One Way or Another(38)

Ahmet’s house was like a feudal throwback, almost horror-movie style. It needed lightening up and that’s exactly what Martha intended to do. It crossed her mind that he might not like being “lightened up” but hey, he’d hired her, that’s what she did, and that’s what he would get. And, in her book, it would be a hell of a lot better than what he had now. More! It would be bloody wonderful, she would make sure of that. It would also consolidate her reputation. She was well aware you didn’t do a billionaire’s house without attracting notice, that was for sure.

*

She had dinner that night with Lucy at Scott’s in Mayfair, indulging in oysters which they ate straight, no fancy sauces, only a brief squeeze of lemon so the brininess slid sumptuously down their throats.

“I’m going to have the halibut next,” Lucy said, already attacking the bread basket.

“And I suppose you’ll have that with fries.” Martha was not asking a question, she knew her sister well, knew that she was perpetually hungry. For a creature who looked more like a waif than any ballerina, Lucy could certainly pack it away, when she had the opportunity, that is. Martha was concerned over Lucy’s perpetual joblessness and fixation on a life on the stage or on TV or in movies, probably even pantomime if she ever got the chance: Dick Whittington and his Cat; Robin Hood and his Merry Men …

“Lucy, it’s time you stopped playing Snow White,” she said. It was not anger she felt for her sister, it was fear for her well-being. “People don’t starve to death for their art these days.”

“They do if they have no money,” Lucy said, buttering yet another chunk of baguette. “You should try this,” she added. “The butter’s really good.”

“Since you’ve already eaten most of it, it’s hardly worth the effort.”

Lucy threw her sister a calculating upward glance. Sighing, she put down the piece of bread. “Okay. So what’s up? Tell me what I’ve done wrong this time.”

Martha eyed her sister, skinny in her blue jeans and the Rolling Stones T-shirt she could swear she remembered from their youth; no hint of makeup—probably because Lucy could not afford any—no polish on her nails either, probably for the same reason. In fact, the only way Lucy had a roof over her head was because, thankfully, the Patron family still owned the house in Chelsea, now divided into flats. Lucy had two basement rooms reached from a small area down a flight of cement steps, and where the door was practically in your face as you turned to open it. There was a cupboard for a kitchen, used, it seemed, only for fixing endless cups of coffee, of which, by some miracle of financial dexterity, they never seemed to run out. Nor did they seem to run out of booze, which Martha suspected was mostly provided by the guys who came to visit the three fun girls who lived there.

Just look at her, Martha thought, watching her sister devour her dinner while throwing Martha a smile and managing at the same time to tell her about the acting job that had gotten away. As they all seemed to.

“So far, that is,” Lucy said, assessing her sister as Martha had just assessed her. “You look terrific, Marthie,” she said, slipping into the old childhood nickname. “All blond and fair, the perfect woman. So?” Her brows rose, fork poised halfway to her mouth. “When are you gonna marry him, anyway?”

“You mean Marco?”

Lucy rolled her eyes with pleasure as she took a taste of Martha’s Dover sole. “Mmmm, I should have had that.”

“You can have all of it if you want.” Martha pushed the plate toward her sister, who smiled and shoved it back.

“I’m not that hard up that I have to eat your food as well as my own.”

“Yes you are. And that’s why we have to do something about it.” Martha leaned in closer. “I have a proposal for you.”

Lucy rolled her eyes again. “Probably the only one I’ll ever get.”

“Be serious. This is your life we are planning.”

“You mean you are planning.” Lucy could be stubborn when she felt like it. Besides, she didn’t want to hear about a job unless it was on a stage of some kind. Even behind stage would do, painting scenery, pushing cameras around, sweeping the bloody floor.

“I want you to come and work for me.” Martha saw Lucy’s face turn to stone. She put up her hand to stop her from saying immediately, you’ve got to be kidding.… “No, I’m not kidding, Lucy, and yes, I do need help, and so do you. I’m not saying it’s forever, but it would get you out of the hole—the funk—you’re in, and at the same time it would help me out when I need it. I’ve been offered the biggest job of my career so far, redoing an important country house for a businessman.” She thought for a moment. “Well, actually, mogul is the only word to describe him. I’m talking about Ahmet Ghulbian.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Lucy said it anyway. She slumped back in her chair, stunned.

Martha stared at her. “No, I’m not. Why?”

“Because that’s the Ahmet I told you about, remember? He paid for my drink one night when I was stuck. I didn’t have enough money and he was at the next table.” Lucy explained what had happened. “Actually, I was going to ask you for the thirty quid so I could pay him back. I don’t like being beholden to a man, especially one I don’t even know, even if he is a mogul and can afford it anyway.”