When briefing Oxana, Johnny said that he wasn’t sure how much Emir knew about his father’s activities. But how can Emir not know where all this money comes from? How can Defne not know? And Inci? What about her? At some level, she must be aware of what’s going on all around her. They all must. Emir’s loaded half-smile could mean anything. It could be accusatory, it could be flirtatious, it could be merely polite. Oxana bites her lip, annoyed at how hard she finds it to work him out.
I’ve never found it easy to read people’s expressions, or to pick up on the more subtle cues that they drop. Has he sussed me out? Has he guessed that my intentions towards his family are hostile, because if so, I’m in trouble. He’s obviously clever, or he wouldn’t be at that high-powered Paris business school. Is he clever enough to know that I’m not who I seem?
The island of Kytheria is one of this year’s most fashionable playgrounds. Its capital is the town of Ephyra, and as night falls, the streets around the port and the marina are thronged with the rich and the beautiful. Laughing, whispering secrets to each other, checking out the boutiques and art galleries. There’s an air of ritual in the way that they exhibit themselves, and a weird uniformity in the men’s studied casualness and the women’s breezy femininity. All that white linen against tanned skin. All those floaty maxis and Khaite and Tulula silks. All those shell earrings and layered gold chains. There’s a smell in the air that Oxana knows of old: the smell of money, excitement and desire. It’s intense, and it makes her heart race.
Amongst this moneyed crowd, Oxana knows, there will be the inevitable opportunists. The con artists and thieves, the parasites and gold diggers, all lured by the same smell of money and opportunity. The most skilful will be calculated risk-takers, not fly-by-night bikini girls and fuck boys. Men and women who know that you have to pay to play. That to position yourself alongside the seriously rich, you have to dress like them, talk like them, and act like them. You need looks, you need charm, andabove all you need access. Access to the Olympian spaces where the super-rich take their ease. Spaces like the Nymphaeon.
Carved into the limestone cliffs above the old port, the Nymphaeon is Ephyra’s most exclusive club. As Oxana follows Defne, Buse and Emir beneath cascading bougainvillea boughs and into the club, she feels a quiet excitement. The main hall is circular and not yet crowded. Its amber-lit walls are veined marble, its glass roof is open to the stars. Sunken rivulets run along the floor, and the sound of trickling water blends with ambient music, laughter, and the murmur of conversation.
Taking Defne’s arm, Buse marches forward. They both look striking: Buse in cream-pink with a plunging neckline, Defne in a black pussybow mini. Halfway across the hall Buse glances back to see if Emir is following them, but he stays with Oxana, and compliments her on the Zara dress which, after a quick ironing by Feris, is getting its second outing in twenty-four hours. He sounds sincere, as if anxious that she should not feel out of her depth, and she’s struck by his thoughtfulness. Not many nineteen-year-olds would trouble themselves with the feelings of a woman almost ten years their senior.
‘I was thinking about ordering some food,’ Emir says. ‘I don’t like drinking on an empty stomach. Will you join me?’
‘I’d love to. How about the girls?’
‘They’ll be OK. Teenage girls don’t really eat.’
Ten minutes later they’re sitting in a candlelit alcove, as a waitress dressed as a nymph serves them Cycladic oysters and black truffle saganaki.
‘Defne says you’re involved in art collecting,’ Oxana says.
He shrugs. ‘In a small way, but it’s something I’d like to develop. Old Master paintings are undervalued. People say that it’s a good time to buy.’
‘What sort of things do you like?’
‘Oh, Italian and Netherlandish renaissance, Spanish Golden Age… And I love nineteenth century and pre-revolutionary Russian.’
‘Now you’re just being polite.’
He smiles. ‘A lot of people I know invest in contemporary art, because that’s where the action’s supposed to be. But I’m not so sure. Fashions change fast in that field, and reputations fade. And to tell the truth, I just don’t like a lot of it.’
Defne and Buse are suddenly standing by their table. Defne looks anxious, Buse appears to be in the grip of a barely suppressed rage. ‘Well,’ she says, staring coldly at Oxana. ‘This is romantic.’
‘Have something to eat,’ Emir says mildly. ‘I’ll get someone to bring a couple of chairs.’
Buse wrinkles her nose over the truffle and melted feta, then scoops an oyster into her mouth with her fingers. ‘Urghh. Tastes like pussy. And that cheese thing literally smells like shit. So no, thank you very much.’
‘Buse,please. Behave.’ Defne darts an apologetic look at Oxana.
‘I’ll be in the cocktail bar,’ Buse says. ‘Seems you all have plenty to talk about.’ She stalks off.
Emir watches her go. ‘What’s with her tonight?’
‘You,’ Defne says. ‘As always.’
‘Def, it’s not going to happen,’ Emir says. ‘She’s just not my?—’
‘She knows that,’ Defne says. ‘It doesn’t make anything any easier. It actually makes it worse.’ She sighs. ‘Sorry, Oxana, you were in the firing line there. Not your fault.’
‘No problem.’ Oxana places a napkin over her oyster fork and surreptitiously transfers it to her bag. ‘Maybe we should go after her.’
In the cocktail bar, guests are sitting on alabaster steps descending to a shallow pool on which pink rose petals arefloating. Oxana, Defne and Emir find Buse reclining with her back to them, talking to a powerfully built man of about thirty.
‘Oh my God,’ Defne murmurs to Oxana. ‘Total red flag.’
Oxana nods. She knows the type. The jacked body, the carefully sculpted facial hair, the porn-dulled eyes. Buse is hanging on to his every word, leaning in towards him with her back arched, attentive as a hungry cat.
‘He’s not alone,’ Oxana murmurs.