Shopping With the Enemy (11 page)

No wonder she’d run into so many divorces. She was a complete tyrant.

She hadn’t even wanted to talk to Elena properly again. As soon as Elena’s presentation was over, Svetlana had busied herself with her trip to Italy and then, after leaving a great long list of instructions, she’d been driven off to the airport early in the morning.

Elena cared passionately about Perfect Dress. She wanted it to grow and to thrive. She wanted it, one day, to be a leading international label. In Elena’s opinion, Svetlana did not care nearly enough about the label. For Svetlana, Perfect Dress was just a hobby, something she’d been happy to create to keep Elena busy.

Was Svetlana really bothered if Perfect Dress survived for another season or not? Elena didn’t think so.

Svetlana would still have her mansion, her millions, her London social life, her dazzling jewels, and no doubt she’d be quite happy to give Elena a little allowance and then begin her insatiable quest to marry her off to the richest Eastern European man she could reel in.

Ha.

For a brief moment, Elena stopped raging and thought about the very important man in her life: the non-Eastern-European, non-multimillionaire Seth.

Seth was another reason that Elena needed to make Perfect Dress a success. If she didn’t have an office and a business in New York, then she would have to come back to London and say goodbye to Seth – which was impossible to imagine.

Her handsome photographer boyfriend was the best guy she’d ever met; maybe the best guy she would ever meet. He’d been with her since she first moved to New York, in fact he was part of the reason she’d moved. She didn’t have any doubts that they were very much in love but a move back to London might ruin everything.

Did Svetlana care?

Did Svetlana even consider her feelings for one moment?

Did Svetlana realize how serious she felt about this business and this guy?

No, no and no.

Fingers slamming against the keys, Elena was back to raging once again. She would show Svetlana. She would have the new dresses made up and she would make them fly!

A timid tap on the office door let Elena know that Maria was on the other side.

‘Hi Maria, come in.’

Elena liked and respected Maria and often wondered how Maria had managed to put up with Svetlana and all her demands for so long.

‘So sorry to disturb,’ Maria began, with an apologetic little bow.

‘No don’t worry about it. Is everything OK?’

‘The tennis coach is here for the boys. He has the right password, I recognize him and the boys know him, but …’ Maria hesitated.

‘What is it?’

‘He says the boys are playing in a tournament all day today. I do not know about this. He says he tell Miss Wisneski and maybe she forget to tell me.’

‘Well, she was so busy packing and making arrangements for her Italian trip, maybe she did forget to tell you.’

‘He say the boys need to bring their passports to register for the tournament. I do not like this. You know there is problem with Mr Igor and taking boys out of the country … so I don’t know if this is right.’

‘Is this the coach they go with all the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘He knows the password.’

‘Yes.’

‘He probably just needs the passports to prove their age.’

‘Yes, he says he comes back with the boys and their passports at 6 p.m. tonight.’

‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ Elena said, giving her most reassuring smile, ‘don’t worry about it. Poor Maria, always worrying.’

‘But Mr Igor … and Miss Wisneski is not here.’ Maria frowned. ‘I would like to check with her. Is possible to check with her?’

Elena sighed. Ever since Igor had managed to get the boys to Luton airport and within several hundred metres of his private jet, Svetlana had been paranoid. There were all kinds of legal protection around the boys. There was no way Igor could move them near the border without alarm bells ringing all over the country.

Now some poor coach was getting hassled because he couldn’t fill in a registration form without everyone jumping into panic mode. It was all completely over the top. But then so was Svetlana.

‘It will be fine – but if you like, I will phone her.’

Maria’s face broke into a relieved smile.

‘Thank you, shall I wait outside?’

‘You wait with the boys. I’ll come up in a few minutes.’

Elena picked up her mobile and clicked onto Svetlana’s number. It went straight through to voicemail.

Svetlana was probably getting her first massage
of
the day, being rubbed down and pampered by the minions she liked to surround herself with while poor Maria was worrying herself into a frenzy because as usual Svetlana had forgotten to tell her about the boys’ plans for the day.

Elena made her way to the marble-floored splendour of the entrance hall. Maria was hovering anxiously behind Michael and Petrov, while a tanned young man in a tracksuit waited beside them.

