Chapter I:  ST. PETERSBURG

 

 

 

Beyond the warm glow of light that haloed the richly laid out table, the ornate room lay in darkness. The table itself now bore the aftermath of a sumptuous dinner: well-plundered cheese board, fruit peel and stones scattered carelessly, Cuban cigars stumped in wine-dregged crystal. A bottle of vodka was passing around, liberal measures splashed with inebriated abandon before being tossed back in raucous toasts. Husky deep laughter and coarse banter reverberated, the acoustics of the vaulted ceiling giving the conversation a depth and rich timbre its drunken content did not deserve.

Tonight saw a gathering of rich and influential men, their over-fed bodies stuffed into expensive suits, florid faces stamped with the unmistakeable evidence of peasant origins and harder times now fed on a diet of plenty and watered with heavy liquor consumption. The smell of power - and its abuse - hung heavy in the air, as palpable as the pall of cigar smoke that hovered above them, casting a subtler atmosphere on the proceedings.

At the end of the table, his chair pulled away as if to distance himself from the rest, slouched Sergei Litvinov. He contributed little to the general conversation, listening with eyes lowered, his fair lashes hiding his thoughts, a hand covering his mouth, the other fingering a glass of vodka from which he sipped pensively. Compared to the others, he had drunk little. Compared to the average man, he ought to have been comatose.

"Can't hold your drink, Litvinov?" Arkady Glebov mocked. "You're too quiet. I don't trust a man who listens all the time. Or has your beautiful wife worn you out? You need any help with her, you come to me..."

Sergei shot him a cool glance, his blue eyes glittering in the low light, but did not rise to his bait. Glebov was an ignorant pig - but he was drunk. There was no sense in creating an enemy of a man who was not fully responsible for his words. "Talk some sense and maybe we will have a worthwhile conversation yet, Arkady Pavelovitch," Sergei muttered in reply.

Grigor Mendelsky sniggered, aware there was little love lost between the two billionaires. Money was the only thing that they had in common. In all else they were light years apart: the handsome, urbane, intelligent Litvinov and the brutal, debauched street fighter Glebov. "Talking of women, Sergei Alexandrovitch - no entertainment? I thought you knew how to throw a party?"

"You don't need my help to find a woman for the night, Grigor. And this is my home. Surely even you don't recommend shitting in your own nest?" 

A noise behind them and the beam of light thrown in from the hall outside indicated that someone had entered the room. No one turned, presuming it was a member of the household staff. Only Sergei, facing the door, observed her. He raised his eyes impassively, the infinitesimal shake of his head warning her from entering.

Zoe Litvinova ignored his terse command and stepped forward into the light. The men turned their heads to drink in the sight of a beautiful woman. Dressed demurely in grey wool pants cut perfectly to her slender narrow frame and a pale pink cashmere sweater, her thick hair long and glossy tumbling over her shoulders, she presented a glorious image of an elegant woman, warmly bathed in candle glow: hard for men, especially those in their cups, not to stare with prurience. "Gentlemen, I must apologise. Sergei, an important call. From  Murmansk. Yevgeny. I thought you should know..."

He rose abruptly from his chair, scraping the legs against the wood floor as if eager for an excuse to escape, taking his leave and walking towards a door at the other side of the room. "I'll take it in the library. If you will excuse me, gentlemen?" Zoe turned to go out by the other door through which she had come.

"Madame Litvinova! Surely you will stay and charm us a little while longer? Or must we be abandoned by both the Litvinovs? Not very hospitable...and you are so much more beautiful to look at than your husband...Please, stay and chat awhile with us! We are starved of refined female company..." Grigor Mendelsky called her back, eager to stir the pot. He knew Litvinov would hate to think of his wife alone with them, particularly in Glebov's company. His appetites were well known. 

Zoe smiled coolly, nodded and walked over to the table. She could feel the eyes of the men rake her body, reducing her to the usual sum of her parts. It was the culture of these men to treat women as either possessions or sex toys. In her case, there was the added draw of making subtle advances into the territory of a man whom they did not dare cross in other ways, the underhand revenge of the spineless. As ever with these men, their crude abuse was as much about power quite as much as it was about self-gratification. They made her feel dirty although she knew better than to let them see any of her discomfort.

"I hope the dinner was to your taste, gentlemen?" 

They replied, returning the usual trite compliments. 

Arkady Glebov tapped Sergei's vacated chair in invitation. "Come, sit with us..."

