My tummy clenched, but I strode the length of the room until I could rub John’s back. “What’s up?” I asked.
John’s face was puffy, his eyes rimmed with red. “Bella just phoned. She says the wedding’s off.”
I was taken aback. “Wedding? You only just got engaged. You’d already set a date for the wedding?” News to me.
“Chelsea Town Hall. This Friday at three thirty. Bella and I were going to ask you and Bud to be our witnesses when we were all together this evening. Now? Now I don’t know…”
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes I am capable of that…just about. I pulled a face to signify sympathy, and rubbed John’s back a little harder.
“I love her so much, Cait. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
All sorts of comments swirled in my head, most concerning the fact that he and Bella had known each other for only a few months, and hadn’t he been head over heels for Lottie the last time I’d seen him? But I knew I shouldn’t utter a word. I also knew that if I rubbed his back any harder, or longer, I might start to slough off his skin through his shirt, so I stood back and looked around to see if I could spot a kettle: a pot of tea was called for.
“I’m so sorry, John,” was the most neutral and supportive statement I could muster as I scanned the cavernous kitchen. Not a kettle to be seen – neither electric, nor stovetop. How on earth did John boil water?
“Fancy a cuppa, instead of whatever’s in that glass?” I was concerned I might have to cope alone with John trying to drown his sorrows until I had a chance to rouse Bud.
“I’ll do it.” John sounded defeated, and looked it, too. He stood, still towering over me despite an unusual stoop. “She’s not been the same since her father died. She’d led me to believe they weren’t terribly close, but his death has cast a tremendous pall over Bella and her sister. I’ve been hoping tonight’s marking of her father’s birthday would give them a chance to get past this…this…I don’t know what to call it, really. They’ve both become extraordinarily maudlin since he died. Bella’s not like that, as a rule. One of the reasons I love her is that she’s always full of light, and hope. She’s such a wonderful person, Cait – always positive. Upbeat. Sees the good in everyone, and every situation. Loves to be…well, I suppose spontaneous is the best word. Surprises me all the time. A little madcap, on occasion. But I enjoy indulging her; life’s not been a bed of roses for poor Bella, not by a long chalk. Her sister…well, she was always the apple of their father’s eye, and Bella always came second in his thoughts. Nowadays she’s just dreadfully miserable all the time.”
I weighed my response. “The death of a loved one can affect a person in the most unexpected ways, John. Maybe seeing her father suffer through a protracted illness ground her down, emotionally, then his death provided the release you mentioned earlier, but at the expense of her feeling some guilt.”
“But she didn’t see him suffer, that’s the thing.” John sounded as though he were talking to himself, not me. “She hadn’t seen her father for years. He remained close to her sister, but Bella and he didn’t even speak to each other, and she rarely spoke about him. Until he died, that is. Prior to his death I knew almost nothing about him…except for his public persona. And I’d done a bit of extra research into him and his background, of course, when I was…well, while I was doing a bit of digging around in Bella’s history.” He nibbled his lip. “After that mess with Lottie, you’d expect me to at least do that, right?”
I nodded. Oh yes, at least that, John. “You learned a great deal from that, I’m sure. And I know from personal experience that it’s possible to pick entirely the wrong person before you find the right one. Just think of me and Angus; he was absolutely the worst thing that ever happened to me. Took me down to rock bottom. But now? Now there’s Bud. See? It’s possible to find good coming from bad. Though I’m sorry to hear you say Bella’s not coping well with her father’s death.”
“Oh Cait, she’s become obsessed by the man, and he’s no longer here – he’s dead and should be gone, but it’s as though his shadow has lingered, and it’s brought her to this point where she says she can’t go through with the wedding.”
I had no idea who Bella’s father had been, nor why he had what John had called a “public persona”, but I realized finding out wasn’t a priority at that precise moment. “Did she give you a reason for wanting to postpone the wedding?”
John gulped from his glass. “Not postpone, cancel. She wants to call it off completely. She said she can’t expect me to marry into such a family.”
My face must have expressed the fact I didn’t know how to respond.
John’s voice was brittle when he replied. “Yes. I don’t know what that means, either.”
I plastered what I hoped was a sympathetic look onto my face. “Do you want to go to her home this evening, as planned, with Bud and me as reinforcements, to try to find out more? Or did she tell you, categorically, not to come tonight?”
John nibbled his top lip. Finally, his chin lifted, and he straightened his shoulders. His eyes flickered with defiance as he replied, “No, she didn’t mention this evening, specifically. So, yes…yes, I do want to go.”
