One Way or Another(36)

All that remained now, Mehitabel thought, staring round her luxurious room, was for her to become the sole proprietor of the business she was involved in. She had become close to Ahmet and he was now so used to her he trusted her implicitly, something Mehitabel knew no one should ever do. Not only did she know all Ahmet’s personal secrets, now she knew all his business secrets, who he dealt with and when and where. And she intended to use them.





26

Martha had just finished an important and complicated job designing, of all things, an English country kitchen in the middle of London for a Russian woman who wanted every possible newfangled American invention, including three refrigerators with glass doors so that everything inside would be on display. Martha warned her she’d have to change the fruits and vegetables every day to keep the image perfect but her client was not fazed. “We eat out most nights anyhow” was her answer.

Like the flowers with which the house was also overstuffed, the refrigerators were meant only for display. It was disheartening to put so much work, so much thought and effort, into a place that ultimately would never really be lived in. Martha was simply not that kind of decorator, yet she could not afford to turn down the job, and she had to admit that when it was finished, with every vegetable polished, every floral arrangement glowing perfectly in exactly the right enormous crystal vase in exactly the right spot, it looked pretty darn good. And her client was thrilled, which made Martha feel good too.

Now there was a lull. She was free and thinking perhaps she could take a holiday with Marco, who needed a break from dealing with Ahmet Ghulbian. He’d told her Ahmet had invited them on his yacht, the Lady Marina. She had not been too keen, preferring to be alone, but then, out of the blue, though later she suspected Marco had something to do with it, she got a call.

“My name is Mehitabel,” the caller said. “I am Ahmet Ghulbian’s personal assistant. Mr. Ghulbian has heard good things about your work, from Mr. Mahoney.”

Mehitabel’s voice was low and she was so soft-spoken Martha had to strain to hear her.

“I’m always glad to know that,” she replied, cautious because you never knew when somebody was going to ask you to work for free or at a big discount simply because they were somebody’s cousin or had been at school with somebody who knew you.

“Mr. Ghulbian would appreciate it if you could take a look at his country place,” Mehitabel said.

Martha thought quickly about whether it would be correct for her to do over the mogul’s country house; what with Marco painting his portrait and all, things seemed to be getting a little too close for comfort, yet there was no doubt it would be a lucrative and prestigious commission. Presumably Marco wouldn’t mind her working for the mogul. Yet somehow it made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t get Marco on the phone or via text, so she decided to take a leap of faith, visit Marshmallows, meet Ghulbian, and see what it was all about.

Getting to Marshmallows was not easy; it was way out in the southeast in the English marshlands, but Martha had turned down Ghulbian’s offer to helicopter her there. She’d wanted to see the lay of the land, the neighboring homes, the gardens and landscaping, only to be stunned by the place’s complete remoteness and lack of any of what she termed “lovable” features.

There were no trees and, to Martha, a big house in a landscape without trees was like a well-dressed woman without jewels, or one who had forgotten her perfume. All she saw as she drove up was a flat gray house that looked rooted to the earth on which it stood. Its small-paned windows reflected back the gray clouds, its gray-tiled roof pressed on top of it. She got the impression the house was trying to hide itself away. “No one lives here,” is what it seemed to tell her. The only thing of life, of beauty, was the herons’ nest atop a chimney from which a slender white bird poked its beak, protecting its young. Anyway, it lifted Martha’s heart, as she sped up the graveled drive and stopped at the flight of four shallow stone steps leading to the front door, where Ahmet stood waiting for her, a smile on his face, both arms extended in welcome.

“My dear Martha, you cannot know how happy it makes me to see you here. Welcome to my home, or at least the house I’m hoping that you, with all your miraculous talent as a designer, will turn into a real home for me.”

Getting out of the car, Martha found herself in Ahmet’s embrace. It was quick but he held her a tiny bit too tight and a touch too long, so her breasts pressed against his chest. It was only a fleeting moment but enough to make her uncomfortable. She told herself she was being foolish and of course Ahmet had meant nothing by the hug, that he was a nice man, a well-known figure in the charity world, a man who only did good for humanity, for the world’s sufferers, and a man for whom she would now do her best to create the “home” he seemed so badly to want.

Throwing open the big front door, and not merely the smaller inner section, so Martha might get the full effect of the baronial hall and the wide staircase with the Art Nouveau stained-glass windows, Ahmet ushered her inside. Of course Martha had heard details of the house from Marco. “Strangely bleak” he had called it—and now she saw what he meant. Everything was there: the expensive brocade sofas; the immense limestone fireplace, obviously brought from a French mansion; the glittering Venetian chandelier; the enormous grandfather clock in an ugly yellowish oak, ticking away too loudly; the black-and-white-tiled floors that, in a different house, would have been elegant but in this solid old structure were out of place. Everything she saw was expensive, with heavy-looking antiques that had once belonged somewhere, and none of which, she decided immediately, belonged here.