Zoe hesitated, uncomfortable with joining this particularly unsavoury bunch of drunks, but saw no option other than to humour Glebov without appearing either rude or skittish, neither of which impression she wished to give. Instead she perched on the edge of the nearest seat, attempting to divert the conversation onto a safe topic.

"How's your wife, Arkady? The baby must be due anytime." It served also as a subtle reminder, which he callously laughed off.

"God knows. With her mother in Moscow. I keep well away. My part finished months ago."

"Not a hands-on father, then?" Zoe added, doubting whether he would pick up the sarcasm.

Whether he did or not, he seemed unconcerned at her criticism, waving his hand dismissively. "Children are for women. I can't quite see your husband up to his elbows in baby shit, either."

"You'd be surprised. Sergei's a very involved parent, when he has time. You should try it some time, Arkady. Fatherhood is very rewarding."

That comment was received by snorts, amusement rippling around the room. "I much prefer fathering to fatherhood, if you take my meaning. The rewards are more... immediate," was his sleazy reply.

Zoe let it pass, aware that he was trying to provoke a reaction from her, and unwilling to become the entertainment. Polite conversation then ensued concerning travel plans, upcoming events and general chatter about her own three children. With the niceties accomplished and the attention beginning to pass from her, Zoe sat listening, much as her husband had done earlier although without his laid back ease with the situation. Instead, she sat tense and ready to slip away as soon as it was acceptable, praying for his return to provide her excuse.

"Zoe, you look lovelier than ever! More like a young mistress than a wife... Litvinov's a very lucky man."  The rest of the conversation had been conducted so far in Russian. Now Glebov leaned over, muttering this observation in English behind his hand, his eyes lowering to her legs with a lascivious smirk.

This time she decided to put him in his place. "I don't find that comment very flattering, Arkady. Nor would your wife, I imagine. You're drunk, which is the only reason I am not going to tell Sergei what you just said..."

"Tell Litvinov? Now why would you do something like that? Can't a man show his appreciation for a woman's beauty without her running for her husband? Grow up, little girl..." His hand dropped to her knees, edging into the gap between. She thrust it from her.

"Get your hands off me!" she whispered, standing up abruptly. The other men turned, suddenly alerted to tension at the head of the table. Zoe took the moment to leave, storming off, the men exchanging amused glances. No one had missed the interlude.

"You better hope Litvinov doesn't find out," Mendelsky warned. 

Glebov merely shrugged away his comment. "What did I do? She's highly strung; you know these pampered English women. We're here tonight because he's trying to worm his way back with Putin. He's got to play ball or he's back out in the cold. His hands are tied, my friends. Christ, did you see her tits? And those legs? Imagine them wrapped around your hips, not to mention those lips around your cock...You think our brooding golden boy knows what to do with a woman like her? If he doesn't, I sure do..."

 

 

...Having left the room, Zoe made her way across the hall to enter the library from the main door. Her face was flushed with temper. Sergei was finishing his call. He glanced up at her as she threw back the door. "That foul man just put his hand between my legs! Get him out of my house! You know how much I hate him and that whole corrupt bunch of psychopaths...!"

"Keep your voice down. They are my guests!"

"I beg your pardon? A man molests me and you tell me to lower my voice? You should have him thrown out at the very least!" Zoe snapped back.

Sergei rounded the desk. His voice was soft, a mellowing entering the initial brusqueness. "What did Glebov do, meliotchka?" His fingers reached out to caress a strand of her long dark hair.

She jerked roughly away, in no mood to be babied. "Don't treat me like a little child! You think I would behave like this for no reason? Funny you didn't even have to ask whom I meant. So you already know what a foul creature he is. Glebov made inappropriate comments. Then he touched between my knees..."

Sergei considered her words for a moment, his face impassive. "Glebov's an animal; you already know that. A major rule of business: sometimes we all have to lie down with those who repulse us. It isn't just women who whore themselves. But it's important, Zoe. Glebov could be a dangerous enemy. Putin has him in his pocket for a reason. And he's drunk tonight. Ignore him. What the hell were you doing anyway, sitting down at the table with them? What did you expect would happen? I have to go back now. Go up to bed. Wait for me there. I'll get rid of them soon. Then we'll talk ..."

Zoe stiffened, throwing back her head in that way she had indicating she was going to be difficult. 

