Chapter 25
Oxana surveys the remains of the meal. The coffee cups, the fig-skins, the ashtray, the near-empty bottles of Cappadocian wine.
The whole Yilmaz party is here, as well as Atlas and Captain ?zdemir.
The restaurant is small and unostentatious, a courtyard with candlelit tables set beneath ancient olive trees.
A cocktail of scents infuses the warm air.
Defne’s Amouage perfume, Inci’s cigarette smoke, the jasmine climbing the trellis overhead.
The place is full, as Oxana guesses it must be throughout the season.
There’s an American party at the next table, amongst whom she recognises the actress Phoebe Faull, holding court in a pink gown.
A statuesque young man, perhaps the restaurant manager, approaches Inci and murmurs in her ear. His words are greeted with a look of shy astonishment. ‘Some of the other guests have requested that I sing,’ Inci announces to the table in general. ‘Should I, do you think? Tahir? Girls?’
‘Yay!’ Buse yelps. ‘Go for it.’
‘You must, my love,’ Yilmaz murmurs.
‘Yeah, Inci.’ Defne forces a smile. ‘Go on.’
Inci looks up at the restaurant manager, or whoever he is, with wide-eyed deference, as if hesitant to impose herself.
She looks round the table again. ‘Well, if you really think so…’ She rises to her feet, and there’s a spatter of applause.
Somehow a group of musicians has assembled, and as Inci approaches them, there’s the sound of bouzouki music.
Taking the microphone that the keyboard player hands her, Inci starts to sing.
I’m fully prepared to hate every single note of it, but actually she’s amazing.
Everything about her that’s annoying in close-up, her whole exaggeratedly feminine thing, suddenly snaps into focus and makes sense.
There’s no stage or spotlight, but she’s absolutely in charge.
She’s got a gorgeous, sweeping voice, and when she sings no one moves, no one lifts a glass or a fork, no one does anything but gaze at her.
I glance at Phoebe Faull, and she’s rapt.
Tahir’s watching with a kind of sleepy, half-hypnotised devotion.
Even the ghostly Atlas is staring at the stage.
I’m as much caught up in the whole thing as everyone else.
The song makes me think of Eve. I miss her dreadfully.
Why did she have to behave as she did? Walking out like that.
I don’t like her calling me out on my bullshit, obviously, but I’d prefer the worst fight in the world to this deathly, terminal silence.
Johnny fucking well better find her. I don’t care how stupid I look.
I may have made my bed, but I’m not going to lie in it.
Not alone. Where are you, lyubov’ moya? Where are you?
God, I’m fucking crying. If Defne and Buse see me like this, it’s game over.
The nightclub, Nyx, is a ten-minute walk away along the seafront.
Oxana lets the two girls draw ahead of her and stands for a moment, listening to their laughter and watching the easy swing of their limbs.
The way the pair carry themselves is revealing.
Buse is definitely the queen bee. Her Khaite minidress wraps around her as delicately as a breeze, her honey-blonde hair falls just so, and she moves with the entitlement of someone to whom nothing painful has ever happened.
Except, possibly, waking up from surgery, because it’s clear that where nature has failed Buse, endowing her with insufficiently bee-stung lips and merely average teardrop breasts, the necessary corrections have been made.
Defne’s taller and darker. She hasn’t quite grown into her broad shoulders and long limbs or fully accepted the fierce looks that she’s inherited from her father, and the result is a kind of awkwardness.
Like Buse, she’s gone for a black minidress, a show-stopping Zimmerman creation with a subtle sixties vibe, but unlike Buse, she doesn’t have quite the panache to carry it off. The dress is wearing her.
Are the two of them really friends? Oxana wonders.
Do they share their most secret joys and fears?
Or are they just strategic allies, with Defne’s family wealthy and their connections opening doors that might otherwise be closed to Buse, and Buse’s breezy confidence leading them where the shyer, more self-conscious Defne might fear to tread?
