The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [99]
They chose wood-fired pizzas from the menu and a bottle of Nebbiolo from Peimonte.
The restaurant was packed and Paul scanned it inconspicuously, pointing out to Stevie the faces he knew: ‘That’s the captain of the Blue Bulls polo team with his players. The large man at the end is the patron, he’s from Zurich, his wife is the tiny blonde in white jeans . . . The couple in motorcycle leathers are from Hamburg—he is in biotech, regulars at the Palace . . . That table is mostly Australians, very rich, all here for the polo and a bit of skiing . . .’
‘What about those two women over there,’ Stevie raised her chin in their direction. ‘The well-groomed women with the diamonds and the designer jeans . . .’
‘Where?’
‘Sitting by the entrance, late twenties, early thirties, perfect hair— one’s blonde the other dark.’
Paul darted a quick glance in the direction Stevie had indicated.
‘Oh yes. Their names are Tara and Tatiana—I’m not sure which is which.
They come together every year: Swiss finishing school, jobs in London, up here husband-hunting every season. There are a few like them. They move their activities to the Riviera in summer.’
‘Is it that hard for them to “capture” these husbands?’ Stevie asked, amused. ‘They’re very attractive women . . . but I suppose love can elude anyone.’
‘They’re after a mega-rich husband, Stevie. They won’t look at anyone else.’
The waiter brought the wine. Paul waited until he left the table
before continuing. ‘Those girls want to be treated like princesses—literally to have everything done for them and be showered with expensive gifts and be flown around the world on a private jet. But the trouble is, the decent fellows can sense it and stay away. Those men are not flash enough for these girls anyway. The playboys and oligarchs who are like that, well, they want the eighteen-year-old supermodel from Vladivostok who looks stunning and is kept happy with furs and handbags.’ He took a small sip of his wine. ‘Why would those men want a demanding woman who is clearly after marriage, and whom they would see as past her use-by date anyway?’
‘That’s a rather awful way to put it, Paul.’
‘Perhaps I seem a bit harsh, but I see the girls ever year at the hotel. I see how they behave towards anyone who isn’t “someone” to them. Those women are the architects of their own unhappiness. I find it hard to feel sorry for them.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Paul, but in my experience matters of the heart are usually very complicated.’
Stevie here was thinking acutely of her own confusion over men—Joss. Paul knew the whole story but was too tactful to bring it up directly.
Paul took another careful sip of his wine and looked at Stevie.
‘Oh, I would agree with you on matters of the heart, but we are talking about matters of the wallet. Those are rarely complicated.’
Stevie studied the women for a moment, noticed how their eyes darted to the door every time a new face walked in, the way they watched the room and not each other as they spoke. Paul was right.
‘So,’ Paul pressed his fingertips together, as was his habit. ‘What business brings you to St Moritz?’
Stevie hesitated. Paul was an invaluable ally but she felt uncertain about disclosing the name of her clients, even to him. It wasn’t very professional.
Paul smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll guess and we can talk hypothetically. That would be alright, wouldn’t it?’
Stevie nodded, relieved.
‘So, my guess would be you are here to look after Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle, who are undoubtedly coming in for the polo and Yudorov’s party. I make this guess based on an article that was front page in our local village magazine last week that proudly announced these same facts.’
‘If you were right, Paul, I’d have to be on the look-out for all sorts of troublemakers, wouldn’t you say? After all that publicity?’
Paul agreed. ‘Certainly anything that couple does makes a splash—especially in a small resort—and