Why did she have to make everything a cause célèbre? Western women wouldn't move an inch. Everything was a matter of feminism. Why did they imagine every game -this one in particular- was about them? Men like Glebov didn't give a damn about women - or men for that matter. Their pursuit of power was above gender politics, prejudice, tribalism, elitism, religious supremacy - above any of the perceived wrongs of the world: it used all those vulnerabilities in order to exploit everyone equally. Brushing past her, his patience wearing thin at that moment, aware she was leading him into dangerous waters, he strode back towards the dining room and closed the door firmly behind him.

She watched his retreating figure in shock, still trembling, unable to believe he would dismiss her complaints so completely. Frustration transferred her anger directly, from the repugnant Glebov, towards her husband himself. Sergei was no better than they were, yet another chauvinist Russian pig who regarded a woman's dignity as insignificant in comparison to a man's status amongst his peers. She had worked hard the past three years to learn his language and raise his nephew as her own; she had consented to spend months of the year in his country, to play hostess to his unpleasant friends and business acquaintances - but she was not about to become the silent partner in this marriage, the arm candy to keep him warm at night and accept the crap without demur like so many of the other wives she met in the rarefied atmosphere of these circles...

If Sergei thought he could ignore her opinion and pay no mind to the way other men treated her, then he could damn well find another bed in this palace to his vanity and arrogance for the night. She ran up the stairs to their suite of rooms - and locked the door...

 

*

 

...Sergei re-entered the dining room with more circumspection than he had left the library, a bland expression already cloaking his true feelings. He closed the doors behind him, firmly but softly.

Arkady shouted across the table. "Trouble on the pipeline?"

Sergei laughed. "There's always trouble. Those halfwits can't even shit without asking me how to wipe their arses..."

The men nodded their agreement, offering up their own tales of the incompetence and indecision of their senior managers. He took his seat again, indicating he wanted the bottle back, filling a large measure. Holding it up, he proposed another toast, his manner betraying nothing of the intensity of his suppressed rage. He knew better than to make a public spectacle of his quarrel with Arkady Glebov amongst this gathering of vultures; it was what they all wanted, Glebov most of all. It was the real driving force behind his outrageous behaviour towards Zoe.

The men around the table represented, in Sergei's opinion, everything that was wrong with modern Russia. He felt no connection to them, despite his similar position as one of its corporate giants. Like him, they had vast wealth, owned the major industrial conglomerates, had interests far and wide outside their motherland - and had risen from the ashes of the Soviet past, benefiting from the chaos that had followed the deconstruction of communism. But beyond that, he allowed no comparison. Unless they were hobbled - together with the corrupt politicians and brutal gangs that sustained them - Russia would continue to totter from one despotic regime to another. It was as he had just tried to make Zoe understand: there are no ideologies worth a damn, only excuses for evil in the relentless drive for absolute power. Until they understood that, nothing was safe.

Yet, he would be a fool to think he could somehow operate on a higher plane than the men who surrounded him. His very nature set him at odds with them. They wanted what he had; they wished to take him down. His threat to them lay in the different vision he offered for the recovery of their country. To them, there could only be one way - that of bullying and oppression. Democracy and equal rights were too expensive - billions could only be made for the few in this modern world on the backs of the rest. Had anything really changed? Litvinov had shown Russia that something else was possible, thus it was essential that they saw him fail. The current global recession was the perfect economic climate in which they might be able to bring it about.

The party continued much as before, Sergei sinking back into his subdued mood again. He drank steadily but much less than the others, some of whom were already sliding from chairs and incoherent. The group began to break up. One by one, they took their leave -until it was only he and Arkady.

Sergei had accompanied the last guests out to the front door. As he returned to the dining room, Arkady had lit up another cigar, ready for more, blowing the smoke liberally in his host's direction. "It's late. I should go. And I shall - after this excellent cigar of yours...I have a little something waiting for me in town..."

"I'm surprised you can still stand up, never mind get it up," Sergei retorted, rounding the table slowly, eyes fixed on his prey.

"I can always get it up, son. You having problems? S'bout time that wife of yours was knocked up again, no? Only one of your brood is yours...You like bringing up the spawn of other men? "

"Shut your mouth." Sergei's voice was gravel.

"What?" Arkady mocked. "Did I touch a nerve? What's your problem, Litvinov? You stride around like you're God-fucking-Almighty, as if you don't shit and piss like the rest of us..."

It was probably taking advantage to haul a man as drunk as Glebov from his seat, but Sergei was hours past making allowances. "I told you to shut your filthy mouth, you motherfucking cunt!" He rammed Arkady against the panelling of the nearby wall. Glebov was a tall heavyset man with a good few inches and several kilos over Sergei, but Litvinov was younger, fitter-and far less inebriated. He also had the benefit of surprise. Glebov in his arrogance had not expected Litvinov to unleash his emotions quite this explosively.

