Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
LARA
I feel like I’ve just survived an explosion, and yet somehow, despite the chaos, in the dead silence, I am still alive and breathing. I haven't moved from the spot he left me in, and where his skin has touched mine still tingles. In a daze, I turn to look at the painting and I see it from a completely different light. Leda’s pale naked body half hidden by the swan’s great wings. Her fair thighs open… Oh God!
I jump when I hear Sasha’s voice calling me. In the silence, the sound is loud and jarring causing me to spring into action. I really don't want to think of any of this because truly I need time to process what has happened to me in silence, but she has taken the opportunity of this away from me.
I scramble up and walk quickly towards a mirror. I look strange. I can’t have Sasha seeing me looking so flustered. Taking a couple of deep breaths I calm myself down. Then I head for the stairs. Sasha is standing at the bottom of the stairs looking at me with a strange expression.
"Hello," I say as coolly as I can.
"I saw him leaving. It's a huge house so I expected him to have stayed longer. What happened?" she asks, her voice filled with surprise and curiosity.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and start moving towards the kitchen. "Yeah. He uh... left."
She follows me closely. "Yes, I can see he is gone, but that was awfully fast. Did everything go well?" She knows perfectly well that everything didn’t go well.
"I didn't think so."
Next to the champagne bucket, I see our phones still in the plastic bag. As Sasha retries her phone, I grab the champagne bottle and pull it out. It drips water on the expensive marble surface.
"Why? Didn't he have any questions?"
I pop the cork. “Not really.”
"Is all lost?" she asks impatiently. I can’t blame her one bit for being irritated or annoyed with me after all the effort we put into this viewing, but I really don't know what to tell her. In order to save my ass, of course, I'm tempted to mention the real reason why everything went south, but I really don't want to. Not until my dad hears from me first.
I fill two flutes and hold one out to her.
“What are you doing?” she asks with a scowl. “It’s clear we’re not celebrating.”
“We’re drowning our sorrows,” I say grimly.
She can no longer hide her disappointment and her voice is full of blame and accusation. “What did you do wrong?”
I take a big mouthful of freezing-cold bubbles. “Everything, Sasha. I got it all wrong. From the start to the finish. I’m really sorry.”
She puts her glass of untouched champagne down. “Why are you behaving so strangely? Can’t you just tell me how the whole viewing went? I just want to know where we went wrong.”
Where we went wrong? That’s one hell of a story. I drain my glass. Wow, champagne hits hard on an empty stomach. I already feel a little drunk. And already Mr. Ivanovich seems like a dream that never happened.
“There’s nothing to tell. I don’t think he wants to buy this house. He had a busy day ahead of him and he had to leave suddenly.” I reach for a canape and pop it into my mouth. It is supposed to be lobster moose on a savory saffron biscuit, but it tastes like mud on my tongue. I reach for another and Sasha pulls the whole platter out of my reach. I look up at her.
"You don’t think? So he hasn’t actually said no to the property?” she asks hopefully.
I sigh. “No, he hasn’t said no outright, but I’m pretty sure he’s not interested. Sorry, Sasha. I know you worked at this.”
“Stop fucking apologizing,” she explodes. “And just fucking tell me what happened from start to finish. Because if he hasn’t said no, then we’re still in the game. Men like him have an impossible schedule. Look how early he requested this showing. It shows he probably has an impossible day ahead of him and this is the one moment he could find to come and see the house. Of course, you shouldn't have let him go without agreeing on a fixed date for another appointment, but that’s okay. You’re inexperienced at this. We Russians are quite stoic as a people. We don’t show much emotion on our faces. It is possible he’s still interested in the property, but since, as you say, he didn’t show much interest, he probably just wants it as an investment and not a residence."
There are a lot of probablys in her line of thinking, but I say nothing. What can I say? What I have told her is sort of the truth. Knowing her and what she had hoped would happen between her and the billionaire the truth will be even more unpalatable.
"Let’s follow up with his secretary tomorrow. She did say that I could contact her when and as needed."
"Alright," I say, and for some reason this makes me feel childishly relieved even though I am very well aware that it is pointless for Sasha to call his secretary. He has told me in very explicit terms exactly what he wants—me in exchange for purchasing the house. I shouldn't have considered his offer for even one second, but for a few revealing seconds I did entertain it, and as we head back to the office it is clear to me why.
Because for those few seconds, every fiber in me wanted to say yes. I have never wanted to say yes more in my life. If I had met him in a club I would have gone home with him without a second thought. If he had not made sex a condition, it would have been an easy yes. A very easy yes.
Sighing, I stare out at the skyline and the beautiful city and can't help but feel even sadder despite the fact that the sun is out. Everyone will be expecting good news and now they will get the news that Sasha wasn’t allowed to do the viewing and I had fucked up, but because I am the boss’s daughter, they will be forced to hide their feelings and only be able to gossip amongst themselves about my incompetency. I hate the idea, but there is nothing I can do. Just as we arrive, I turn to Sasha.
"Please tell the others what's happened. I have to go to my father."
"Um..." she replies. "I'm not sure I know exactly what the story is."
"It's just like I told you. He had a busy day and had to hurry out and it is unlikely that he will buy the house."
She looks irritated. “Why do you have to give up so fast? He hasn’t said no, so as far as I am concerned, there is still hope and that is what I’ll be telling everybody.”
My phone rings suddenly and as I retrieve it from my pocket, an errant thought flashes into my brain: is it him? The instinctive thought and surge of excitement that comes with it bothers and maddens me. I hate to admit to entertaining even the slightest twinge of hope that he is on the other end. He is an insolent, presumptuous, misogynist brute with money to burn and there is no walking back from that. Wanting anything to do with him would be insane.
