The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [98]
the middle of the shop, small and in flat-soled boots, it felt a bit like being caught in a feeding frenzy of flamingos.
Minutes later, having literally stripped the racks bare, the girls gaily produced massive wads of cash. The shop assistant’s eyes opened even wider. They left a pile of notes as thick as a dictionary at the register and swept out like a laughing hurricane.
Stevie was quick to follow. She watched them rush into Dior, giggling. One girl almost tripped in her heels with eagerness. They didn’t have the faces or the clothes of little rich girls, and they were far too easy with the money for it to be their own hard-earned cash.
Rich boyfriends, thought Stevie, bankrolling a shopping spree before the party tomorrow night . . . Very rich, she added, as she saw several trying on some evening gowns which cost well into the several thousands. She wondered who all these girls had come with.
Paul will know, she thought, and headed for the lobby.
‘They all arrived last night,’ said Paul, pressing the tips of his perfectly manicured fingers together. ‘The assistant manager was a little suspicious at first. The girls didn’t seem to know where they were— they hadn’t brought any luggage and they were dressed in very skimpy clothes, and no coats.’
The waiter brought a bottle of Roederer on ice. Paul opened it himself and poured two glasses. ‘It turns out they were guests of Alexander Nikolaievitch Yudorov. They said they were visiting some friends of his who have taken suites on the eighth floor.’ He arched an eyebrow.
‘They’re still visiting.’
Paul raised his glass. ‘It’s good to see you, Stevie.’
She smiled warmly at him. ‘It’s good to see you, Paul.’
Paul was one of the few gentle men she knew, soft-spoken, always perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place and smelling of Hermes orange blossom water. He was a very kind man and extremely good at his job.
‘The guests the girls are visiting are three gentlemen from Russia.’
His voice was smooth and low, impossible for anyone to overhear. ‘They were down earlier this afternoon in the shopping arcade. They bought watches and diamonds—all paid in cash. The shop had never seen anything like it, and they make a lot of sales. This is St Moritz.’
‘What are the staff saying?’
Paul leaned in discreetly. ‘The boutique owners love them; everyone else hates them. It is as you would imagine: rude in restaurants, rude to the maids, throwing money about . . . vulgar.’ He whispered the last word. Stevie kept her smile to herself—vulgarity was the worst offence in Paul’s well-bred eyes.
‘In any case,’ he sat back and neatly crossed his legs, ‘the Swiss authorities are keeping an eye on the situation but there is nothing illegal about all the girls in the suites, nor spending money. But I prefer to have them watched—for the safety and wellbeing of my other guests mainly.’
Stevie and Paul finished their aperitif and walked out into the night. The sky was heavy with cloud as they made their way through the old town. Chesa Veglia was an old farmhouse with simple food and a converted hayloft from where diners could watch the goings-on at the longer tables below.
Paul sighed as they were shown to their small table in the loft.
‘The Chesa will be ruined soon. Word has got around that Princess Caroline dined here twice last week and now the hordes all want to come. I’ve had fifteen requests for reservations today from people who would usually shun the pizza oven and bare wood walls of this place.
Ah, les temps changent.’
Stevie took his hand and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Paul. It’s not forever. Your Russians are just the latest wave of wealth to hit Swiss shores. Don’t you remember the Arab boom? The Japanese? You said the same thing to me each time then. It’s people who change, not places. If everyone preserves what they hold dear, it won’t disappear.’
Paul shook his head mournfully. ‘Stevie, I think you underestimate the power of money to corrupt. These people come from a country where it is possible to buy