"I want to tell you something, Arkady Pavelovitch, and you better be listening good...!" Sergei's hand closed around the windpipe; Glebov flailed out, feebly unable to prise away the fierce grip. His ruddy faced grew even redder, now turning a bloated purple, like an overripe plum. "You listening good, Arkady, my old friend?"

Glebov nodded, his eyes fixed on Sergei's. "Good...then it goes like this. If you ever embarrass my wife again...if you ever even look at her again in a way that I don't like..." He squeezed a little harder; Glebov began to make an unnatural gurgling sound. "...Then I will kill you. Probably with my own hands. Like this, but slower. And more painfully..."

He let go. Glebov slid down the wall, coughing and spluttering, retching and gagging, as he gasped for breath. Spittle ran down his chin. His eyes were closed, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Sergei backed off, poured two shots of vodka and handed one over. The other he downed himself in a single gulp, throwing the glass against the hearth and grimacing. He had burnt his bridges now, undone months of complex manoeuvring, permanently destroying any possible chance for rapprochement.

Glebov drank the spirit and dragged himself up, loosening his tie and sinking into a chair, still struggling to regain his composure. Finally, he looked across at Sergei, a cruel smile of triumph splitting his face. "I knew she was your one weakness, Sergei Alexandrovitch. One little word to her - and you threw it all away!" He coughed as he laughed gruffly, splashing out another belt of vodka into his glass and gulping it down. "You think you're such a fucking aristocrat, don't you? Better than the rest of us. Son, you're not even in the same league..."

He spat on the carpet, wiping his face on the tablecloth. Sergei said nothing. His action was a declaration of war between the two camps, although he suspected that all he had in fact provided was the excuse. It was galling to know he had obliged them by walking straight into the trap they had set, but it made no difference in the long run. He would never let any man touch his wife without redress, regardless of the consequences - and if not today, they would have crossed swords eventually anyway. The battle lines had been drawn up months ago.

"Get out of my house," Sergei growled.

Glebov rose, dusting off his clothes and staring his rival straight in the eye. "I will destroy you, Litvinov."

"We shall see. But one thing's for sure. If I don't stop you first, you will destroy our country without a doubt. That I can foresee. You and the rest of your gang of Bratva thugs..."

Glebov laughed and walked out, leaving Sergei to sink to a chair, his head in his hands. For himself, he would not have cared, but any threat to him now meant increased risk for his family. Glebov had been right. He would always be vulnerable through them. After he heard the slam of the front door, the sound of cars retreating and his own house staff withdrawing, he ran up the stairs to their room. He craved her safe haven.

It was locked. "Zoe! Open up!"

He knocked forcefully on the door. There was no answer.  She was punishing him, refusing to open up because he had not apparently taken her side against Glebov.

He banged with the flat of his hand. "I said open this door! OPEN IT!"

"Go away!"

"Zoe, I want to talk to you. Please, let me in...."

"...I don't want to talk to you. If you want someone to chat with, go back and play with your gangster friends. Or maybe they've got some tarts who'll listen, as long as you pay them enough?"

"Jesus Christ! Don't be absurd! What's the matter with you? Open this fucking door! You want that I kick it down?" he shouted.

"Yeah, why don't you? Let everyone know how you treat your wife? Let the kids see the real you?" Zoe spat back. 

Sergei hit the door hard with his fist, but without much hopes of actually bursting through - the hardwood was too thick -nor did he have any real intention of resorting to violence. His threat had been an empty one, no more than a vain cry for her to listen to him. When she failed to respond, he charged off, running down the stairs to the floor beneath, back to the sanctuary of his office suite. There was a small bedroom attached.

He spent a restless wakeful night...

 

*

 

...Alone in the vast bed, Zoe's night had been equally wretched. It was more than simply annoyance at the evening's unfortunate turn of events. Tonight's last straw had tipped a scale that had been piling up for months. Somewhere back then everything had begun to change. She tossed and turned on the hot pillow trying to put her finger on exactly when the idyll that had been her life had finally begun to unravel.

Right from the start there had been many things about marriage to a man whose name was an institution in his homeland that had brought with it unwanted facets. But she had not gone into marriage with her eyes closed. She had known there would be massive demands on his time from his many commitments and also, more difficult for her to accept, ethical challenges. While she believed her husband to be an honourable man, a good man, an honest man of integrity, she was shrewd enough to see that there would be grey areas where a woman of her outlook would find bad practice, dubious morality and elements of which she could never approve. After knowing Nick Costello, however, she had come to learn the hard way that a man and women did not have to be of one mind about all things. Love could still prevail.

