Chapter 1 #2
‘Yes,’ says Eve brightly, casting her mind back to one of the worst days of her life.
Rather wildly, while working at MI5, she’d signed up for an inter-service kayaking club.
The first outing she attended was on the River Wye, in Wales, and it didn’t go well.
Wholly inexperienced, but anxious to show herself a good sport, she found herself hurtling down a fast section of white water, flipping over, and almost drowning.
Someone dragged her out, and as she knelt shuddering on the bank, vomiting river water, she distinctly heard the baying and tinkling of upper-class laughter.
This woman, though, behaved kindly, staying with Eve while she recovered and making sure that she was OK. What the hell is her name?
‘You were in Russia last year, I believe. After you… left us.’
Eve meets her gaze but says nothing.
‘Balice has let it be known that you were there on a deep-cover mission.’ The woman smiles, dazzlingly.
‘But I think that’s complete bollocks. I think that you and your girlfriend over there, the famous Villanelle – and yes, I know all about her – simply fucked off on honeymoon together.
Can I pour you some of this rather delicious-looking Chablis? ’
An icy calm descends over Eve. She slides her glass over the linen tablecloth.
‘It’s nice to see you again.’ The woman pours the wine.
‘But I want you to know that I consider you a traitor and think that you should be in a high-security prison, not living in a five-million pound Hampstead apartment paid for by the Twelve. And as for your sweetheart, your little russkaya psikhopatka… I’d honestly prefer it if she were dead. ’
Eve suddenly remembers the woman’s name.
‘That’s a pity, Flo,’ she says. ‘Because she speaks very highly of you. She thinks you have pretty eyes, which I can confirm. But if you even think of coming after us, I can promise you this. I know enough to pull your house down around your ears. And my russkaya psikhopatka will take your pretty eyes out on the point of a knife. Do you hear me?’
‘I do, Eve. Loud and clear. But we shouldn’t spoil a happy occasion like this by talking about work.’ She turns to an elderly couple who are peering at the name cards. ‘Are you at our table? Lovely. I’m Flo. This is Eve. And here comes the food. Weddings make one so hungry, don’t you find?’
When everyone’s taken their place, there are six people at the table. Eve, Flo, the elderly couple, a tall woman with green hair, and a thin, young man in a suit several sizes too large for him.
‘Is that the Bishop of Southwark over there?’ Flo asks Eve, peering through the crowd.
‘Quite possibly,’ Eve says. ‘He and Bili are pals from the fancy rat circuit.’
‘I liked Balice’s last husband,’ the elderly man grumbles. ‘What was his name?’
‘Charlie,’ the man’s wife says.
‘What?’
‘Charlie. Balice’s ex-husband.’
‘What about him?’
‘She left him. For this one.’
‘Why?’
‘Probably got fed up.’
‘All married people get fed up. Doesn’t mean you have to run off with a sailor. He’s much too young for her.’
‘She,’ the green-haired woman says. ‘And she’s not a sailor. She works for the Foreign Office.’
‘We were told his name was Bill.’
‘Not Bill. Bili. Bilyana. She’s from Poland or somewhere.’
‘Bulgaria,’ Eve says.
‘What about it?’
Why do you always get the same cast of crazies at every English wedding?
The woman with green hair has a fondness for wine and a plaintive look in her eye which suggests that before the day is done she will be either weeping, shouting or fucking a stranger in the toilets – probably one of those hedge-fund types at Oxana’s table who think of themselves as dashing roués but actually look like sex-offenders.
Then there’s that young guy with the self-cut hair and the charity-shop suit who, very sensibly, has avoided conversation and concentrated on his meal, pausing only to answer the old boy’s query as to what it is that two women actually do together by helpfully showing him a clip on his phone of two women actually doing it.
The only person here with whom I feel the slightest thing in common is Flo, and she wants to lock me up and wishes that Oxana were dead.
And there’s Oxana now, walking towards us, all blonde innocence in her Miu Miu frock and straw hat.
She was in a weird mood about us coming to this wedding, probably because she assumes that I’m dying to get married to her.
In fact, I’m quite happy with how things are.
I’ve been married, and it didn’t end well.
I love Oxana, but she’s not what my mother used to call ‘marriage material.’ And I’m pretty sure I’m not either.
