‘In the parish church here in Cranborne.’
She smiles. ‘It sounds great, Jack.’
He seems like a genuinely good guy, and there’s something about that mixture of toughness and kindness that’s incredibly attractive. Oxana, for all her sexy charisma, hasn’t got a kind bone in her body. The whole idea of doing things for other people is completely foreign to her. Jack seems so sorted, at least on the surface. He’s had his ordeal by fire – Afghanistan, that failed marriage – and come out the other side. But you don’t have to spend much time with him to realise how lost he is. He likes me, but he doesn’t know anything about me. The memory that he’s carried with him for so long is of someone that I barely remember.
Suppose I lived down here. What would I do? And how soon would I be bored? Because when’s all said and done, I’m a city dweller. I’m not really qualified for anything except counter-espionage, and no one’s going to employ me to do that here. I can’t bake or sew or write or make pots. I can’t crochet miniature versions of people’s dogs, or make seabirds out ofdriftwood, or fashion chunky necklaces out of semi-precious stones (menopause jewellery, Oxana calls it). Perhaps I could retrain as a tattooist? Blood and Ink on the high street seems to be doing OK – vampires, skulls and zombie dolls a speciality. Or I could open a vape store.
A strange thing. Since Philippa and I performed that so-called magic ritual, the voice in my head’s fallen silent. Lining up my make-up things, reciting words before leaving the house, whispering numbers before going to sleep… I haven’t felt the need to do any of it. Of course, I worry that Oxana will be hurt. I worry desperately. But I’ve come to accept what I’ve always known: that I can’t alter the course of events. I can’t be responsible for her safety.
27
Oxana’s up early and has her breakfast alone on the upper deck. Fresh figs, pastries, coffee and orange juice. It’s an hour after dawn, and the sky is a soft yellow haze. Islands, faint and insubstantial, rise from the grey sea. TheMedusa’s moving at speed, and Oxana can feel the quiet thrumming of the diesel engines running at near-full power. The captain’s making up time, Oxana guesses, so that he can switch to silent cruising at a lower speed when the Yilmaz family is up and about. For now, she has the full panorama of the Aegean Sea to herself. Something of the night, a sharpness, lingers in the air, and she draws a pashmina shawl – grey as her eyes, left by some thoughtful soul on her bed – around her shoulders. That this mission can only be resolved violently lends a particular quality to the profound peace of the moment. Oxana sits there for an hour, watching the sea and the sky turn to gold.
At 7a.m. two crew members appear and begin to squeegee the sundeck. Noah is not one of them. For a moment Oxana considers asking them if they’ve seen him, before dismissing the idea. The query would certainly be reported and would quite possibly come to Tahir’s attention. Also, it’s possible thatthere’s an entirely innocent explanation for the deckhand’s non-appearance. He might have been taken ill and been confined to his quarters. It’s a further two hours before Buse and Defne join Oxana. ‘Fuck,’ Buse sighs, looking around her wearily before collapsing onto a sunbed. ‘I feel like absolute fucking shit.’
‘What did you have to drink last night?’ Defne asks, spreading her towel on the deck.
‘Darko had a bottle of this local stuff.’
‘The DJ’s name was Darko?’
‘Yes, Defne, his name was Darko.’
‘So what were you drinking, ouzo?’
‘Worse. Some kind of fig brandy that not only gets you pissed but also gives you violent diarrhoea.’
‘Oh my God. You didn’t…’
‘No. But I nearly did. One fart, and I would’ve.’ Buse glances at Oxana. ‘Can you get us some coffee?’
‘Oxana’s not here to bring us coffee,’ Defne says sharply.
‘No? What is she here for? Apart from pussy-blocking me.’
‘It’s fine.’ Oxana smiles. ‘I’m happy to make a run to the galley.’
‘Off you go, then.’ Buse rolls onto her back and closes her eyes.
On the companionway, descending to the owners’ deck, Oxana runs into Feris, who’s immersed in a whispered conversation with Andreas.
‘How’re you doing?’ Feris asks.
‘Fine. The girls asked me to sort out some coffee.’
‘Where are they? Up top?’
‘Yup.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Miss Vorontsova? Oxana?’ It’s Tahir Yilmaz, waving at her from the master suite.
Oxana waves back, and walks towards him through the yacht’s interior. Beyond him, on the foredeck, Atlas is lounging on a cushioned banquette.
He gestures her towards a chair. ‘So. Tell me about last night. At the club.’
‘There’s very little to tell,’ Oxana says. ‘The girls danced together, Defne had a drink, Buse had a couple. Defne and I talked, Buse danced with the DJ, and that was pretty much it.’