‘Hi,’ Elena greeted them.

‘Hello, I’m Yann,’ the coach replied. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss …’

‘Elena,’ she said. ‘Where is the tournament?’

‘In Richmond, all day long. We should be back by six.’

‘How are you getting there?’ she wondered.

‘I know the boys sometimes have a driver, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble, so I was going to order a taxi.’

‘Maria and I didn’t know about the tournament, so the driver is having the day off.’

‘No problem,’ the coach reassured her.

‘And you need their passports?’

‘Just to prove their dates of birth. It’s an official requirement. I’m sorry if there’s any inconvenience, I did explain this to Miss Wisneski.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you speak with Miss Wisneski?’ Maria asked, looking up at Elena hopefully.

Elena hadn’t planned on lying. She meant to check out the coach herself and if it all made sense, she’d say she couldn’t reach Svetlana but she was sure it was fine.

But now that Maria was looking at her, all troubled and sorrowful eyes, Elena thought a little white lie would be OK. She didn’t want poor Maria to worry all day long. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet: that meant eight full hours of worrying ahead.

‘Yes I spoke to her, everything is fine,’ Elena said with her most confident smile.

‘Ah!’

Maria’s face relaxed.

‘Are you looking forward to the tournament?’ Elena asked the boys, who were dressed in bright, immaculately ironed tennis whites.

Petrov gave an eager smile while Michael shrugged. He was holding a tennis racket in one hand and an iPhone in the other. He didn’t bother taking his earplugs out to talk to her.

‘I hope you have a really nice day. I bet you’ll both do really well.’

‘What about food?’ Maria asked, looking alarmed all over again. ‘If it is all day, I must make more than the drinks and snacks I pack.’

Yann glanced at his watch. ‘Please don’t worry, I’ll take care of that. We should go …’

‘Are you sure? Really?’ Maria asked.

‘Maria, they will be fine,’ Elena said a little sternly. ‘Boys, have a great time. We’ll see you later.’

‘This is so cool,’ Petrov said as he stepped out of the front door behind Yann and his big brother. ‘I get to play in a tournament – and I’m not even any good!’

Chapter Thirteen

Milan

Svetlana at ease:

Navy and gold swimsuit (Melissa Odabash)

Gold mules (Manolo Blahnik)

White towelling robe (hotel property)

White towel round head (same)

Black and gold shades (Chanel)

Gold and sapphire earrings (Harry Winston – jeweller)

Marquise-shaped solitaire diamond ring

(Harry Roscoff – husband)

Total est. cost: £36,000

FINALLY IT WAS
lunchtime on day two of Annie’s spa stay. She had staggered to the dining room feeling barely alive.

Somehow she had survived yesterday: a lunch of vile slimy green vegetable juice, an afternoon of brutal lymphatic drainage massage, and dinner, a measly bowl of vegetable broth. She’d escaped the enema action too – so far.

Her stomach sloshing with the huge jug of water she’d drunk before bed in an attempt to feel slightly fuller, she’d managed to sleep for six hours or so before violent hunger pangs and a pressing need to wee had woken her up early.

From 5.30 a.m. till 7 a.m., she’d made an exhaustive search of her room, trying to find something – anything – to eat. She’d even considered shredding some of the bedding and chewing it down.

She’d made it through the two cups of water with lemon juice labelled ‘breakfast’ then a torturous two-hour yoga class. Then she’d practically had to crawl half delirious with fatigue and hunger into the dining room where she knew that only an evil vegetable juice awaited her.

She was now halfway down the glass of dismal green goo – she suspected both celery and raw courgette were lurking in there – and was honestly contemplating eating the starched white napkin when Svetlana swanned in, swathed in white towelling, bling jewels and glowing with unbearable smug happiness.

‘Look at my stomach,’ were Svetlana’s words of greeting as a waiter moved forward to pull up a chair for her at Annie’s table.

‘Your stomach is always as flat as a washboard,’ Annie said, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. Extreme dieting always made her feel like this: vicious, wounded and malevolent.