Oxana is accompanied by a slender young man in gold-rimmed glasses, whose suit somehow combines extreme shabbiness with impeccable cut. ‘This is Captain Gladstone,’ Oxana tells Eve. ‘Could we drag you away?’ She beams at the other guests at the table. ‘Family business, I’m afraid. So boring.’
Eve stands, relieved at the chance to escape. As the three of them walk away, Oxana turns and subjects Flo to a lingering, enigmatic stare.
Outside the marquee, the sky is a cloudless blue. They seat themselves on one of the brickwork steps leading up to the manor house. ‘Captain Gladstone was my host when Balice interned me,’ Oxana says. ‘He made me very comfortable.’
‘I wish you’d been in Paris with me,’ Eve says.
‘I do too, babe. I might have stopped you getting yourself stabbed.’
‘According to my sources,’ Gladstone says, ‘you acted very bravely indeed.’
‘Which sources were those, exactly?’ Eve asks.
‘Captain Gladstone works with Balice,’ Oxana says. ‘And less officially, with our friends from further east.’
Gladstone nods. ‘It’s in the latter capacity that I’ve been asked to talk to you. But before I do, I want to ask about the apartment. Are you comfortable there?’
Eve frowns. ‘We’re fine. Why?’
‘I just wanted to be sure that it’s what you wanted.’
‘Yes,’ Eve says, mystified. ‘It’s a beautiful apartment. We love it, don’t we, angel?’
‘We do,’ Oxana confirms.
‘Because a job has come up,’ Gladstone says. ‘A vitally important job.’
‘For us?’
‘For Villanelle.’
A shiver runs up Eve’s spine. Her eyes find Oxana’s but Oxana’s gaze is noncommittal. ‘We work together,’ Eve says. ‘That’s kind of the point of us.’
Gladstone removes his glasses and begins to polish them with the silk square from his breast pocket. ‘I’m just the messenger,’ he says. ‘Johnny Fernandes will give you the details. Tomorrow at noon. He says you’ll know where.’
‘Can you tell us anything more?’ Eve asks him.
He smiles apologetically. ‘I wish I could, but you know how it is. Need to know, and all that.’ He stands. ‘I’m going to creep back inside. Don’t want to miss the speeches.’
‘What do you know about this?’ Eve asks Oxana.
‘Literally nothing.’
‘Why was he asking about the flat?’
Oxana shrugs.
‘But it’s both of us or neither of us, right? I mean, we agreed that.’
‘Can we wait and see what Johnny has to say?’
‘Angel, don’t backtrack on me. We agreed, right?’
‘I’m not backtracking.’
Eve stares at her. ‘You’d better not be, because seriously…’
‘Seriously what?’
Eve stares at her, a sharp look in her eye. ‘I want to go home, OK? I’ve had enough of this wedding.’
‘Now? Balice is not going to be happy if we—’
‘Oxana, I want to go. Right now.’
They travel back to London in near silence.
Oxana spends most of the journey pretending to be asleep, and that evening, very unusually, she cooks.
Banning Eve from the kitchen, she painstakingly creates a dish of coronation chicken from a recipe on her phone, and serves it with a bottle of cold Spanish cava.
It’s warm in the flat, even with the windows open, and after clearing the meal, Oxana puts on a nightdress, switches on Eve’s favourite TV dating show, and curls up next to her on the sofa, laying her head on Eve’s shoulder.
‘I like cooking for you,’ Oxana murmurs. ‘It feels like we’re…’
‘Like we’re what?’
‘I don’t know. Living a nice life together. Happy.’
‘That’s exactly what we are doing. And we are happy, but you could always cook more often, just to make sure.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘What are you not telling me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t tell me. You had a final fling with Balice.’
‘Babe, no. How can you think that?’
‘You’re up to something. I know you, angel.’
On the TV, a woman in a bikini is playfully waxing a man’s chest beside a swimming pool. ‘You watch,’ Oxana says. ‘I’ll put the stuff in the dishwasher.’
‘You know, there’s something that really puzzles me,’ Eve says, not taking her eyes off the screen.
‘What?’
‘When you’re planning a mission, you’re super-organised. Get in, do it, get out. Every second accounted for, every possibility considered.’
‘So?’
‘So when you’re cooking, why don’t you wash up as you go along?’