Her mother's politics had differed radically from her father's, yet they had managed to sail through the rougher waters of their marriage because they had respect and love for each other. She herself had once lived with a man whose career was death, a former hit man who had not once shown any real remorse for past actions - and had always been capable of revisiting his previous profession if he had had a good enough reason to do so. Yet, they had found a way to be together.

Compared to that, one would imagine Sergei and she would have been able to circumvent most obstacles - and for a very long time they had. Of course, there had always been aspects of his business empire that she questioned. They had often argued issues late into the night but always on a philosophical level, agreeing to disagree, ending the night in passionate lovemaking despite - or maybe because of - the fervour of their convictions. Sergei loved her purity of soul and fine intellect; it suited his jaded spirits to rediscover through her the passion he had once had. Zoe loved that he was a man of conviction and vision who would not be swayed from his chosen path. He was unafraid to be true to himself. Sometimes that is what it took in this world to achieve any real progress. He would never curry favour, even with the woman he loved. There had to be those brave enough to take the decisions that were unpalatable to everyone else. This much life had taught her.

She lay far into that night, remembering the times they had shared, Sergei's powerful and constant presence in her life, the sense of love and security he gave to her. Beneath the taciturn exterior, Sergei was a passionate man, unembarrassed to express his love for her both in words and actions. Her body could still loosen merely at the thought of his touch. But it was more than his physicality that had healed her broken heart in the time since they had been together. As a friend, a partner, a father to her children, he could not be equalled. Sergei had delivered all the things he had promised her that day three years ago when he had offered her his life. It was the measure of Sergei that her son Andreas now viewed his stepfather with admiration bordering on hero-worship. Their combined family of children from five different parents worked in a way that she had never believed possible. It had seemed to be a dream-come-true for all of them.

Until recently.

In small ways Sergei had withdrawn into himself, spending more time in his study even when at home. There were increasingly frequent periods of long silences when he seemed lost in thought. When she tried to reach him, he shook her away, sometimes becoming inexplicably angry, storming off. It was obvious that there was something on his mind, something that he did not wish to share with her. She knew that he had corporate and industrial problems - who didn't in this current climate? - but that alone was unconvincing as an explanation. Sergei Litvinov thrived on challenge. A global recession did not make him lose confidence but drove him on.

His involvement with men like Glebov and the frequency - and length - of their stays in Russia were somehow connected.  It disturbed her but she was unsure of its significance. Yet some instinct told her that herein lay part of the explanation. On the other hand, she could not help but wonder if she was simply being naïve. Perhaps the truth was much simpler than some complex corporate conspiracy.

Was Sergei tiring of her? Temptations abounded for a man like him. His previous life before they met had been one long string of beautiful mistresses and sexual adventures with few relationships of anything even remotely domestic. While she saw no reason for him to feel dissatisfied with their current sex life - who knew what men wanted? The same woman in his bed every night and the demands of a lively family might well be tedious for a man who was used to taking what he wanted when he wanted it. Her sympathy for him, however, was beginning to wear thin. Tonight's episode seemed to sum up his attitude of late. Her place was in his home, mothering his children- and in his bed. His public and professional life was off limits to her.

Next morning, as she sat with the boys at breakfast trying to stop Alexei pouring most of his cereal over himself, and intervene between the usual squabbling of Nikolai and Andreas, Sergei strode in already dressed, fastening his cuff links and straightening his tie as he bustled in business-like, his jacket over his arm. Throwing the coat on a chair, he leaned over to pour himself a coffee, without even sitting down at table. "I will be leaving soon. Rome. Boys, be good for your mother..."

"Dad! You promised we could go for a long ride today!" Andreas whined petulantly. Sergei had taught the older boys to ride; they loved nothing better than exploring the estate on horseback, taking a picnic lunch. It was a vast mostly wooded property, and to the boys it was their own private wilderness. Nikolai said nothing but his face clearly showed his disappointment.

Sergei grimaced. He had completely forgotten his promise. "I'm sorry. Something came up. I have to speak at a conference. Last minute change of plan... I promise I will make it up to you..."

"You always say that," Andreas muttered sourly. Nikolai winced, more sensitive to his father's mood than the volatile Andreas, who rarely held back when he had something to say.  Sergei shot his stepson a warning glance. His authority was not to be challenged. Andreas gave him a cool stare in return. At moments like this, Zoe's heart always lurched. It was as if Nick himself was sitting before her.

