Chapter Eighteen The Wedding Planner #2
‘Fair enough.’ The woman set down her teacup. ‘Kovalenko was recruited young; sixteen, I believe and trained in cyber operations. She was very good. Good enough to be valuable, which made her dangerous to herself.’
‘Dangerous how?’
‘Valuable assets attract attention. From handlers, rivals and people who want to use them for purposes beyond their original brief. She had a handler who became… attached. Beyond what was professional. Beyond what was safe.’
‘Attached?’
‘Obsessed, if you prefer plainer language. He saw her as his. His creation, his property. When she tried to leave, he took it personally.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘He was reported dead two years ago, in circumstances that were never quite clarified. But reports of death, in our world, are not always reliable.’
Granny absorbed this. ‘Is she a threat to my grandson?’
The woman was quiet for a long moment. ‘That’s not the question you should be asking.’
‘What question should I be asking?’
‘Whether she loves him. Whether her feelings are genuine. Because if they are, she’s not a threat to him. She’s his best protection.’
‘Protection from what?’
‘That I don’t know. But people like this; people like us, always need to look over our shoulders, don’t we?’
The woman stood, smoothing her skirt. ‘I’ve told you what I can. The rest you’ll have to discover for yourself. But if I may offer some advice?’
‘Please.’
‘Don’t warn her off. Don’t try to separate them. If her feelings are real and I believe they are, then driving her away will only make things worse. For her, your grandson and everyone else involved.’
‘And if I’m wrong? If she’s using him?’
‘Then you’ll deal with it. You have a reputation, Cordelia. You’ve dealt with worse.’
She left. Granny sat for a long time, watching the light change in the room, thinking about everything she had learned.
A handler who became obsessed. A report of death that might not be reliable. A woman who had walked away from everything she knew and built a new life on the other side of the world.
Granny understood women like that. She had been one, once, a very long time ago.
???
Viktor took Seb to lunch three days later.
The restaurant was in Mayfair, Viktor’s territory now, his preferred hunting ground.
A private members’ club that didn’t advertise, didn’t have a sign on the door and didn’t accept anyone who had to ask about membership.
Viktor had obtained guest privileges through means he preferred not to discuss and the ma?tre d’ greeted him with the enthusiastic warmth he reserved for those who tipped extravagantly and never complained about the prices.
‘Mr Morozov! How wonderful to see you again. Your usual table?’
‘Please. And we’ll start with the Krug.’
Seb Wilde, who prided himself on being unimpressible, was impressed.
The club was the sort of place his better clients occasionally mentioned in passing, always with the casual air of those who belonged.
Seb had never been invited. He had never expected to be invited.
And yet here he was, being led to a corner table by a man who moved through this rarefied world as if he owned it.
‘Viktor,’ Seb said, settling into his chair with a studied nonchalance that fooled neither of them, ‘I must say, when you called, I was intrigued. The bride’s brother wanting to discuss wedding details: it’s not the usual arrangement.’
‘I’m not the usual brother.' Viktor smiled and it was the smile he had perfected over decades: warm, self-deprecating, utterly charming. ‘Anastasia and I were... estranged, for some years. The war, you understand. Families scattered. But now that I’ve found her again, I want to be part of her happiness. To contribute. And what better way than to help ensure her wedding is everything she deserves?’
‘How lovely.’ Seb’s professional instincts were humming.
Here was a man of obvious means who wanted to be involved.
Men of obvious means who wanted to be involved often meant additional budget.
Additional budget meant additional commission.
‘Though I should mention: Mrs Ashworth-Pemberton has been quite... hands-on with the planning.’
‘Ah yes. Elizabeth.’ Viktor’s expression conveyed sympathy, understanding and the faintest hint of shared suffering. ‘A formidable woman. I imagine she has strong opinions about everything.’
‘Strong would be one word for it. Would you like to know how many emails I have received from Mrs Ashworth-Pemberton in the past week alone?’ Seb’s professional composure slipped, just slightly, in the way that champagne and a sympathetic audience tend to cause.
‘Fourteen. Fourteen emails. Three of them about a single candelabra. She has opinions about candelabras, Viktor. Plural opinions. About a single candelabra. I have planned weddings for the daughters of oil magnates, I have planned weddings for people who own small countries. None of them have had such strong opinions about candelabras.’
‘And my sister?’ Viktor asked, with an expression of such gentle concern it could have been bottled and sold as a sedative. ‘She doesn’t always… consult Anastasia about her preferences?’
Seb hesitated. Client confidentiality was important.