‘I’ve had two enemas already today. This is the secret,’ Svetlana confided. ‘This is how to get your colon moving, cleansing, shedding all your debris. I already lose four kilos!’

More than eight pounds. It wasn’t possible. How could Svetlana have already lost more than eight pounds?

‘Have you had enema yet?’ Svetlana asked.

Annie put her lips to her juice straw and avoided eye contact.

‘Annah,’ Svetlana’s tone was stern, ‘you cannot come for the programme and not have the enemas. This is the most important part. Everyone is nervous the first time. But after one, is easy.’

‘But—’

‘No but. The people here are so professional and so caring. You will find it relaxing: the water draining in, the toxins draining out.’

‘But—’

‘Shhh!’ Svetlana shook her head. ‘Is no problem. I promise you.’

‘I can’t! I just can’t do it,’ Annie blurted out.

‘They help you to put everything in place, then they leave you to relax for about forty minutes.’

‘Forty minutes!’

It sounded worse than she’d imagined.

‘Some litres of coffee need to go up. It takes time.’

Annie’s mouth hung open with astonishment.

Litres
of coffee had to go up and come back out again … unbelievable. She looked around the dining room at the other guests swathed in white gowns. They were all doing this? They were all in on it?

‘Is interesting,’ Svetlana added. ‘You get a little sieve, you can examine what horrrrrrible things come out. I will never eat filet mignon again. I have been passing lumps of undigested meat. Unspeakable. By day five, out come little black pellets, as hard as tyre rubber.’

This conversation was making Annie shudder.

‘When you leave here, your colon will be as clean as a baby’s.’

‘I don’t think I can do it,’ Annie whimpered.

When the knock had come on her hotel room door for her 9 a.m. appointment with the coffee nozzle this morning, she’d sent the woman away, informing her that she wasn’t feeling well. But she knew the nurse would come back at 3 p.m. and if Annie still wasn’t ‘well’, she was to be taken to see Dr
Delicioso,
who would no doubt prescribe an immediate enema.

‘I feel terrible,’ she told Svetlana with total honesty, ‘my head is pounding, my hands are shaking; I have got to get something proper to eat.’

‘Tschaaaaa! This is just the toxins talking,’ Svetlana informed her between happy, dainty sips of her juice. Clearly a diet of liquid vegetables in various forms was not causing this dieting disciplinarian the slightest amount of trouble.

Annie’s toxins weren’t just talking, they were screaming, they were rioting through her system! As she’d walked through the corridor towards the dining room, she’d caught the faintest whiff of coffee and she’d stopped in her tracks like a sniffer dog, wondering how she could beg or bribe her way to a cup of her rich, dark, number one drug of choice.

‘If I could just get a sandwich … or a cappuccino … just one tiny little macchiato, even,’ she pleaded, ‘I mean, this is a very expensive hotel, surely guests are allowed to order something to eat if they feel as weak and as bad as I do?’

Svetlana shook her head. ‘But this is what we pay for: to stick to the programme. If the doctor says you can do the programme then you will do the programme, no matter how much you protest. You can offer the staff as much money as you like – my first
time
here I took off my diamond necklace and said I would swap it for a pizza – but they are trained not to give in. This is why the programme works, for everyone. When you are desperate, they will bring you a celery and nettle cleanser, to speed up the detox. Maybe this is what you need.’

‘I might have to leave,’ Annie said weakly.

Once again, Svetlana shook her head. ‘They will stop you. Always with tact and charm, but they will persuade you to come back. Please, drink some more water, have your enema, then your massage. At dinner tonight you will eat the soup and feel much, much better.’

Svetlana’s juice was finished. She looked happy and satisfied. No sign there of the hammering head, the trembling hands or terrible, killer mood Annie was suffering. Obviously, Svetlana’s toxins were leaving her perfect, first class system with barely a murmur of protest.

‘I think I lie beside the pool before my programme for the afternoon,’ Svetlana said, ‘it is beautiful to look out over the lake. Why don’t you join me?’

No.

Annie was not going to lie out on a sun lounger in her reinforced, tummy tuck swimsuit waiting to be led like a lamb to the enema.

The enema was the enemy. It had to be outwitted. It had to be avoided at all costs.