‘Brad is so over.’
‘Not true,’ Inci says. ‘I met him in LA and headoredme.’
When lunch is over, Defne and Buse announce their intention to sunbathe on the top deck. ‘Come with,’ Defne orders Oxana. ‘We need to interrogate you.’
‘Torture you,’ Buse corrects her. ‘Find out what you’rereallydoing here.’
Inci looks up from the ripe fig that she’s quartering. ‘The first thing that this young lady’s going to do,’ she says, glancing at Oxana, ‘is my hair.’
‘Um, sure,’ says Oxana, surprised.
Tahir looks pained. ‘My love, that’s not what she’s here for.’
‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’ Inci directs a dazzling smile at Oxana. ‘Will you?’
‘Not in the least.’ Oxana returns Inci’s smile, and ten minutes later, as instructed, is knocking at the door of the pop star’s cabin. This appears to be a private bedroom, which Inci uses in addition to the master suite that she shares with Tahir on the deck above. It’s in near-darkness, with its portholes covered with silk festoon blinds. Inci, wearing a cream cashmere dressinggown, is huddled on the edge of the bed, bathed in the glow of a spotlight. A second spotlight picks out a small painted portrait over the bed.
‘Do you recognise the subject?’ Inci murmurs.
‘Harry Styles?’ Oxana ventures.
‘It’s the Risen Christ, by Leonardo da Vinci. Tahir bought it for me at auction.’
‘Cool.’
She nods gently. ‘I’m a very spiritual person, Oxana.’
‘I can see that, Inci. Tell me what I can do for you?’
‘First, lock the door. I don’t want us to be disturbed.’
Oxana does so. ‘You know I’m not a hairdresser?’
‘I know that. Come and sit by me.’ She hands Oxana a pink plastic Mason Pearson hairbrush.
‘You want me to…?’
‘Yes. Brush my hair. A hundred times. Fifty times on this side, then change round, and brush it fifty times on the other. Do you speak French?’
‘Yes.’
‘Count the brushstrokes in French. And please, put your arm round me while you’re doing it.’
Oxana shifts closer along the bed, extends her arm, and lays a hand on Inci’s shoulder. With the other hand she draws the brush from the crown of Inci’s head to the ends of her softly curling hair. ‘Un,’ she murmurs.
‘Yes, like that.’ Inci sighs, her shoulder warm against Oxana’s hand.
‘Deux.’
Inci’s eyes are closed now, and Oxana watches her long-lashed eyes flutter against her cheek.
‘Trois.’
‘You’re very good,’ Inci murmurs. ‘So gentle.’
‘Quatre.’
‘You know…’