flat green meadowland—
marshland
really—it looks like one long, giant front lawn leading to the river, which you can just see from here, that glittering brown stripe across the horizon. To me, it has a unique beauty. I doubt you can find terrain like this anywhere else in the world, well, perhaps the Camargue in southeastern France, but still, not quite like this. Not with this … vividness … this remarkable greenness. Your Marco saw it so well, with his painter’s eyes, he understood why I’d fallen for the place. It’s the silence too, Marco said to me. And yes, he is right. Tell me, what do you hear, Martha? Only the sigh of the wind, the idle ripple of the water, the occasional flutter of wings, a heron in flight. There’s no roar of suburban trains in the distance, no flights low overhead, no autoroutes spewing fumes. No, oh no. All we have here is pure nature. And that is why I love it.”

His heartfelt speech took Martha’s breath away. “You did what you had to,” she agreed. “And now I shall do my best to make it even more perfect for you.”

Ahmet took her hand, bowing over it as she stepped into her car. “I am honored,” he told her. And it was true, he was.

He called after her as she took off. “Will you have an assistant then?”

“My sister, Lucy,” she flung over her shoulder with a goodbye wave.

Ahmet was smiling as he went back inside his house and shut the door.

Martha knew exactly what to do with Marshmallows: she would do a Syrie Maugham. Syrie was not only the wife of the famous author, Somerset Maugham, she was also a renowned interior designer of her era, one who’d created a new, modern look, away from the heavy old pieces and the dark beams, the red wallpapers that still reflected Victorian times. Syrie transformed houses with pale walls, infused them with white and light, with soft silken drapes and linen sofas, pale rugs and white-stained wooden floors, pleated lampshades lined with gold that cast a special glow, everything geared to make a woman look more beautiful in gentle light and soft colors.

Ahmet’s house was like a feudal throwback, almost horror-movie style. It needed lightening up and that’s exactly what Martha intended to do. It crossed her mind that he might not like being “lightened up” but hey, he’d hired her, that’s what she did, and that’s what he would get. And, in her book, it would be a hell of a lot better than what he had now.
More!
It would be bloody wonderful, she would make sure of that. It would also consolidate her reputation. She was well aware you didn’t do a billionaire’s house without attracting notice, that was for sure.

*   *   *

She had dinner that night with Lucy at Scott’s in Mayfair, indulging in oysters which they ate straight, no fancy sauces, only a brief squeeze of lemon so the brininess slid sumptuously down their throats.

“I’m going to have the halibut next,” Lucy said, already attacking the bread basket.

“And I suppose you’ll have that with fries.” Martha was not asking a question, she knew her sister well, knew that she was perpetually hungry. For a creature who looked more like a waif than any ballerina, Lucy could certainly pack it away, when she had the opportunity, that is. Martha was concerned over Lucy’s perpetual joblessness and fixation on a life on the stage or on TV or in movies, probably even pantomime if she ever got the chance: Dick Whittington and his Cat; Robin Hood and his Merry Men …

“Lucy, it’s time you stopped playing Snow White,” she said. It was not anger she felt for her sister, it was fear for her well-being. “People don’t starve to death for their art these days.”

“They do if they have no money,” Lucy said, buttering yet another chunk of baguette. “You should try this,” she added. “The butter’s really good.”

“Since you’ve already eaten most of it, it’s hardly worth the effort.”

Lucy threw her sister a calculating upward glance. Sighing, she put down the piece of bread. “Okay. So what’s up? Tell me what I’ve done wrong this time.”

Martha eyed her sister, skinny in her blue jeans and the Rolling Stones T-shirt she could swear she remembered from their youth; no hint of makeup—probably because Lucy could not afford any—no polish on her nails either, probably for the same reason. In fact, the only way Lucy had a roof over her head was because, thankfully, the Patron family still owned the house in Chelsea, now divided into flats. Lucy had two basement rooms reached from a small area down a flight of cement steps, and where the door was practically in your face as you turned to open it. There was a cupboard for a kitchen, used, it seemed, only for fixing endless cups of coffee, of which, by some miracle of financial dexterity, they never seemed to run out. Nor did they seem to run out of booze, which Martha suspected was mostly provided by the guys who came to visit the three fun girls who lived there.

Just look at her, Martha thought, watching her sister devour her dinner while throwing Martha a smile and managing at the same time to tell her about the acting job that had gotten away. As they all seemed to.

“So far, that is,” Lucy said, assessing her sister as Martha had just assessed her. “You look terrific, Marthie,” she said, slipping into the old childhood nickname. “All blond and fair, the perfect woman. So?” Her brows rose, fork poised halfway to her mouth. “When are you gonna marry him, anyway?”

