Chapter 3 #2
‘Tuscan?’ This was akin to asking me what the square root of ten million and five was. ‘Mmm, sounds lovely.’ I’ve never been a good liar – most likely due to my penchant for the truth – and it was obvious that Sharaz had just seen right through me.
She let out a loud, contemplative sigh. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll revisit my Moroccan souk idea.’
I nodded, trying to think of something to say. ‘I like lamb tagine,’ was all I could think of.
‘So let’s get down to business,’ she said, clapping her hands together, another loud bracelet jangle ringing out. ‘Well, you obviously know who I am.’ She gestured behind her, and I stared.
Because covering the entire wall were portraits of Sharaz, all done in various styles.
There was the Sharaz in Andy Warhol print style, a huge painting of her as a Botticelli angel, a large moody black and white of her lying on the floor flanked by two black panthers with shiny diamond collars, a soft watercolour of her in a rose garden and an oil painting of her on a giant brown steed, and so it went on.
And to make it even more incredible, in between all those paintings were shelves of gold awards and platinum albums.
‘Yes, I know who you are.’ I was struggling to prise my eyes from the bizarre smorgasbord of portraits.
‘So you know who I’m married to?’
‘No, you’ll forgive me, I don’t.’
‘Victor Langdon, CEO of Monarch Luxury Holdings. You’ve obviously heard of the company.’
I nodded. I had heard of it. Monarch Luxury Holdings dealt with high-end luxury goods: art, jewellery, rare wines and antiques.
I only knew this because some years back a Picasso had been stolen from their showroom.
I’d been fascinated by the case and followed it closely; the Picasso had never been found.
‘Then you know how much my husband is worth?’
I looked around me. One of the paintings on the far wall looked suspiciously like an actual Monet, and in the opposite corner, housed in an antique cabinet that could have been lifted from Versailles itself, sat a line of Fabergé eggs. ‘I think I have a pretty good idea.’
‘Well then, you must know where I’m going with all this. A lady of your experience.’
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. ‘You think he’s cheating, and you want to divorce him. If he’s caught in the act, then half of this goes to you. Am I close?’
‘Spot on,’ she said.
‘And how can I help you?’ I asked.
‘He went away on a “business trip” last night.’ The pink talon air quotes said it all.
‘Only I had a lovely chat with the receptionist at LuxSky Charters – she’s a big fan of mine – and she said that the jet did not in fact go to Geneva, but rather to the Seychelles.
Now I may be wrong, but I don’t think you’ll find many high-end luxury auctions on a tropical island. ’
‘And you obviously think he has a travel companion?’
She nodded.
‘Any idea who she might be?’
Sharaz sat back on the chaise and also crossed her legs, the shiny leather of her pants giving a slight squeak.
‘All I can say is it better not be his PA, or his Pilates instructor. I’d rather not have to face the humiliation of that cliché.
I hope it’s a little more original than that.
I would hate our marriage to end so banally. ’
I smiled at her and wrote in my notepad: Definitely the young PA.
‘So what do you need from me?’ I asked.
‘I need proof, irrefutable. Photo evidence, video evidence, fingerprints, DNA, whatever.’
‘That I can do,’ I replied, adrenaline starting to flood my bloodstream. I loved this feeling.
‘I’ll fly you to the Seychelles. Obviously first class.’
‘Obviously,’ I said, as if this was completely normal. ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’
‘Well, the lovely lady at LuxSky also let slip that the chauffeur had taken him to Ile du Nord Villas. Apparently the Swedish royal family vacation there.’
I tried not to smile. You could tell how wealthy a person was by the way they turned nouns into verbs. Next she would be telling me how they wintered in Gstaad and summered in Saint-Tropez.
‘I wasn’t even aware Sweden had a royal family,’ I said, scribbling down the name of the resort. She looked at me oddly for a moment and then scanned my legs and landed on my shoes again.
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t be,’ she said. ‘So, are you available to do this? You’ll need to leave very soon.’
I closed my notepad and looked up at her. ‘I am. I just came off a job last night.’
She sighed, and for a second her very well-constructed mask slipped and I was able to glimpse the emotion that was hiding behind the nails and the hair and the white leather. She was in genuine pain. And this pissed me off. I was going to get Victor, come hell or high water.
‘I was hoping you’d say that. You came highly recommended by a friend at the polo club.’
I nodded. I knew exactly who she was talking about.
The CEO husband who had a penchant for wearing a collar and being led around on his hands and knees like a dog.
Honestly, I’d seen it all. There was a certain hedge fund manager who liked to be vacuum-sealed in cellophane and then beaten with a large baguette. Freshly baked, of course.
‘And to think, he always said he was allergic to dogs,’ she said with a sly smile and a little wink.
There was just no accounting for what the rich were into.
Sharaz leaned forward and slid something across the table. ‘Your ticket to the Seychelles, leaving tomorrow. I hope that’s okay?’
My heart started racing. Excitement. Adrenaline. This, this was what I lived for. The hunt. The chase. I could feel the anticipation bubbling up inside me as I took the ticket and slipped it into my bag.
‘I’m going to get him, Ms Venter! Don’t worry about it.’