Chapter Nineteen #2
Nikki nodded. She’d heard the story. As a child it induced terror to realize that a mother could simply walk away from her children and never return.
“I was four years old. I cried for days,” Izzy continued. “But Beatrice seemed to switch off. She was a Stoic. I think she was trying to protect me. She invented a secret language just for us, so our father wouldn’t know what we were saying.”
The secret language of Beatrice and Izzy had forever infuriated the young Nikki.
“She taught Adriano,” Nikki said. “But she wouldn’t teach Gianni or me. We went crazy, trying to figure it out.”
“Of course I can teach you—it isn’t that complicated.
” Izzy gave a sad smile. “That was your mother: a different language for each person in her life. She and I wrote all our letters in code. Never stopped. It got me into trouble once—in the nineteen eighties. In Prague. I was going to perform Rachmaninoff. They were inspecting my luggage and found a letter from Beatrice. Fortunately, it wasn’t the nuclear launch codes. Just an update on you kids.”
Izzy chuckled.
Nikki’s relationship with her mother felt unfinished, as if she’d saved her thoughts and questions for some later time, when the wounds had healed and each could finally be what the other needed. That moment never arrived.
“When Durant said Mom was something special,” Nikki said, “do you think it had anything to do with languages and codes—her cryptology job in the navy?”
“I wish I knew,” Izzy said with a sigh. “Oh, but she had a gift for languages! Always brilliant at French and mathematics. I remember when Beatrice became fascinated by the Cyrillic alphabet. One of our father’s colleagues was an expat from Moscow—helped her learn Russian.
Set her up with a pen pal: his nephew in the USSR. I was so jealous whenever she got one of those letters—the thin paper and those stamps!
Of course, with McCarthy and the Red Scare, it wasn’t the best time to be friends with a Russian. But they were just kids.”
She sipped her tea. “Oh, it’s gone cold.”
—
They made their way back up to Preston’s room and were there when he returned from his scan. He’d shed his earlier exuberance, but gave a tired smile.
“You both look so concerned,” he said. “ ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ ”
After his rally, his energy and attention faded and he slept. A woman from social services visited and discussed his move to a rehabilitation facility.
At Nikki’s urging, Izzy took a cab home for a rest and shower.
—
At 15:45, Nikki received a text from Ethan with the name and address of a restaurant. He wrote, I’ve done your bidding, she-who-must-not-be-resisted. Eight-o-clock.
—
By the time Izzy returned to the hospital, Preston was awake again, although more confused than before. He’d become suspicious and hostile towards Nikki, and seemed relieved to have Izzy back in the room.
“Have fun with Ethan,” Izzy told her, hugging goodbye.
—
Nikki spotted Ethan across the restaurant. As she wended her way through the tables and chairs, he stood and, in a typically Ethan gesture of welcome, opened his arms wide.
He was tall and blond, with the muscular build of a Viking, and the confident energy of a drag queen.
Today he was dressed in a tailored shirt and navy blazer with shining brass buttons, accented with an expensively understated silk scarf, a look he’d christened on social media as his “corporate fuck-boy” ensemble.
“Let’s look at you,” he said after their customary air-kisses.
In contradiction to his conservative upbringing, Ethan was a self-proclaimed huggy person, yet he’d always seemed intuitively respectful of Nikki’s aversion to being touched. That he remembered now was strangely moving.
“You’re looking delectable, as always,” he said. “That haircut—so chic. Suits you with those luscious ‘come hither’ eyes.”
“You’re looking well, too.”
She experienced a bittersweet wave of homesickness for that familiar face—the sparkling blue eyes, rough-hewn features, and slightly crooked nose. His hair, now decidedly turning grey, had receded into a swooping widow’s peak.
Nikki had met Ethan more than a decade ago at a bar in Camden after she’d broken up with her then-boyfriend and didn’t want to move back in with Izzy and Preston.
They’d hit it off, and he’d offered to rent her the spare room in his flat.
Back then, he was a party boy with the persona of a sexy vampire, and a fondness for illicit delights.
The flat had been a revolving door of decadent personalities.
In spite of their vastly different tastes, Ethan supported Nikki’s discipline—her daily gym sessions, and her Krav Maga training. In fact, it was Ethan who had set her up with her first job as a bouncer, enthusiastically recommending her to an ex-boyfriend who owned a club.
Ethan, too, had his own brand of discipline. He’d taken a First in economics at Oxford, his framed degree displayed ironically in their living room while he enjoyed what he called his dissolute life.
“Do you like my costume?” he said when they were seated. “Lestat gone undercover into sun-drenched respectability. I’d never survive if I took myself seriously.”
“Working for the man, now,” Nikki noted with a grin. “Your father would be so proud.”
He sighed. “Alas, he is. Insufferable. I’d rebel, but the money’s so damned convenient.”
She picked up the menu. He put his hand gently over it.