I tell myself that I am just checking in order to be on guard and once again communicate that any further insistence on his part will be met with legal action. That I’ll sue him for sexual harassment. I have no idea how I would go about doing such a thing, but the idea seems apt and plausible. That will teach him to go around trying to buy unwilling women. A little voice in my head laughs at the idea that I was unwilling, but I banish the irritating voice. I see my dentist’s name on the screen and the forbidden thrill inside me deflates instantly.
I confirm my appointment for later in the week, then head over to my father's office, but just as I knock on the door he pulls it open.
"Hey," he says with the biggest smile on his face. "I heard you guys were on your way back. I was about to come out to meet you."
His eyes are sparkling and alive in a way that they haven't in a very long time. I know about his difficulties and how worried he has been about keeping this place open, and my heart plunges at the thought of giving him the bad news. Behind me, I can hear Sasha giving everyone the less than enthusiastic news and I can feel the excitement in the air drop.
“Hey, Dad.”
With his hand on my arm, he pulls me into his office.
"Don't do that," I say. "You know I don’t want you to treat me differently than everyone else."
"Fuck them," he replies and looks at me intently. "Have you been drinking?”
“I had a glass of champagne.”
“At this time of the morning?” He frowns. “What’s wrong? You look like a smacked puppy."
I stare into his anxious eyes. What do I tell him? The truth so I can take the blame off my shoulders right now? Or the same story I told Sasha so I can have a little more time to think about what to do next? It isn't that I am considering the offer, it's just that I don't want to let everyone down. Especially my father. Even the thought of seeing the light go out of his eyes fills me with dread.
I swallow hard. "Nothing is wrong. Mr. Ivanovich had to leave midway through the viewing. Sasha’s going to contact his secretary."
"Well," my father says, relief in his voice. "That's not too bad. Things happen and he's a busy man, but more importantly, what impression did you get? Did he seem to like the house? Was he bummed to have to leave without finishing the tour?"
I hate lying to my father and desperately want to tell him the truth, but I just can’t. Crossing my fingers, I give him a version of the truth.
"I got the impression he liked what he was looking at," I reply slowly.
"So why does everyone out there look like someone just died?"
"I guess they expected Sasha to close the deal today, but I was doing the viewing and I couldn’t?—"
He frowns. "You were doing the viewing? The plan was for Sasha to lead. What happened? Why didn't she?"
I shrug. "He wanted the viewing done with only one person. Me."
My father raises his eyebrows and looks at me speculatively. "How strange. I would have thought given that they’re both Russian he would have been more comfortable with her. How was he in person? I did a bit of research about him last night.”
“Oh! I wish I had.”
“Well, he comes from Russian nobility, old money. Apparently, his father is an acquaintance with Putin and at some point, he has ties with the Russian Mafia, but to all intents and purposes, his son is legitimate. He made his fortune as a celebrated trader extraordinaire. So young yet so accomplished.” He grins. “I've been seething with envy all night."
"As if," I reply.
“No, really,” he says with a laugh. “The man is quite amazing. What did you think of him?”
"I uh... I’m not sure what to make of him yet. I think I'm going to get back to work. I have some videos that I filmed for some apartments and I'd like to edit those and get them out."
"Sweetheart, about those videos?—"
"Not sweetheart," I correct. "We're in the office and we talked about this. You have to stop seeing me as your daughter."
"You have no idea how impossible that is, but okay, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
I give him a look, and he smiles.
"What about the videos?" I ask.
"Instead of spending so much time on them perhaps it’s time for you to go along with the other more experienced salespeople. You need more hours under your belt of closing sales. You've done a good job so far but experience in sales is matchless, and you're getting very little of that if you're focusing mostly on media."
"Media is crucial too, Dad. Otherwise, we can never really grow. Plus, I think it is high time we stopped pretending that I can ever be an accomplished salesperson. Let me do the media for you and let Sasha and the others do the selling, okay?”
He raises his hands. “Sure, honey. No pressure. Just do your best, okay? Doesn't matter what happens, we'll be okay. Let’s talk about it this evening when we go out to celebrate.”
I stare at him unhappily. By not telling the truth I’m just leading him on. Giving him false hope. I feel almost on the verge of tears. "The deal isn't done yet. There's nothing to celebrate. And to be really honest, Dad, I am pretty sure there’s no deal to be had there. It’s a lost cause."
He studies me, the hope replaced by doom, then smiles a forlorn twist of his lips. "You're right. It’s always a bad idea to count your chickens before they are laid, but let’s not lose all hope."
For the rest of the morning, I avoid everyone and pretend to be too busy editing a video to be able to stop and talk. At lunchtime, I go for a walk alone. As I become one with the bustling crowd of people around me, it is impossible to believe that this morning a Russian billionaire had made sleeping with me a condition before he would spend a hundred and twenty million on a house.
But it happened.
An hour later without having had anything to eat, I go back to my desk. There is a black box tied up with a broad cream ribbon. Even the box looks expensive. There is no card attached, but I know instantly it is from him.
“A courier dropped it off,” someone says.
My hands are shaking as I tug at the silky ribbon. I open the box and deep in tissue my hand encloses around something hard and cold. Grasping the thing gently, I pull my hand out and look at it.
A swan. A beautiful exquisitely blown glass swan.
“Wow, that’s gorgeous. Who sent that?” Tessa asks.
“An old friend,” I say and put the swan back into the box. When Tessa turns away I throw the box into the bin next to my desk. Then I pick up my bags and run to the subway as fast as I can. I need to get home for some peace and quiet and, of course, the only sounding board I trust not to be biased in helping me try to figure this out.
I am two stops away from home when I get off the train and hop on one going in the opposite direction back to the office. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bear the thought of the cleaners throwing away that beautiful work of art.
That swan is mine.