"Andreas, you heard Papa! He has many responsibilities and would never let you down if he hadn't a good reason," Zoe might be angry with her husband, presuming that his urgent meeting in Rome was one he could easily have missed had he not still been stinging from a night sleeping in his office, but she presented a united front before the children. She also had no intention of allowing her son to get away with anything even resembling the cold defiance his own father might have been capable of at this age.

Sergei nodded across at her in recognition of the solidarity she had shown. His demeanour also noticeably relaxed. He began to look for concession rather than conflict. "We both need to be in Paris by the weekend. Perhaps you might take the children straight there and I'll join you as soon as I can get away? I'll call for a plane if you can pack this morning," he suggested, sitting down at the table now and helping himself to a strawberry from the platter of fruit. The icy chill between them seemed to be defrosting.

"Paris! I hate Paris!" Andreas was determined to be awkward. Zoe nudged him sharply but he still went on. "They don't like children there. And I got kidnapped in Paris...!"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Stop using that as an excuse. Paris is lovely. We have a beautiful apartment there. You are very lucky children to have so many homes to live in," Zoe chided.

"There's nothing to do in Paris! It's so boring!  Can we go to London and see Liam?"

Sergei grunted disapproval at the jaded comment of a child so young, but said nothing, draining his coffee cup and standing up, ruffling his hand over little Alexei's head, but deftly dodging the sticky hands that grabbed at him.

"Uncle Liam, please." Sergei reminded. " Show respect, Andreas. You'll be back in London soon enough and then it will school again. No doubt you will be complaining how much you hate London then. I have to go. I'll call when I land. Until Paris?"

He bent over and kissed Zoe softly. The tang of his freshly shaved cheek stirred an erotic memory, causing her heart to beat faster. She hated it when they fought. His eyes seemed to echo her thoughts.

He whispered: "I apologise for last night. We will talk at the weekend.  Everything will be okay then. For sure.  I promise."

She managed a weak smile, touching his arm lightly as he stepped back. It was so hard to be angry with him. "Until then. Be safe!" 

Sergei smiled, his face changing in an instant. She wished then that she could run after him and make him stay. Surely he would respond if she gave him a way back in? But she did nothing, sitting instead amongst the debris of breakfast, watching him shrug on his jacket and take his leave.

"Papa go on a plane!" Alexei observed solemnly as Sergei left. Zoe smiled at her little son, Alexander Quinn Litvinov. Not so much a baby anymore. Two already next month. Where did the years go?

"Yes, gone on a plane. We're going on the plane today, too. After breakfast, you boys keep Quinn occupied while we sort out the packing. Then we can get off early afternoon and be there for dinner."

The older boys groaned and complained about having to allow Quinn to tag along with their games. "Aww, Mum! NO!!!! He's a Klingon! It's so boring letting him play!"

"Don't be so mean, Andreas! A Klingon? Where on earth did you get that from?" It was hard not to laugh at some of the things they came out with.

"That's what you call littlies. They say it at school," Nikolai informed her. His English was almost flawless now, spoken with a proper English accent only slightly marked here and there with a Russian inflexion - and Australian slang. The children usually spoke Russian when Sergei was present but immediately lapsed into English when he was not. Andreas had developed an impressive level of fluency in his father's tongue, far surpassing her own. Quinn was already completely bi-lingual. It astonished her how he seemed to know exactly when to use which language - and with whom.

The maid came in to clear away the breakfast things. Zoe rose and called for the nannies - one for each child - to organise the children's packing while her assistant helped with her own. It always seemed to astonish her how many people were involved in the everyday arrangements of their lives. One would think that it would make things easier but somehow everything seemed more complicated as a result. Doing things herself would have been so much less stressful than steering this army of staff.

Nonetheless, activity felt good that morning to ease the upset of the night before. She was also keen to be out of Russia. The children and Sergei might love the privacy and quiet of this vast estate, but she had never found comfort in it. The memories of her first visit always haunted her, as did the spectre of its previous mistress, Tatiana Litvinova, Sergei's mother, whose premature death had been precipitated by Zoe's actions. It was a gloomy and isolated place for a young woman to spend protracted periods. Sometimes she felt like a character from a fairy tale locked up in a castle deep in the forest. Today, especially, she could not wait to leave...

 

 

To Part Two

Featured Song: The Planets Bend Between Us ('A Hundred Million Suns') by Snow Patrol

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