“Don’t even think about it. The chef is a friend. He’s preparing something special for you.”
He knew the waiter by name, an attractive twentysomething who served them water and prosecco and, in the next hour, brought out a series of vegetarian dishes, each more artful and delicious than the last: beetroot tartare, wild mushroom consommé, saffron-infused cauliflower panna cotta, artichoke and barley risotto.
Ethan seemed pleased by Nikki’s appreciation of the meal, regaled her with tales of his latest romantic escapades, and gently pried for details into her life.
Nikki, who was usually reticent discussing private matters, found herself telling Ethan about her job and family.
But it was when she told him of Enzo’s betrayal with Carmela, about the marriage proposal, and the man Enzo hired to attack her—Ethan’s outrage flared.
He unleashed a dazzling stream of creative insults, and suggested methods of appropriate revenge.
His excess of emotion filled a hollow Nikki hadn’t realized was there, an ache eased by his indignation.
Only when the plates were cleared, when the chef came out for their compliments, and coffee was served, did Ethan lean in, lowering his voice.
“I was intrigued by your cloak-and-dagger request,” he murmured. “Nothing from Signorina Serafino for years. Then, suddenly, I’m in London, and I need research.”
“Did you do it?”
“Amateur, am I? Perish the thought. I devoted the day to lurking in the finest clubs on your behalf.”
Nikki grinned. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”
He smiled and reached into his satchel, taking out a slim laptop and setting it on the table.
“Theodore Sexton,” he started, scrolling through his findings.
“Well connected, easy on the eyes, not entirely dim. Educated at Eton. Post-education, he’s been remarkably unremarkable.
Two years ago, Mister Sexton started an app: Innovare MindCapsule.
Leveraged his connections for a bit of press—but no investors.
I managed to secure a copy of the pitch deck. ”
He showed her the company formation documents for Innovare MindCapsule, which listed F. Deliso as the company’s legal representative, and K. Walker as a founding partner. Then he flipped through a set of slides Nikki recognized from the Innovare MindCapsule website.
“Essentially,” Ethan continued, “MindCapsule is a rather pedestrian attempt to capitalize on the pretentious personal-growth industry. Sexton pitched it to every VC firm in London. No one bit. And now? He’s positively drowning in debt.
A dreadful investment from the outset, but he kept pouring money in.
And—surprise, surprise—he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to roll up his sleeves for honest work. ”
Nikki nodded. In the uncomfortable brightness of the day after, she recalled there had been something about Teddy—a certain slippery sleight of hand that reminded her of her brother.
“This is very helpful,” she said. “Were you able to find any connection with Jayston Lake?”
Ethan shook his head. “None whatsoever, I’m afraid. They move in entirely different spheres. Sexton did present MindCapsule to Lake’s investment firm, but didn’t clear the initial gatekeepers.”
“What did you find out about Jayston Lake?”
Ethan blinked.
“Are you quite serious?” He let out a delighted laugh, then looked rapidly chastened. “Oh, you are!”
He composed himself. “Darling,” he said. “You hardly need a clandestine investigation to uncover the affairs of Jayston and Fiona Lake. A glance at the tabloids should suffice.”
“Even if I did read all the gossip columns,” Nikki encouraged, “I couldn’t see everything you see.”
Ethan looked pleased.
“Very well, since you ask nicely, I’ll spoon-feed you.
” He settled back. “Jayston’s a media darling.
Has been for ages. Simply gorgeous man, and shrouded in tragedy.
Parents died in a plane crash when he was young—very sad, but it left him comfortably provided for.
He ignored the lawyers and rapacious investment sharks, and charted his own course.
Rode the dot-com boom to the top. Billionaire now, I understand. ”
“What do you think about him, personally?”
“I suppose I could tolerate his presence until breakfast.”
“You think he’s a good man?”
He smiled lasciviously. “Well, I wouldn’t find him remotely intriguing if there weren’t a whiff of naughty.”
“Tell me about his wife,” Nikki said.
“Ah, Fiona Cecil,” he said. “The second Mrs. Lake. Jayston’s first wife perished in a car accident—another tragedy for our ill-fated Jayston.
Fiona’s old money. Always been rather…colorful, shall we say?
Parties. Drugs. She did attempt to straighten up, but then tragedy struck again.
Their son, Matthew. Drowned last year. There was an inquiry, and the press eviscerated her.
Turned out that she’d been indulging in a tipple or two.
Dreadful business, though officially ruled an accident. ”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, now that I’ve been a good little boy and given you everything you asked for, you must feed my insatiable appetite. Pray tell: What is your interest in Jayston Lake?”
Nikki considered for a long moment. If Claire’s murder and her connection to the Lakes had already reached the tabloids, she would want Ethan’s take. But there had been no press. This meant the Lakes—and the police—were keeping it quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk about it.”
He looked crestfallen.
“As soon as I’m able to discuss it,” she promised, “you’ll be the first to know.”