It’s something Oxana’s noticed before: a tendency for female relationships established in childhood to be carried over into adult life.
She can imagine Defne as a gawky sixth-former, hurrying in the wake of pretty, popular Buse, desperate for admission to her inner circle.
And she can imagine Buse sensing that, for all the Yilmaz girl’s awkwardness and lack of cool-girl credentials, there was an aura of wealth and class about her that could prove very useful.
Taking a last breath of salt-edged air, Oxana follows them into the club.
The place is packed. Lissom girls, gym-toned young men, gold-accessorised older women, and the leathery-faced older guys who, one way or another, are paying for it all.
All of them swaying to pulsing anthems dispensed by a brooding young DJ.
Oxana’s wearing no make-up, comfortably low heels, and a midnight-blue halter-top dress.
She establishes herself at the bar between a chattering flock of fashion models, all as tall and slender as flamingos, and a group of twenty-something guys who are grinning and bantering and checking out the women.
They try to catch Oxana’s eye, but she blanks them.
Defne and Buse are dancing opposite each other to a remix of Declan McKenna’s ‘Brazil’.
The distance between the two girls suggests that they’re friends, just here to have fun, and Oxana guesses that this is a carefully choreographed ploy by Buse to attract the attention of the DJ.
He darts appreciative glances at her from time to time, but Buse seems to sense when this is about to happen and looks away.
At the same time, she’s inching closer and closer to him, her hips swaying, her lips parted, and her eyes half-closed, until she’s barely a metre away.
Defne plays her part in this game, mirroring Buse, but her tight smile tells its own story.
It’s not the first time, Oxana guesses, that she’s been used as camouflage while the other girl stalks her prey.
Placing a hand on the booth, Buse bends down to adjust her strappy, stiletto-heeled shoe, affording the DJ a long look down the front of her dress.
Standing, she gives him a cool, unhurried stare.
He grins back, professionally friendly, but as soon as the next track is cued, he steps from behind the booth and speaks to her, and Buse laughs and touches her hair.
Defne stands, momentarily lost, as the music and the dancers swirl around her. Oxana watches her for a moment, then moves purposefully across the floor and leads her to the bar. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
A haughty look crosses Defne’s face, then she shrugs. She looks like what she is: a lonely seventeen-year-old in a thousand-pound dress. ‘Imma get a drink. You want something?’
‘Mineral water,’ Oxana says.
Defne looks at her askance. ‘Girl, please.’
‘I mean it. That’s what I want.’
At the bar, Defne orders Oxana’s mineral water and a large Belvedere martini.
‘How can you drink that?’ Oxana watches the barman at work. ‘It’s basically neat vodka.’
‘I open my mouth, and pour it in. Works every time.’ She hesitates. ‘And you’re not gonna stop me?’
‘Why would I want to stop you, Defne?’
‘Because you’re working for my dad?’
‘It’s not like that. I’m not here to police you.’
Defne takes delivery of her drink and holds it up to the light. The icily clear vodka trembles in its glass. ‘Serefe!’ she says quietly.
‘Vashe zdorov’ye.’
She takes a deep swallow of her martini. ‘I think it’s cool that you’re Russian.’
‘I think it’s cool that you’re Turkish.’
‘I’m super-Turkish. My family’s from Trabzon. We’re very traditional. Very proud.’
‘I believe you.’
Defne frowns. ‘Can we go outside? I can’t hear myself speak.’
‘Sure.’ Oxana searches the dance floor with her eyes. A slow track is playing, and Buse and the DJ are dancing. Without breaking step he moves behind her and she leans back into him, her hips circling gently. She takes his hands and guides them to her waist.
‘She’s got this whole routine,’ Defne says. ‘The guys think they’re making the running.’
‘Mmm.’ Oxana smiles faintly. ‘I doubt it’s his first rodeo.’
