The Firebird

CHAPTER ONE

He sent his mind in search of me that morning.

I was on the Tube, a half a minute out of Holland Park and in that muzzy not-awake-yet state that always bridged the time between my breakfast cup of coffee and the one that I’d have shortly at my desk. I nearly didn’t notice when his thoughts touched mine. It was a rare thing these days; rarer still that I would let him in, but my own thoughts were drifting and I knew that his were, too. In fact, from what I saw of where he was – the angle of the ceiling and the dimly shadowed walls – I guessed that he was likely still in bed, just waking up himself.

I didn’t need to push him out. Already he was drawing back, apologising. Sorry. Not a spoken word, but still I heard the faint regretful tone of his familiar voice. And then he wasn’t there.

A man sat heavily beside me, squeezed me over on the seat, and with my senses feeling raw already even that unwanted contact was too much. I stood, and braced myself against the bit of wall beside the nearest door and forced myself to balance till we came to Bond Street. When the doors slid open I slid safely back into the comfort of routine, my brisk steps keeping pace with everybody else as we became a texting, talking, moving mass that flowed together up and out and through the turnstiles and emerged onto the pavement where we went our separate ways, heads down and purposeful.

The morning was a lovely one for August. The oppressive sticky heat had given way to fresher air that promised warmth but didn’t threaten, and the sky was a pristine and perfect blue. I barely saw it. I was thinking of that shadowed room, a greyer light that spoke of clouds or maybe rain, a hand that had come lazily in view, to rub his eyes while he was waking. It had been his left hand, and there’d been no rings on it. At least, I didn’t think I’d seen a ring on it.

I caught my thoughts before they had a chance to wander further and betray me. Doesn’t matter, I reminded myself firmly, and to make quite sure I heard myself I said the words aloud: ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I could feel the glances of the people walking closest to me, wondering if I were off my trolley, and I flushed a little, tucking my head well down as I came round the corner and into South Molton Street, a little pedestrian haven of upscale shops, cafés and galleries. Everything always seemed quieter here, with the mad rush of Bond Street behind me. I carried on down past the graceful old buildings with beautiful doors to the one with the freshly white-painted façade where an expensive-looking brass plaque with fine lettering read: Galerie St-Croix, Fine Russian Artefacts and Art, Third Floor.

The naming of the gallery had been one of Sebastian’s little vanities – in spite of his French surname he was English through and through, born of a line that likely traced its Hampshire roots back to the Conquest. But Sebastian knew his business, and to art dealers like him it was essential to create the proper image.

I was part of that, I knew, because I had the proper look, the proper pedigree, the right credentials, and I always dressed to fit the part. But when he’d hired me two years ago, he’d also made no secret of the fact that it had been for my abilities – not only that I held a Masters degree in Russian studies and the history of art, but that I spoke fluent Russian besides, and my organised nature appealed to his strong sense of order, and I had, what he’d called then, ‘potential’.

He’d worked to transform me, to mentor me, teaching me how to get on the right side of the bid at an auction, and how to finesse our more difficult clients. I’d come a long way from the rather unworldly young woman I’d been when he’d taken me on.

He had transformed the gallery building as well. We were on the third floor, in a space that today was as richly detailed as a penthouse. Even the lift was mirrored, which this morning didn’t thrill me.

I was frowning as it opened to the elegant reception room where a flower seller painted by Natalia Goncharova hung above the desk at which our previous receptionist had sat. She’d had to leave us unexpectedly, and I’d been interviewing this past week to fill the vacancy, while Sebastian and I shared out the extra duties.

It was not an easy thing to hire a person who could suit Sebastian’s tastes, aesthetically. He wanted something more than simple competence, or class. He wanted someone who embodied what the Goncharova painting did – the painting he had hung above that desk, where it would be the first thing noticed by each customer who stepped into the gallery.

He’d had offers for it. Several of our clients could afford to pay a million pounds with ease, but then Sebastian didn’t need the money.

‘If I sell the thing,’ he’d told me once, ‘then I’ll have only satisfied one client. If I leave it where it is, then every one of them will think it can be theirs one day.’

It didn’t only work with art. It wasn’t a coincidence that many of our loyal and best customers were women, and they looked upon Sebastian as they did that Goncharova flower seller – as a prize that could be won, with time and effort.

In fact, as I passed by his glass-walled office on the way down to my own, I saw he had a woman with him now. I would have left them to their business, but he saw me and beckoned me in, so I pushed the door open and joined them.

Sebastian’s smile was all professional with me, and even if it hadn’t been, I would have been immune to it. He was too rich to be my type. A gold watch flashed beneath his tailored sleeve as he leant forward, looking so immaculate I half-suspected that he had a team of stylists working on him every morning, from his polished shoes right to the tousled toffee-coloured hair that had been combed with just the right amount of carelessness. ‘Nicola,’ he introduced me, ‘this is Margaret Ross. Miss Ross, my associate, Nicola Marter.’