Chapter Five The Party
The Artemisia was, by any reasonable standard, magnificent.
James had been on large yachts before, you couldn’t grow up in his world without accumulating a certain number of yacht parties, but the Artemisia was something special She had the feel of a floating country house, all dark wood panelling and brass fixtures and the kind of quiet luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself.
The main salon could have hosted a state dinner.
The upper deck, where the party was now in full swing, offered views that postcards couldn’t capture and camera phones couldn’t do justice.
Claudette steered him through the crowd with the practiced ease of a woman who had navigated many such gatherings. She knew everyone, or claimed to and introduced James with a proprietary air that made him slightly uncomfortable.
‘This is James,’ she would say, her hand resting on his arm. ‘A friend from London. We came together.’
The emphasis on ‘together’ was unmistakable. James smiled and nodded and tried to signal, through body language alone, that the ‘together’ was purely logistical. He was not entirely successful.
The party was the usual Riviera mix: hedge fund managers and tech entrepreneurs, minor royalty and major socialites, beautiful young people of uncertain occupation and wealthy older people of unquestionable means.
Everyone held drinks and smiled, all watching each other with the alertness of people who understood that parties like this were not merely social but transactional.
James scanned the crowd as subtly as he could, looking for a red velvet dress. He had seen her stepping into a tender, heading away from the yacht, but perhaps she had returned. Perhaps she was here somewhere, behind a pillar or inside the salon or...
‘You’re looking for someone,’ Claudette observed, her tone somewhere between amused and annoyed.
‘No, no. Just taking it all in. Marvellous boat.’
‘You are a terrible liar, James.’ She said it without rancour, as if noting the weather. ‘But I forgive you. The young are easily distracted.’
Before James could respond, a flash of red caught his eye near the bow. There she was, emerging from a conversation with a group of men in suits, moving toward the bar with the purposeful stride of someone who has extracted herself from tedium and is seeking fortification.
‘Excuse me,’ James said to Claudette. ‘I just need to... there’s someone I...’
Claudette sighed the sigh of a woman who has seen this before. ‘Go,’ she said, releasing his arm. ‘Make a spectacle of yourself. I will be over here, consoling myself with champagne and the company of lesser men.’
She drifted away and James was left alone in the crowd, watching Anastasia approach the bar, trying to calculate the angle of approach that would seem least desperate.
???
He found his moment when she was briefly alone, waiting for her drink.
The bartender was taking his time, mixing something complicated with multiple ingredients and unnecessary flourishes, Anastasia was watching the process with the patient impatience of someone who just wanted a glass of wine and was being subjected to theatre instead.
James approached from the side, positioning himself at the bar beside her as if he, too, were simply waiting for a drink.
‘Lot of effort for a cocktail,’ he observed, nodding toward the bartender’s elaborate preparations.
Anastasia turned. Up close, she was even more striking than she had been at a distance: grey-green eyes that seemed to be conducting their own assessment, cheekbones that suggested aristocratic ancestry somewhere in the family tree, a mouth that looked like it was deciding whether to smile or dismiss him entirely.
‘I asked for a glass of white wine,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what I’m getting instead.’
‘Probably something with a dozen ingredients and a name you can’t pronounce. That’s the fashion now. You can’t just have a drink; you have to have an experience.’
‘I’d rather have a drink.’
‘Wouldn’t we all.’
The bartender finished his creation with a final flourish, a twist of citrus peel, a sprig of something herbal and presented it to Anastasia with evident pride. She accepted it, took a sip and her expression suggested that the experience had not been worth the wait.
‘How is it?’ James asked.
‘It tastes like someone’s garden fell into a glass of vodka.’
James laughed. It came out louder than he intended, drawing glances from nearby guests, but he didn’t care. ‘That’s the best description of a cocktail I’ve ever heard.’
‘It’s accurate, at least.’ She set the glass down on the bar with an air of finality. ‘I’ll try somewhere else.’
‘The wine on the lower deck is better,’ James said, surprising himself with the information. ‘They’ve got a proper sommelier down there, not a mixologist. Fewer experiences, more actual drinking.’
