Private Lives

‘Amy matters to me,’ she said softly.

‘Whatever,’ he replied, looking unconvinced as he summoned the waiter to fetch the bill.

59

Anna had never been one of those little girls who wanted to go to ballet lessons or tap dance class. That was much more Sophie’s thing: amateur productions of Annie or solo spots in the school choir. All of which explained why Anna was particularly anxious tonight as she stood outside the Royal Opera House waiting for Johnny Maxwell: acting was not her forte. When she had introduced herself at the Chelsea Heights party, she had haltingly told Johnny that her name was Natasha and that she was a researcher at the Royal Academy, currently writing a paper on Canova. She had felt a wave of relief when Johnny had declared himself a complete dunce who knew nothing whatsoever about sculpture. Anna didn’t like to say that clearly he knew more than she did, as she had thought Canova was a painter. Either way, he seemed to buy the cover story, and they had discussed appreciation of the human form, which Johnny had clearly taken to mean that Anna-stroke-Natasha was up for a spot of Spin the Bottle or whatever happened at the Swann parties.

Anna looked anxiously up and down the road. Where was he? They had arranged to meet at seven, and it was a quarter past already.

‘Natasha, darling!’

Anna turned to see a man with white hair hanging out of a black cab window.

‘Over here, darling,’ he called, opening the door. ‘I’ve been screaming at you for an aeon.’

‘Sorry, Johnny,’ she said, stepping inside as elegantly as she could in her sexy academic costume of tight pencil skirt and sheer stockings. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Thinking about Canova, no doubt. What on earth are you doing working on a Sunday anyway?’

‘An academic’s life is busy, busy.’ She smiled nervously.

‘Well you’re here now,’ he said, taking her in with an appreciative smile. Anna had clearly hit the right note with her five-inch heels and a push-up bra under her crisp white shirt, like a naughty secretary. She’d guessed that subtlety was not required at this stage. Johnny himself was dressed like a country squire in a green and blue checked suit and shiny riding boots and holding a large lit cigar, despite the ‘No Smoking’ signs.

‘Natasha, meet Tanika,’ he said breezily, waving a hand towards a lithe blonde perched on the swing-down seat in the corner. Anna hadn’t expected any other passengers and was momentarily thrown, until Johnny whispered behind his hand, ‘Estonian, doesn’t speak any English, so we can say what we like.’ Anna nodded politely to the girl, who merely raised her nose and looked out the window. ‘Not the friendliest of girls,’ sniffed Johnny. ‘But I rather think the chaps like the mute model types who don’t speak. My idea of hell, though, sugar plum.’

The cab moved off into the network of back streets that only London cabbies seemed to know about, making quick progress westwards.

‘So tell me more about yourself, darling,’ said Johnny.

‘Nothing much to tell, I’m afraid,’ said Anna. ‘I go around cataloguing paintings and writing papers about them.’

‘Darling, you’re a female Simon Schama. Gorgeous but brainy, the perfect combination.’

Anna smiled. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘As you can imagine, it’s a rather conservative atmosphere. They would be scandalised if they knew I was in a taxi with a man I hardly knew.’

He looked at her shrewdly.

‘And tell me, Natasha, what are you expecting from tonight?’

‘Whatever the night brings,’ said Anna, doing her best to sound sophisticated.

‘Splendid,’ smiled Johnny. ‘I do so hate it when I bring girls out to the house only to find they’re treating it like a posh version of some online dating agency. Most of our gentlemen partygoers are available, if you follow my drift, but back in Civvy Street you may find they have – shall we say – prior arrangements.’

‘Married, you mean?’ said Anna, shrugging. ‘I’m not looking to settle down, Johnny, I’m just here to . . .’ she paused and gave a little smile, ‘to have a good time.’

He grinned and squeezed her knee. ‘I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

Anna had spent the afternoon reading up on the art of the Renaissance in case she was asked about her background, but she need not have bothered. Clearly Johnny’s job was simply to provide the Swann set with suitable willing girls – ‘companions, not sluts’, as he had put it – not to do a thorough security check on them, and anyway, he was far more interested in talking about Johnny Maxwell and his pivotal role at the centre of society.

‘So who owns the house?’

‘James Swann,’ he said distractedly.

‘And how do you know him?’

‘We went to Eton together. He’s a very smart man. The party I’m taking you to, people would kill for an invite.’

‘How so?’