“You mean Marco?”

Lucy rolled her eyes with pleasure as she took a taste of Martha’s Dover sole. “Mmmm, I should have had that.”

“You can have all of it if you want.” Martha pushed the plate toward her sister, who smiled and shoved it back.

“I’m not that hard up that I have to eat your food as well as my own.”

“Yes you are. And that’s why we have to do something about it.” Martha leaned in closer. “I have a proposal for you.”

Lucy rolled her eyes again. “Probably the only one I’ll ever get.”

“Be serious. This is your life we are planning.”

“You mean
you
are planning.” Lucy could be stubborn when she felt like it. Besides, she didn’t want to hear about a job unless it was on a stage of some kind. Even behind stage would do, painting scenery, pushing cameras around, sweeping the bloody floor.

“I want you to come and work for me.” Martha saw Lucy’s face turn to stone. She put up her hand to stop her from saying immediately, you’ve got to be kidding.… “No, I’m
not
kidding, Lucy, and yes, I do need help, and so do you. I’m not saying it’s forever, but it would get you out of the hole—the
funk
—you’re in, and at the same time it would help me out when I need it. I’ve been offered the biggest job of my career so far, redoing an important country house for a businessman.” She thought for a moment. “Well, actually,
mogul
is the only word to describe him. I’m talking about Ahmet Ghulbian.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Lucy said it anyway. She slumped back in her chair, stunned.

Martha stared at her. “No, I’m not. Why?”

“Because that’s the Ahmet I told you about, remember? He paid for my drink one night when I was stuck. I didn’t have enough money and he was at the next table.” Lucy explained what had happened. “Actually, I was going to ask you for the thirty quid so I could pay him back. I don’t like being beholden to a man, especially one I don’t even know, even if he is a mogul and can afford it anyway.”

Martha thought her sister would never learn; she would just go through life as ingenuous as she was now, believing a man took pity on her and paid for her dinner without any thought of any kind of repayment, which would certainly not be in money.

“Sometimes, Lucy,” she said coldly, “I have to think you are a silly bitch.”

“It was only a glass of champagne. Martha, I was at the Ritz! What else could I do?”

“You could have called me, I would have given them my credit card.”

“Ohh, well, he got there first with his.” Lucy grinned. She was bewitching when she grinned, her tousled blond hair falling into her eyes, her unmade-up face all shiny and clean. She looked about fifteen years old at that moment and Martha sighed and took pity.

“So, are you going to take the job as my assistant on this project, or not?”

“You betcha,” Lucy said, grinning again.

27

The next day, Martha flew to Paris to be with Marco. Later she fixed dinner at his apartment and since each liked different foods it was a varied assortment. For her: salad greens, braised tomatoes with Parmesan, and fresh shrimp with a good garlicky mayonnaise. For him: grilled sirloin and a baked potato with butter on the side. Nothing she could do could turn Marco away from the food of his youth. It was okay, though she did wish he would go easier on the butter. But she had other things to talk about tonight, more important than butter, something she had caught, by chance, earlier that evening in the newspaper:

MISSING BROOKLYN WOMAN
it said in large black letters above the photo of an attractive girl whose hair clouded round her head in a fizz of energy. As though she could fly away with that hair, Martha thought. She remembered Marco’s description of the red-haired girl who had “gone missing.” Now here that girl was, officially missing—in print—in the newspaper. There could not be two women of that description, with that hair, who had suddenly disappeared. Marco was right after all.

Marco was leaning against the kitchen sink watching the preparations, a glass of chilled rosé in hand, his mind on other matters.

“So?” he said finally.

Martha threw him a glance. “So—what?” she asked, tearless, even though she was chopping onions.

Marco thought it was amazing that Martha never cried when she chopped onions. Just another of her special talents.

Marco’s kitchen had been done over by Martha. The polished concrete counters were her only concession to his aesthetics. Personally, she would have preferred a silvery granite. The view beyond the counter, though, was unmatchable: the classic Paris skyline of rooftops and chimneys. Below, paulownia trees were budding in the square while tiny cars in bright colors skidded round corners, brakes squealing, in a never-ending search for parking spots, of which there were none.

“So? Whaddya think?” Marco said.

“Think about what?”

“About who?”

“
Whom.
”

He sighed. “Martha! You know what I mean.
Who
and what I mean is the red-haired girl.”

Martha stopped cutting. She wiped her hands on her blue-and-white-striped butcher’s apron and took the newspaper clipping from the pocket. “I saw this in today’s
Herald Tribune.
I was saving it to give to you after dinner, hoping to have some time to ourselves first, but I can tell you’re not totally into it. Into
me.
You have another woman on your mind.” She handed it to Marco. “Read that, why don’t you.”