“Very well then, Bud and I will do all we can to help.”
“And you can pick up the pieces if she won’t budge.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, John…if we come to it.” I reached up and hugged him. “As for now, what about a pot of tea? I could kill for a cuppa. How on earth do you manage without a kettle?”
“Ah, look at this.” John’s still-red eyes shone a little as he pulled open the door to a cupboard which held an assortment of coffee-making paraphernalia, as well as a kettle that looked as though it had been designed by someone who’d grown up watching 1950s sci-fi films and had developed a deep-seated love of chrome.
“Excellent.”
As John set about making tea, I couldn’t help but wonder what an evening celebrating the life of a dead man, whose demise seemed to have adversely affected at least two of his children, held for us. I also had no idea how Bud and I could possibly help John in his current situation. I’m a professor of criminal psychology, so I’ve always studied those whose psyches and actions deviate from the norm. However, I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to relationships…as witnessed by the fact I’d gone so far as to migrate to Canada well over a decade earlier to escape the hounding of the British tabloids which continued even after I’d been completely cleared of killing my abusive ex-boyfriend, Angus. I reminded myself I’d also spent many of the intervening years building a reputation as something of an expert in profiling victims of crime, as opposed to criminals. Was there anything in my arsenal that would be useful when dealing with a probably-grieving woman who was breaking the heart of someone I knew and respected a great deal? I felt a little at sea, and I can’t swim, so that’s never a good feeling for me.
“Tell me more about Bella – and her family,” I said. It seemed to be the best thing to do.
John leaned on the counter. “She’s wonderful, Cait.”
I smiled. “So you said. Really, tell me about her, John. Clearly you have strong feelings for her – but tell me some facts. Who was her father, for example? What about her siblings? Go on – just the facts, sir, just the facts.” I mugged an American accent, but John looked puzzled. I added, “Joe Friday? Dragnet? Nothing?”
John shook his head. “You’ve been away from here too long, Cait.”
“In my defense, Dragnet was a hugely successful television series in the 1950s, well before my time, but the repeats ran here for years. You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.”
John turned to pour water into the teapot. “Well, I’ve heard of it, but don’t know anything about it.”
I realized there was little point pursuing the matter. “Never mind, just tell me all about Bella and her family.”
“Biscuits? I’ve got some shortbread fingers.”
I nodded. “Yes please. And facts…”
John managed a smile. “I give in! Okay – Bella is Bella Quiller. Izabel, on her birth certificate. Married – briefly, when she was quite young – to a chap named Brian Quiller, who’s rather well-known as a designer of theatrical productions. She was Quiller when she started to make her mark in her own field, so – with his agreement – she’s continued with her use of the name, even though they’ve been divorced for years. Her father was Oleg Asimov. Have you heard of him?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Fill me in.”
“The Asimovs came to London in the early twentieth century with nothing. Literally nothing. Bella’s great-grandfather settled in Spitalfields…you know, here in London…and set about making some sort of life for himself. By the time his first son was born, the Asimovs owned a boarding house; by the time his third son – Bella’s grandfather – was born, they owned a dozen. From then on, the family grew its business of buying houses, doing them up, and renting them out. Bella’s great-grandfather was – by her account – a juggernaut of a man, and he became known not just for his refusal to take no for an answer, but also as something of a wit, and raconteur. He began to move in some elevated circles, and was able to leverage his connections to his, and his family’s, advantage. All three of his sons were bright, all won scholarships, and attended some of the best schools in the country. Bella’s grandfather took over the running of the family business, and by the time Bella’s father – an only child – was a young boy, the Asimovs were well placed to take full advantage of the post-war building boom, as contractors. Her grandfather had made some excellent connections at the school he’d attended, you see. Old school tie, and all that.” John winked, knowingly.
Sadly, I recalled only too well how poorly a working-class girl from Wales had been treated by that very same “network” when she’d arrived in London to build a life and career for herself almost thirty years back. It was the first time I’d encountered the titanium mesh that binds together those who’ve endured the particular brand of cruelty and indoctrination that’s the stock-in-trade of the English public school system.
John looked a little puzzled – probably because I was frowning as I remembered any number of slights I’d endured back in those days – then pressed on. “So, you see, Bella grew up in a well-respected, extremely wealthy family with ties to many of the great landowners in London and its environs – so pretty much everyone with a title. In less than a hundred years, the Asimovs became utterly integrated into the upper echelons of English society.”
