Chapter 21 #2
‘Defne’s super-sporty,’ Buse says. ‘Netball, fencing, rowing. She’s so tall and strong, she’s brilliant at everything. And don’t look at me like that, you are, babe.’ She pouts regretfully. ‘I’m hopeless at sports. I’m more into clothes and parties and—’
‘Flirting with the boys from the French Lycée,’ Defne says. ‘You’ve definitely got an A-star in that.’
‘I’m sure it helps with your languages.’ Yilmaz smiles pacifically.
‘All those foreign tongues,’ Defne murmurs.
Inci’s smile tightens. ‘I think we’ve finished with this course. Can we ring for Feris?’
The food is whisked away and swiftly replaced. ‘Muhallebi milk pudding,’ Andreas announces. ‘With candied rose petals, crushed Antep pistachios—’
Tahir leans forward. ‘I think we can all see what it is. Why don’t you just leave it for us.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Andreas bows and withdraws.
‘That was a bit brutal, Baba,’ Defne murmurs. ‘He looked crushed.’
‘Like the pistachios.’ Buse frowns. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind about Andreas. There’s something a bit camp about him.’
‘Just because he’s got the good manners not to stare at your breasts doesn’t make him gay,’ Defne says, stabbing a corner of pitta bread into a saucer of hummus.
‘A lot of Greek men are gay,’ Inci pronounces. ‘Achilles was gay.’
‘He was bi,’ Defne says.
‘Who are we talking about?’ Buse asks.
‘A hero,’ Tahir says. ‘A great warrior.’
‘Like a Marvel hero?’ Buse asks. ‘Deadpool’s pansexual.’
Tahir regards her patiently. ‘Achilles was killed in the Trojan war, in the twelfth century before Christ.’
The flicker of interest dies in Buse’s eyes.
‘Brad Pitt in the movie,’ Defne says.
‘Brad is so over.’
‘Not true,’ Inci says. ‘I met him in LA and he adored me.’
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’re really doing 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 dressing gown, 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…’
‘Tell me. Cinq.’
‘I liked you in your uniform. The girls were laughing at you, but I thought you looked lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She squeezes Inci’s plump shoulder. ‘Six.’
‘I had a nanny, when I was a little girl.’
‘Sept.’
‘Her name was Felicée. She was from Toulouse. I loved her, and she loved me. I sometimes think she was the only person who ever did love me. Don’t stop.’
‘I won’t. Huit.’
As the minutes slide past, Inci continues a murmured reminiscence that ebbs and flows, seeming to require no response, and eventually becomes a trance-like silence.
As Oxana reaches the hundredth hairbrush stroke Inci rouses herself, stretches luxuriantly, and briefly touches her lips to Oxana’s cheek.
‘You’re very kind and very patient,’ she says.
‘I need to rest now. Will you come again?’
‘Of course I will.’
This is strange and sad and I’m not quite sure how to react.
On the face of it she’s just looking for someone to be kind to her, like this Felicée person was kind to her.
Years ago, at university, my teacher Anna was kind to me, and in truth I’ve never got over her, and never will.
I was crushed when she turned me down. There’s an echo of the same vibe in Inci’s neediness.
She’s a strange creature, obviously lonely, and there’s a pampered-cat quality about her that doesn’t seem to belong to the present day at all.
Her face, with its faint pink flush, is as smooth as a sugared almond.
Her body is soft and unworked. She looks like an eighteenth-century Parisian aristocrat, destined for the guillotine.
I’m weirdly, morbidly fascinated by her.