Outside they sit on the seawall, and Defne places her martini carefully by her side. From below them comes the soft hiss and drag of the tide. Along the coast, to east and west, the lights of Lissae are reflected in the bay. Defne lights a cigarette. ‘Am I weird-looking?’ she asks abruptly.
‘No. Why do you say that?’
‘I just wonder. Do you think I’ll ever have a boyfriend?’
‘Of course you will, Defne. As many as you want. You’re amazing.’
‘Buse just has to look at a guy and he’s all over her. I could do cartwheels stark naked and no one would notice.’
Oxana grins. ‘Have you ever actually tried?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Give me that martini.’ Oxana gulps. ‘You’re not Buse. You’re nothing like her. A certain kind of guy will always go for a girl like her, but that’s not necessarily the kind of guy you want. I mean you, personally.’
‘I hate my fucking body.’
‘What do you hate about it?’ Oxana winces. ‘God, this vodka is disgusting.’
‘Well, give it here then.’ Defne drains the glass and throws it into the sea. ‘I’m big boned, I’m clumsy, and I’m ugly.’
Oxana draws her knees up to her chest. ‘Can I tell you something? Apart from being 180 degrees fucking wrong—’
Defne side-eyes her. ‘Are you drunk? How much wine did you have at dinner?’
‘Some. A couple of glasses. You were talking about Buse, and how guys go for her.’
‘Yes.’
‘You think that’s what you want?’
Defne shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘You don’t see how passive that would make you? How helpless?’ Oxana squints out to sea. ‘Why would you want to be someone that waits to get chosen, when you could be someone who goes out and does the fucking choosing.’
‘You’re swearing an awful lot for a nanny.’
‘I mean it, Defne. Don’t wait for permission. If you see someone or something you want, go for it. Go for him.’
Defne looks at her uncertainly.
‘You’re not ugly, trust me. You’re strong, you’re fierce, and you’re classy. And in the real world, as opposed to on Love Island, people value those things very highly.’
‘And you’re an expert, I suppose.’
‘I am, as it happens.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ She looks warily at Oxana. ‘Like, totally in confidence?’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s a crew guy, Noah.’
‘The French one.’
‘Exactly. Have you seen him around?’
‘Not since this morning. Why?’
‘He’s nice. And I think he… I think he likes me a bit. So… You really promise you won’t say anything? Not to Buse, or anyone.’
‘I promise.’
‘OK, well. I’ve been looking for him. Not in a serious way, but—’
‘But what?’
‘But I haven’t seen him. I’ve seen all the others, on deck, doing all the crew stuff…’
‘But not Noah?’
‘No. And obviously I can’t really ask anyone. But, um… you and Feris are friendly, aren’t you?’
‘Sure. You want me to ask her about him?’
‘Can you do that? Without mentioning me?’
‘Of course.’ She squeezes Defne’s hand. ‘Leave it with me, OK?’
‘Thank you.’ Defne sighs.
Oxana glances at her watch. ‘The launch leaves for the Medusa in ten minutes. We’d better go and get Buse.’
‘She’s not going to be happy.’
‘She’ll thank us one day. That DJ’s probably got every sexually transmitted disease known to science.’
‘Ew.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You know…’ Defne hesitates. ‘You’re not a bit what I expected.’
‘Good. Let’s go get Buse.’
This Noah thing. Obviously, I have no idea what’s happened, but I don’t have a particularly good feeling about it.
What did Tahir want with him? I’ll ask Feris in an indirect sort of way, but I can’t take matters further than that.
I can’t compromise my mission for Defne’s sake.
Or for Noah’s. The last thing I want to do is anger Tahir Yilmaz. Shit. I don’t need this.
Buse, naturally, is really pissed off to be dragged away from the club and from her DJ.
She looks at me as if to say how fucking dare you, but she leaves with me and Defne nevertheless, because she knows that my authority comes from Tahir.
And while she probably hasn’t got the first idea of who he really is, or what he really does, she instinctively knows that this is a man you obey without question.
How much does Inci know? I wonder. I’m still processing our hair-brushing session.