32

It turns out that Brad is staying in the Royal Bolshoi Plaza, which is considerably plusher than my hotel, so in some ways I’m not even lying about how nice it would be to have some proper luxury. The staff here are well groomed and slick, and none of them bats an eyelid as we walk past the desk. I’m sure in my hotel there would have been a hint of a sneer at least, after their snotty non-welcome when I checked in.

Brad calls the lift using his key card, then extends a hand as the doors slide open.

‘After you, honey,’ he says, with a wink.

I get a strange little chill, then. Not sure why. But something makes me think that ‘Brad’ – if that’s even his name – has done this before. The way he’d ‘rescued’ me and brought me back here seemed a little too easy. Or maybe that’s just because of my own messed-up head. If I hadn’t passed out like that, I fully intended to swipe at least one of those babushka dolls. Not because I even want one, but because I’d enjoyed the thrill of the earlier shoplifting and fancied another buzz.

The effects of the vodka have worn off now, and it doesn’t appear that Brad has tried to drug me … yet. I’m in dire need of another lift. I’m running on fumes now. I don’t even know when I last ate.

I purposely turn my back to the mirror in the lift because I don’t really want to see myself right now, and I’m amused but not surprised that Brad uses the thirty seconds or so until we reach his floor to check himself out.

What exactly does he want from me?

Someone like him – good-looking, money, flash hotel – if he wants a bit of rough he could pay for one better than me. I could be anyone. He clearly has no qualms at all about inviting strange women into his room.

He grins at me, as if reading my mind. ‘You’re probably thinking I do this sort of thing all the time, but I don’t, honestly.’ The doors slide open and he gestures for me to step out, then he follows and the doors slide shut again. ‘In fact,’ he continues, taking his key card back out of his pocket again, ‘I’m happy to leave you in the room to have a bath or whatever. I can go down to the bar. Come and join me whenever you like.’

He turns left along the corridor, and I follow. The walls are papered with a shimmering gold. The burgundy carpet, adorned with a gold crested pattern, is soft and spongy beneath the thin soles of my boots. It’s been a while since I’ve worn anything other than hiking boots or thick, rubber-soled sandals. I’m not used to feeling the surfaces that I’m walking on.

When we reach his room, he swipes the card and the sensor glows green. The door opens with a little click, and I follow him inside. The far side of the room is floor-to-ceiling windows with an incredible view of the river, and the park beyond.

Half of me wonders if he was watching me from here, then hurried down when he saw I was in distress. Is this the kind of thing that Brad would do? Given that I don’t know him at all, I have no idea. All I do know – as is now confirmed – is that he is clearly very rich.

‘Make yourself at home,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’ll go downstairs…’

I decide to call his bluff. ‘Thanks so much. I really appreciate this.’ I glance around the room, taking it all in. He has a fancy, slim laptop on the desk. Expensive jackets hang in the wardrobe, the door left open for me to see. ‘I promise I won’t steal anything.’

His grin drops, just for a moment, then it’s back. He laughs, but it sounds hollow. ‘Good one. Actually…’ He sits down on the plush, gold velvet armchair that faces the window. ‘Maybe I’ll stay, if that’s OK with you? I have some work to catch up on. Don’t worry. The bathroom door has a lock.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Maybe he hasn’t done this before. Maybe he is just ridiculously nice and stupidly naïve. I guess I’ll go back to plan A. Not that I had any other.

‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, will it?’ I give him my best come-on smile. ‘Let me go and freshen up. Maybe you can order us something to eat? I’m absolutely starving.’

‘Sure,’ he says, happy again. ‘I’ll get us some champagne too. They have an excellent vintage Krug that goes perfectly with their lobster and caviar platter.’

Of course they do.

‘Whatever you think,’ I say, pulling the bathroom door closed. ‘Oh,’ I call from the other side, ‘and when I come out, you can tell me all about yourself.’

I hear him laugh. ‘You, too, sweetheart. You know I don’t even know your name?’

After a very brief pause, I reply. ‘It’s Carrie.’

I decide on a shower rather than a bath, and I think about calling on him, asking him to join me, but decide against it. It’s Carrie I think of as I soap my body with the expensive shower gel. It’s Sam’s face that I see when I close my eyes, letting the strong shower jets course over my skin. I work myself into a frenzy, but then I stop, holding back. I need to leave a little bit for Brad.

I rough-dry my hair and comb my fingers through it, then I use some of Brad’s toothpaste to finger-brush my teeth, gargling with a cold glass of water to freshen my mouth. I slip on one of the fluffy white robes and give myself a quick glance in the mirror. My skin is pink from the heat; my hair looks better now that it’s damp.

The doorbell goes as I am about to walk out of the bathroom, and I hold back, to let Brad deal with it. I hear the sound of a trolley being wheeled inside, low voices. The door closing again. Then the sound of a bottle chinking in ice, and I open the door.

Brad is in his underpants, running a finger under the foil on the champagne bottle. His eyes flick up to my face, then down the robe, and he tilts his head to one side – then holds up a hand and opens two fingers, grins.

I run a hand down the front of the robe and prise it open, just a little. Not enough for him to see anything. Not yet. He’s going to have to do better than that. But it was enough to confirm my earlier suspicions. He has definitely done this before. He is confident bordering on arrogant, and he is trying to hide it under a ‘knight in shining armour’ façade. Suddenly, I have a flashback to the room in Irkutsk – Sergei’s grunting face as he pounded himself into Carrie; Carrie too weak from that stupid drug she’d smoked to fight him off. A wave of revulsion skitters over my skin, leaving goose bumps. The robe falls open to the waist.

Brad grins, holding up the bottle, and the cork pops.

What a fucking cliché.

I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t be here. I was supposed to be careful, after what happened in Irkutsk. I was supposed to keep a low profile. Keep myself to myself. I shouldn’t be getting involved with anyone else.

I should not be in this room.

Brad pours the champagne into two flutes and takes a step towards me. He hands out one of the flutes to me, and holds the other aloft. ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘To you, Carrie.’ It’s the way he says it. The way he doesn’t believe that it’s my name. ‘Isn’t this just perfect?’

Then he makes a fatal mistake.

He turns away to look out of the window. Still trying to impress me, with this view that he has bought, before he plies me with champagne and caviar, and makes me suck his filthy cock. You’re just the same as the others, aren’t you, Brad?

I swing the champagne bottle like a baseball bat, at the perfect spot on the back of his head. He literally doesn’t know what’s hit him. He falls to his knees, still gripping the flute, and then he tips forwards, his hands thrust in front of him, and there is a strange gurgling sound as his face hits the floor. He starts, as if he’s been electrocuted, or is having some sort of a fit, and an arc of blood jets out from under him.

It takes me a moment to realise that he has landed on the flute and that it has smashed under him, impaling him like a chunk of chicken on a skewer.