Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(19)

Finally, just when I have fallen asleep, I am awakened by the sound of a key in my door. I freeze with fear. Then I hear the familiar sound of Lenny’s footsteps. He comes into the bedroom and silently walks over to the bed. He stands over my prone body and watches me. I keep my breathing even and deep, and pray that he will not wake me up.


To my relief, after a few minutes he quietly slips out of the flat.

After I hear the door shut, I sit up then go over to the window. From the darkness of my window, I watch him walk to his car. The driver opens the back door and Lenny gets into it. Feeling unnerved, I return to bed. It has been a long time since he did that. He used to do that a lot when he first found me, when I was almost mad with grief and horror. I wonder why he did that today.

Does he on some level sense that another man has strayed into his territory?





Ten


SNOW

Shane comes to collect me at 9.00 p.m. because that is when Lenny’s plane takes off and there will be no more calls from him after that. A man in a peaked cap opens the back door of a blue Mercedes and I slide in. Shane introduces him as the driver of the family’s company car.

‘Mostly only my brothers use this car. I can get anywhere faster on my bike,’ he says.

‘We’re not going to Heathrow Airport?’ I ask when I notice the car going on a different route.

‘No, we’re flying out of Luton,’ Shane says.

‘Oh,’ I say, and settle back against the plush seat while Shane gives the man instructions to bring his car to the airport on Sunday. I don’t listen. A ball of anxiety sits at the base of my stomach. I feel as if I am cheating on Lenny, even though I don’t love Lenny and he cheats on me all the time, and anyway, I am not going to do anything with Shane. Shane and I are friends, and we are just going to see the fireflies.

At the airport I am in for a shock. We are walking toward a private plane!

‘Wow! Whose plane is that?’ I ask, astonished.

‘My brother bought it about two years ago for the family’s use.’

‘Is he the ex-gangster?’

‘Yeah. Jake was a gangster, but don’t judge him too harshly. He had no choice. He did it for us. It was a great sacrifice for a man who wanted to be a vet.’

‘You love him very much, don’t you?’

‘We’re blood. I’d give my life for him.’

And his eyes shine with sincerity.

Then the pilot is introducing himself to me and we are walking up the steps into the jet. It is another world. The inside of it is beautiful, with heavy, wooden doors, red, luxurious carpets, and huge cream seats facing each other with tables in between. There are fresh flowers everywhere and it smells of perfume. Farther along, closer to the cockpit, there are two single beds with furry slippers tucked at one end. The table we are invited to occupy has a white tablecloth spread over it and is set as if in a fancy restaurant.

We sit and the smiling air stewardess pops open a bottle of champagne.

I can’t help being wide-eyed with wonder. ‘Oh my God, how amazing,’ I gasp. ‘This is exactly what I imagined it must be like to be a film star.’

He laughs softly, his handsome face indulgent, and we clink glasses then drink.

Fruit and tiny little canapés are served on a mirrored platter.

It takes us an hour and forty minutes to arrive in Cannes, a town so exclusive that there is no commercial airport and only private jets are authorized to land. There are no queues, Immigration and Passport Control, or baggage to worry about. Instead, our passports are checked by two policemen, and then we step onto the runway.

‘Welcome to France,’ Shane says.

I marvel at how easy and smooth travel is for the rich. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually in another country.’

‘Come on. We’ve got dinner reservations,’ he says, and leads me to a waiting car.

Full of excitement, I look around me as the palm-tree-lined boulevards swish by as we get into the town. I gaze in awe at all the beautiful old buildings. In twenty minutes I am ushered into one of Cannes’ famous seafront restaurants, Le Palais Oriental. It is brightly decorated with blue seats, white tables, and mirrors on the ceilings.

The place is in full swing, heaving with belly dancers and huge groups of noisy party-goers. We are greeted by a friendly Moroccan waiter who shows us to our table. The tables are low, and Shane has to sit with his knees spread far apart. He catches my grin and acknowledges the funny side. I love that he is able to laugh at himself. There is something so endearing about a man like that. My father couldn’t. My brother will never be able to, and Lenny will tear your head off before he’d even contemplate doing such a thing.

Shane and I order tagine of lamb with prunes and couscous, which our cheeky waiter claims is terrific because it is cooked on the bosoms of angels.

We drink mint tea and watch the dazzlingly graceful belly dancers as they advance, retreat as they snake their arms sinuously in the air, and shimmy their hips so hard and fast their luxurious costumes swim about their feet. I feel an instant affinity with them—the colorful costumes, the sun-drenched skin, and the bells on their bra tops remind me of the beautiful Indian dancers of my childhood.


Like those Indian dancers, they twist their bodies into shapes that express joy, laughter, sadness, grace, lust. This story is one of entrapment and beauty. One woman wears a veil and over it her dusky black eyes flash enticingly. Not only her body, but her eyes speak.