“Is that the public version of the family’s history, or the private one?” I was curious.
John glanced at the teapot as he replied, “My investigations haven’t been able to uncover much else – though Bella’s grandfather and father were both rumored to be pretty good at sharp practice, if not men who were ever known to have actually crossed the line to illegality. Bella’s father was also a significant supporter of Shakespeare…not exactly a scholar, but he put some money onto getting the Globe Theatre rebuilt, and he set up, and funded, a scheme that takes the Bard’s plays into schools – the ones where the children might not otherwise have a chance to see them in a real theater.”
Philanthropy is alive and kicking in the twenty-first century, I thought. “How benevolent of him,” I replied.
“Bella says the only thing of any real importance the public has no idea about is how utterly toxic her father was as a person. That’s why she chose to have so little to do with him; she was afraid he’d poison her life. Before his death – before she even knew he was dying – she said he was so difficult to live with that none of his wives could stand him for long. As I said earlier, I never met the man, so can’t comment, but the record might bear out Bella’s words. Oleg had four wives: his first died in childbirth, as did the child; his second was the mother of Bella and her sister Sasha, they divorced, and Bella’s mother died some years ago – five or six, I believe; the third was the mother of Bella’s half-brother, Charles – they also divorced, but she remarried…a chap with even more money that Oleg, Bella tells me, and she’s now some sort of countess living in the south of France; the fourth gave Oleg no children, but they divorced nonetheless. You might have heard of her: Felicity Sampson.”
“The model?” Even though I’d never followed the society or “what to wear this season” pages – because I firmly believe the fashion police should be lined up against a wall and forced to show us what they all wore when they were teens – even I knew of Felicity Sampson…the fashionista “IT” girl about thirty years ago, usually snapped by the paparazzi while falling out of a taxi at four in the morning, draped over the arm of some young blade with a title and a pot of money.
“So-called model,” replied John disdainfully, as he poured my tea. “Reckons she’s an ‘influencer’ nowadays. Though goodness knows who would want to be influenced by her. On the occasions I’ve met her she’s struck me as vacuous and more than a little hedonistic. She might be well-connected, and even high-born, but she’s lived most of her life as a C-list celebrity, rather than being a productive member of society. Not that I know a great deal about her, of course, but Bella’s known her since she was quite young; Felicity was a friend of the family long before she became the fourth Mrs. Oleg Asimov.”
I reached for the plate of shortbread biscuits as I allowed my tea to cool. “But you say Bella had little to do with her father during his life?” I asked a question I hoped would lead to a long answer so I could enjoy my biscuit.
“Bella and Sasha, and Charles of course, were away at school for years,” began John. “Cheltenham and Eton, respectively.”
Oh, the delights of moving in circles where the assumption is that all children go to boarding school, was what I thought. “Of course,” was what I mumbled through crumbs.
“They were spared her father’s oversight for most of their young lives – Bella’s words – then they each struck out on their own at university and their follow-through careers. Well, Charles didn’t take the university route; he’s a hairdresser. Some might say the hairdresser. More rock star than coiffeur. Heard of Charles A?”
I shook my head. “Not big on hairdressers,” I muttered. If only you knew…I’ve cut my own hair since my twenties, following a disastrous experiment with high- and low-lights for which I still haven’t quite forgiven the entire profession.
“Well, Charles is a big noise in London society, too. Bella seems to like him alright – says he’s mainly harmless – but, I tell you, he’s the most aggressively heterosexual hairdresser I’ve ever encountered. Known for ‘dating’ any female with a title, a nicely padded bank account, or possibly just a pulse…single, or married. He’s annoyingly flamboyant, and women tell me he’s irresistibly raffish and good-looking. Personally, I don’t understand what they all see in him – I reckon he’s overcompensating for something, though I don’t know what.”
Possibly an unhappy childhood, packed off to board with the well-heeled but not necessarily super-bright? Was what I thought. “Hmm…” was what I said.
“Anyway, Sasha did her thing, and Bella did hers,” continued John. “Bella studied jewellery design at university, then got her goldsmithing qualifications. You must have heard of Bella Zoloto. Bella’s a brand, as well as a person.”
I felt I was letting John down shockingly when I had to shake my head again. By way of explanation, I waggled my hands in the air. “Just the wedding and engagement rings, and a watch. That’s it. Oh, and a few pairs of serviceable earrings. You know what I’m like, John; just not the flash jewelry type.”
