The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [47]
She thought about Petra. Someone had told a story about Natalia Vodianova, Russia’s most famous supermodel, who had returned home to Nizhny Novgorod for a visit with her husband. She had gone out to a restaurant and a girl had tried to throw acid in her face. Petra had thought the story funny.
Had Petra known Anya was going to be kidnapped? Anya had run over it a thousand times but she found it too hard to believe. Petra was not evil; she was just weak. Maybe being weak made it easier to do evil things.
Anya shook her head. She didn’t want to think about her. She didn’t want to think about anything. She had cried till her blindfold was soggy so many times. She tried to distract herself by listening even harder to the conversation in the kitchen.
‘We shouldn’t even be arguing about this, Gregori.’ Tamara was in full flight. Anya could tell she was smoking as she shouted.
‘We’re not fighting, Tamara my darling.’ Gregori tried to soothe the savage beast. ‘Not fighting. I just can’t believe a handbag could be worth that much and—’
‘It shows how ignorant you are. It’s not an ordinary handbag—it’s a Birkin bag.’
‘But Tamara, my darling, it costs $85,000—’ ‘It has pavé diamonds on the handle.’
‘You have beautiful bags—what about all the other ones I bought you that you had to have?’
The air crackled with fury.
Gregori again, placating. ‘Tamara, if we do the whole thing ourselves, maybe we can get much more—’ ‘Gregori, you will only screw it up like you screw up everything. Have you even read the statistics? Ninety-eight per cent of these things go wrong at the handover—it’s by far the most dangerous and difficult part. Do you really think you can beat the odds? Frankly, I don’t and—’ There was something muffled Anya couldn’t quite make out and then the voices became clear again.
‘—cash is a sure thing and there is zero risk.’
‘I’m thinking of our future, Tamuschka. We could buy a small house in the country and—’ ‘I don’t want to live in the fucking country! I want a Birkin bag.’
Anya almost felt pity for Gregori at that point. Almost. Tamara was a horrible woman. She wondered if they were talking about her. They always seemed to be buying and selling and trading something. Probably stolen goods.
She heard Gregori reply, ‘Alright. I’ll call him tonight, Tamuschka. I’ll make him the offer.’
Anya stiffened. Did Gregori mean her father? Was he going to call her father? Her father would pay, and then she could go home. The nightmare would be over.
Irina had a Borshoi hound named Saskia. She was so slender—as Borshois are—that she was hard to see front-on. Her long, ash-brown fur hung like the fringing on a Persian carpet. At one end drooped a melancholic tail; at the other, a slim, pointed face peeped from under stringy ears, small, sad eyes searching the room with a gentleness that was heartbreaking.
‘She’s looking for Anya,’ said Irina. Saskia gave a little whimper at the name before turning herself in a neat circle three times and settling at Stevie’s feet. She laid a hand on the tiny head to comfort the elegant creature and turned to Irina.
‘I’m sorry about Petra. People are capable of the most thoughtless cruelties.’
They were both sitting on the sofa. Irina’s eyes were swollen and scanned the empty grey sky outside, looking for answers.
‘She used to come for dinner occasionally. I preferred to have her here than for Anya to go to Petra’s house. Her parents are different people,’ she told Stevie. ‘They value things because of how much other people want them. Life for them is a competition and they can’t be without the gaze of other people on them. They teach Petra these values.’
Irina refilled their tea glasses from the samovar and laced both with good whisky. It would, she had promised, chase Stevie’s cold away.
‘I remember the morning of the day Anya disappeared, and I remember I was angry at my manicurist because she had overbooked and had to cancel