Professional discretion was everything. But the surroundings were weaving their magic, Viktor was leaning forward with an expression of such genuine concern and it had been so frustrating dealing with Elizabeth’s absolute convictions about matters on which she was completely wrong. ..
‘Between ourselves,’ Seb said, lowering his voice, ‘the bride might as well be a mannequin. Elizabeth has opinions about the flowers, music, menu, guest list, and the exact colour of the napkins: I’ve planned royal weddings with less maternal involvement.
And the poor girl just sits there, taking it all. Doesn’t say a word.’
‘That sounds very much like my sister.’ Viktor shook his head sadly. ‘She’s always been... accommodating. Too accommodating, perhaps. She deserves someone who will fight for what she wants.’
‘She has James for that. Though between us, I’m not sure he’s quite up to the challenge of his mother, I am not sure anyone is.’
The champagne arrived. Viktor poured with the casual expertise of a man who had poured a thousand bottles and raised his glass.
‘To family,’ he said. ‘And to weddings. Speaking of which: tell me everything, every detail. Perhaps there are ways I can help ensure my sister’s day is truly perfect.’
Seb needed no further encouragement.
Over the next two hours, through the champagne, oysters, turbot, a magnificent cheese course and a truly exceptional Sauternes, he laid out the entire wedding in loving detail.
The venue: Hartington Hall, the Earl of Cuckmere’s Cotswolds estate, a crumbling pile that had been in the family since the Restoration and would probably collapse entirely within the decade.
The chapel: Norman origins, Victorian restoration, seating for a hundred if everyone breathed in.
The grounds: impressive lake, formal gardens, a temple folly on an island that was apparently irresistible to photographers.
Viktor listened, asked thoughtful questions and filed every detail away.
The timeline. The layout. The staff arrangements. The security. The locations where the couple would be at various points throughout the day. The moments when they would be alone, or nearly alone. The planned departure by hot air balloon.
‘The balloon,’ Seb said, with the careful tone of a man trying very hard not to have an opinion, ‘is James’s contribution.
He saw it in a film. I have tried, gently, to explain that hot air balloons in December, in the Cotswolds, at midnight, present certain logistical challenges.
Visibility. Temperature. The possibility of landing in someone’s field and being savaged by cattle.
He was unmoved. He said, and I quote, ‘It’ll be romantic, Seb.
’ As if romance were a defence against hypothermia. ’
‘I’m sure it will be charming,’ Viktor said.
‘It will be a logistical nightmare. But it will also, I concede, make an extraordinary photograph. And in the end, that’s what matters.
The photograph and the invoice.’ Seb paused, aware he had perhaps revealed too much of his professional philosophy.
‘The memory, I mean. The photograph and the memory.’
By the time coffee arrived, Viktor had a complete operational picture.
‘This has been so helpful,’ he said, signalling for the bill with the easy confidence of a man who never looked at totals. ‘I feel like I truly understand what Anastasia’s day will be like.’
‘It’s going to be spectacular,’ Seb said, glowing with wine and professional pride. ‘One of my finest, I think. Despite Elizabeth’s... involvement.’
‘I have no doubt.’ Viktor smiled. ‘You know, Seb, I feel we’ve made a connection today. A real connection. I hope we can do this again.’
‘I’d like that.’ Seb meant it. How often did one meet a man of genuine sophistication who actually wanted to hear about napkin colours and seating arrangements?
‘You know, I don’t usually discuss this with clients’ families, but.
.. are you familiar with the Romanov connection?
Your family, I mean. Morozov: it’s a name with certain historical resonances. ’
Viktor’s smile turned modest. Self-deprecating. The smile of a man with secrets he was too polite to share.
‘Old family stories,’ he said. ‘You know how it is. Every Eastern European family claims some connection to someone important. I try not to make too much of it.’
‘Of course, of course.’ But Seb’s eyes had lit up with the particular gleam of a man who collected social currency like stamps.
‘Though I have to say, there’s something about you.
A bearing. A certain... I planned a small reception for a Liechtenstein count once and he had exactly the same quality. Understated nobility, I call it.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Seb rose, gathering his things with the satisfied air of a man who had just had an excellent lunch and made an even better connection.
‘Until next time, Viktor. And do let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to discuss about the wedding.
Any detail at all. I’m entirely at your disposal. ’
They shook hands. Seb departed in a cloud of bonhomie and self-congratulation.
Viktor signed for the bill when it arrived without looking at it, though he should have, because the number on it represented roughly a tenth of the money he no longer had. The two hundred thousand from Anastasia had bought him time, not salvation and his creditors patience had limits.
But for now, he had what he needed: access, information and an invitation to the stag do in Verbier.
The rest would come.