John looked a little hurt.
I tutted inwardly. Foot in mouth, Cait. “Sorry. I don’t mean to suggest your fiancée panders to a clientele that should favor something more significant than personal adornment. It’s just not my thing – hence the lack of knowledge. I’m assuming Bella designs gold jewellery, thus zoloto, the Russian word for gold. Playing on her heritage?”
John nodded. “She’s got such a good eye. Her designs have won awards, you know.” I didn’t, but made every effort to look impressed. “She designed this,” he added.
John surprised me by opening two buttons of his shirt. I was even more taken aback to see he was sporting a large gold medallion on a heavy chain. I didn’t have my handbag with me, nor, therefore, my reading cheats, so I squinted at his chest.
“Is that a centaur?”
John’s chin lifted. “She said that’s how she sees me – man and beast in perfect harmony.” He rebuttoned his shirt.
Too much information! I thought. “Very nice,” was what came out of my mouth. “She’s obviously a talented designer – it’s a beautiful piece.”
John rubbed the precious object through his shirt. “She is, and it is. She’s known for individual pieces like this – commissioned work is her primary passion. Though the Bella Zoloto brand exists to allow people with a bit less cash to own something she’s designed, even if it hasn’t been made by her. She has a workshop where those pieces are made by a team she oversees, and her own private facilities at her home.”
“Quite the businesswoman,” I observed.
“Not really – she’s an artist in the true sense of the word, so she mostly sticks to the creative aspects, with a bit of quality control too – it’s Sasha who’s the brains behind the brand. Got her father’s ability with numbers, has Sasha…so says Bella, in any case. Sasha’s a big-wig in PR. She and her husband run their own agency. Lobbyists. You were in that line of work yourself, once, weren’t you, Cait?”
I nodded. It seemed like another person had lived that life. Anything “BA” feels that way to me: “Before Angus” and my time at Cambridge, my world – and possibly I, myself – had been so different.
I snapped out of it. “Yes, I was, though more on the advertising side, rather than lobbying,” I replied. A cog rolled into place. “I worked with a woman named Asimov. Though she was Alex Asimov, not Sasha.”
“Really?” John stared at me, open-mouthed, across his cup of tea. “Bella’s sister’s proper name is Alexandra…though she’s always been called Sasha within the family. Nowadays she’s Tavistock. Of Tavistock and Tavistock PR. Sasha’s professional name is Alex. Alex Tavistock. So, you know Sasha? Gosh. Small world, eh?”
I sipped my scalding tea carefully as I recalled Alex Asimov when she and I had been at The Townsend Agency all those years ago; we were there at the same time, but had never worked on the same client accounts. She’d been pompous, and not as good at her job as she’d thought, despite the fact she was – invariably, and annoyingly – first into, and last out of, the office. Cold eyes, whip-thin, and a tongue as sharp as a scimitar. I wondered if she’d changed, then hoped she had, for John’s sake…she might be just about to become his sister-in-law, after all.
“She always put in the hours,” I said. It was the most charitable comment I could summon. “Did she marry someone in the business. Oh, hang on…not Piers Tavistock? Is she married to Piers Tavistock?” Please say no!
“Don’t tell me you know Piers too?” John beamed. “Yes, they run their own agency. Together. How wonderful you know them both. This might help, Cait. There’ll be quite a different atmosphere when we get there this evening if you already know Bella’s sister and brother-in-law.”
John seemed genuinely heartened, and set down his cup onto his saucer like a man who’d just quaffed the elixir of eternal youth.
I forced myself to smile. The last time I’d seen Piers Tavistock had been at the party thrown for me when I’d left the agency. He’d launched himself at me in the ladies’ toilets in the pub, and I’d had to fight him off with my handbag. It was at that point – just as I was thwacking him across the head while he drunkenly fumbled with my blouse – that Alex had walked in on us. She’d thrown a glass of red wine in my face, grabbed Piers, and hustled him back into the crowded bar…calling me a slut over her shoulder, loud enough for everyone to hear.
That was the last I’d ever seen of the pair of them and wasn’t at all sure how reacquainting myself with them would turn out…but I thought it best to not bring John down from his happy little cloud by mentioning it.
“Probably best I wake Bud,” I said, having checked my watch. John nodded and I padded away. Bud would have to get by with just a little less sleep than we’d planned; I needed to bring him up to speed with what the evening might hold for us.
Bud’s earlier use of the term “muddy waters” echoed through my thoughts.