darting down out of the trees to swing back in a pale blur as it swooped down on the lure the falconer was swinging.
An hour later, as Amber and Tony’s helicopter rose from the helipad, she looked down at the castle and had a momentary sense of what the falcon and the hawks must see, how free they must feel for that short time they were unhooded, free to fly. The noise of the whirring blades drowned out everything else: she loved helicopters for exactly that reason. Settling back into the hand-stitched leather seat, she stroked the walnut panelling on the door with her finger. It was a Bentley.
Only the best for Tony. A Bentley four-seater helicopter, a five-star luxury hotel with its own falconer and fishing lake. And so that her luggage would be the best, too, he’d bought her a matched set of Vuitton suitcases, some of which were stacked in the seat next to her: the weekender, the garment bag and the vanity case, an adorable, hard-sided oval with padded leather straps inside to hold all her creams and lotions and perfumes standing up. Amber gazed at it lovingly.
Fifty minutes later, the Bentley set down at the Battersea heliport, the pilot jumping down to hand out Amber and carry her luggage to the limo parked a short distance away. Tony kissed her goodbye.
‘I’m heading straight off, babe,’ he said. ‘Hopping over to Stansted to catch a ride back to the States with some oil guys on their Gulfstream. The car’ll take you home, or wherever you want to go. And, hey –’ he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he pressed into her hand – ‘I know Jared takes care of bookings for you, but I wanted to give you an extra present. You deserve it, OK? Pick yourself up something really nice.’ He grinned at her. ‘My fantasy girl. I’ll see you soon, babe.’
He stroked her cheek wistfully, sighed, and swung round, striding back to the helicopter, raising a hand to her in farewell. Amber climbed into the limo without looking back. The weekend was over.
‘Green Street,’ she said to the driver, and slid open the minibar as the car smoothly pulled out onto the road. Selecting a gold shiny bottle of Pommery Pop, she pulled off the foil and untwisted the wire, popping the cork, pouring the champagne into an equally chilled glass. She washed a couple of Xanax down with the fizz before she slid a manicured nail under the flap of the envelope and prised it open.
She always needed a little Dutch courage for this moment. Reaching for her glass, she took another long sip.
Fifty-pound notes. Probably three grand worth. And that was just the tip; Tony had paid her modelling agent much more than that for her company this weekend.
By the time the limo took a right off Park Lane, in Mayfair, onto Green Street, Amber had finished the Pommery and was feeling much better. The limo driver carried her bags through the marble-tiled hall and into the lift. The apartment she currently rented was the top two floors of this Georgian house, and it was exquisitely decorated, with pale yellow walls and polished wood floors. The lower floor was a huge living room overlooking Green Street, with a luxurious kitchen and dining room at the back. Upstairs were two bedrooms with Turkish travertine ensuite bathrooms, and a roof terrace above with a patio heater and trellised gazebo covered in trailing wisteria. The estate agent had described it as superb for entertaining, which was ironic, as Amber hadn’t had anyone visit the entire two years she had lived here.
‘ Matka! I’m home!’ she called, wheeling in her cases.
‘Amber? I didn’t expect you this early!’ her mother exclaimed.
Slava was, as always, ensconced in front of the TV in the kitchen. The living room was furnished with a set of brocade sofas and armchairs around an elaborately carved coffee table. The apartment had been rented furnished, and the decorators had added the final touches: arrangements of dried flowers and blown-glass spheres in the
An hour later, as Amber and Tony’s helicopter rose from the helipad, she looked down at the castle and had a momentary sense of what the falcon and the hawks must see, how free they must feel for that short time they were unhooded, free to fly. The noise of the whirring blades drowned out everything else: she loved helicopters for exactly that reason. Settling back into the hand-stitched leather seat, she stroked the walnut panelling on the door with her finger. It was a Bentley.
Only the best for Tony. A Bentley four-seater helicopter, a five-star luxury hotel with its own falconer and fishing lake. And so that her luggage would be the best, too, he’d bought her a matched set of Vuitton suitcases, some of which were stacked in the seat next to her: the weekender, the garment bag and the vanity case, an adorable, hard-sided oval with padded leather straps inside to hold all her creams and lotions and perfumes standing up. Amber gazed at it lovingly.
Fifty minutes later, the Bentley set down at the Battersea heliport, the pilot jumping down to hand out Amber and carry her luggage to the limo parked a short distance away. Tony kissed her goodbye.
‘I’m heading straight off, babe,’ he said. ‘Hopping over to Stansted to catch a ride back to the States with some oil guys on their Gulfstream. The car’ll take you home, or wherever you want to go. And, hey –’ he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he pressed into her hand – ‘I know Jared takes care of bookings for you, but I wanted to give you an extra present. You deserve it, OK? Pick yourself up something really nice.’ He grinned at her. ‘My fantasy girl. I’ll see you soon, babe.’
He stroked her cheek wistfully, sighed, and swung round, striding back to the helicopter, raising a hand to her in farewell. Amber climbed into the limo without looking back. The weekend was over.
‘Green Street,’ she said to the driver, and slid open the minibar as the car smoothly pulled out onto the road. Selecting a gold shiny bottle of Pommery Pop, she pulled off the foil and untwisted the wire, popping the cork, pouring the champagne into an equally chilled glass. She washed a couple of Xanax down with the fizz before she slid a manicured nail under the flap of the envelope and prised it open.
She always needed a little Dutch courage for this moment. Reaching for her glass, she took another long sip.
Fifty-pound notes. Probably three grand worth. And that was just the tip; Tony had paid her modelling agent much more than that for her company this weekend.
By the time the limo took a right off Park Lane, in Mayfair, onto Green Street, Amber had finished the Pommery and was feeling much better. The limo driver carried her bags through the marble-tiled hall and into the lift. The apartment she currently rented was the top two floors of this Georgian house, and it was exquisitely decorated, with pale yellow walls and polished wood floors. The lower floor was a huge living room overlooking Green Street, with a luxurious kitchen and dining room at the back. Upstairs were two bedrooms with Turkish travertine ensuite bathrooms, and a roof terrace above with a patio heater and trellised gazebo covered in trailing wisteria. The estate agent had described it as superb for entertaining, which was ironic, as Amber hadn’t had anyone visit the entire two years she had lived here.
‘ Matka! I’m home!’ she called, wheeling in her cases.
‘Amber? I didn’t expect you this early!’ her mother exclaimed.
Slava was, as always, ensconced in front of the TV in the kitchen. The living room was furnished with a set of brocade sofas and armchairs around an elaborately carved coffee table. The apartment had been rented furnished, and the decorators had added the final touches: arrangements of dried flowers and blown-glass spheres in the
Similar Books