She studied him for a moment, her sparkling eyes conducting their assessment. James felt like a document being scanned for relevant information.
‘You seem to know this boat.’
‘I’ve been on her before, it was a few years ago, different owner, same layout. The good wine is always downstairs because the people who actually know about wine don’t want to be bothered with the main party.’
‘That sounds like a criticism.’
‘More of an observation. I’m not that knowledgeable about wine itself, but I do know where the good stuff is hidden.’
She almost smiled, almost. ‘And you’re offering to show me?’
‘Only if you want, I could also just give you directions: Down the stairs, turn left, past the library. Churchill used to smoke cigars there when he visited, so they always have a few boxes floating about to show off. If you can tear yourself away from that, it’s through the door with the brass handle.
But then you’d have to go alone and the sommelier doesn’t speak much English and you’d miss out on my sparkling conversation. ’
‘What makes you think your conversation sparkles?’
‘Optimism. Unfounded, mostly, but it keeps me going.’
This time she did smile. It was small, controlled, but genuine, a crack in the facade she’d been maintaining.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Show me where the good wine is.’
???
The lower deck was quieter, as James had promised.
The sommelier, a small Italian man with the air of someone who took wine very seriously and people not at all, produced a bottle of something white and cold and poured without comment or flourish.
Anastasia took a sip and her expression shifted to something like relief.
‘Better?’ James asked.
‘Much better. Thank you.’
They found a spot near the stern, away from the few other refugees from the main party.
The evening had deepened while they were below, the sky shifting from orange to purple to the deep blue that precedes full dark.
The lights of the coast glittered in the distance as the moon rose, dwarfing the Chapel Saint-Hospice.
The water lapped against the hull with a gentle, rhythmic sound.
‘I’m James, by the way,’ he said, because it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually introduced himself. ‘James Ashworth-Pemberton. Ridiculous name, I know. Had no say in the matter.’
‘Anastasia Kovalenko.’ She extended her hand and he shook it. Her grip was firm, businesslike. ‘Also ridiculous, depending on who you ask.’
‘I think it’s beautiful, actually.’
‘You don’t have to say that.’
‘I know, but I said it anyway.’
She looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read, surprised, perhaps, or simply reassessing. ‘You’re very direct.’
‘I’m told it’s one of my few qualities. That and an ability to find good wine on boats.’
‘Useful skills.’
‘I like to think so.’
They drank in silence for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable (James had expected it to be, had expected to fill every pause with nervous chatter) but Anastasia seemed content to simply exist in the quiet and he found himself content to exist there with her.
‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘what do you do, James Ashworth-Pemberton with the ridiculous name?’
‘Insurance, technically. Harrington & Associates. We insure things that no one else wants to: fast yachts, art, racehorses. The occasional opera singer’s voice.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘It sounds interesting, but in practice, it’s mostly lunches.’
‘Lunches?’
‘Client lunches. Prospect lunches. ‘Let’s discuss the policy over lunch’ lunches.
I think I’ve had more meals in restaurants than in my own kitchen in the past year.
’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining. The food’s usually good.
But I’m not sure I actually do anything, if you know what I mean. I just... lunch at things.’
‘You’re very honest about your lack of achievement.’
‘Would you prefer I made something up? I could tell you I’m a brain surgeon or an astronaut. I’d be lying, but it would sound more impressive.’
‘I’d rather you were honest.’ She turned to look at him directly and there was something in her expression, not warmth, exactly, but interest, genuine interest. ‘Most people at parties like this spend the whole time pretending to be more important than they are. It’s exhausting.’
‘Ah, well, I couldn’t pretend to be important if I tried. I’m told I have one of those faces. Very un-important.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘No?’
‘No. I’d say you have one of those faces that doesn’t know how important it might be. That’s different.’
James wasn’t sure what to do with that, so he drank his wine instead.
???
She told him about her company.
It was called Sntnl.ai and it did something with cybersecurity that James genuinely tried to understand. Anastasia explained it three different ways, each simpler than the last and James nodded and asked questions and did his best to follow along.