Luxury

2. How to fix errors of pedigree

Sardinia

​"Oi, you old perv!" – the sound of a mighty slap drowned out the crash of metal against the hard terracotta tile. A silver ice bucket slowly tumbled towards the swimming pool, spilling its contents to melt in the searing Italian sun. Nearby, from beneath the Hotel Cala de Volpe's beach umbrellas, which were shaped like Vietnamese hats, lounging ladies poked out their heads.
​A woman looking like a sack of potatoes interrupted her husband – a hairy hulk of a man – as he gazed at the wooden sunbed where a busty blonde was struggling unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position in which to put her exceedingly long legs.
​Katya Volkova, or, as she called herself, Volkoff, placed her freshly pedicured foot on the smoothly mown grass. A blue thong, adorned with sequins, provoked the imagination of every member of the opposite sex that was looking on.
​"Five more minutes and we'll go to lunch," she barked at Tash.
Not even an affront to her sanctum sanctorum, her 'shrine of piety and virtue' on which she had blown thousands of dollars and years of training, could distract Katya from reading her Daily Mail.
She had spent the last hour clutching her favourite paper, avidly perusing the latest news from the world of the rich and famous. Tash didn't bother her friend, respecting her unalienable constitutional right to love the realm of show business. For summaries of important international events, like the trade war with China or the crisis in Venezuela, Katya relied on Tatler and the New York Post. Of course, she mused, Maduro's got no chance in Venezuela –  just look at Juan Guaido's wife! Katya examined the first lady's outfits, considering what she herself would wear were she to become a first lady. "An entirely possible development, after all." In New York she was a regular at raucous parties and fashion shows, and often cropped up in the society columns. And, best of all, her beloved tabloids routinely featured her on page six, treating their readers to accounts of her latest affairs with the rich and powerful.
"Have a look at this!" She waved the newspaper in front of Tash. "Hugh has ordered another article about Carolina."
Tash grudgingly took the Daily Mail. There was a shoddy picture of their friend Carolina staring at her phone outside a Chanel store, subtitled, "Checking whether I have enough money in my account."
The article itself was a sordid hit piece; a cruel send-up of Carolina, whose affluence had recently been terminated by her husband.
"Why do you read this crap?" Tash disdainfully chucked the newspaper on to the wooden table between them. Only a few days before, Caroline had told her that Mark, like a true gentleman, had stayed over in Monaco after the Grand Prix to help her sort some things out.
"Give it back then!" Katya carefully uncreased the paper and reimmersed herself in its contents. 

*****
The first time Tash saw Katya was at her grandmother's country house. That rainy morning, grandma Hannah came to take Tash away with her because it had all got a bit too hectic and crowded at Tash's. Her mum lay on the bed – her face so white it seemed to have been sprinkled with chalk dust – and strangers were queueing to go up to her and kiss her, which, for some reason, was making them cry. Dad walked them to the train station and wouldn't let Tash out of his arms for a long time. On the train, a scruffy boy in chequered shorts, who was definitely older than her, was running around the carriage shouting, "Give up! You've been defeated!" and waving an imaginary sabre. She'd been taught that she should be quiet in public places and respect other people, so she spent the entire journey looking calmly out of the window and didn't cry even once. When they arrived in Moscow, they took a long ride from the station to Hannah's country house in a yellow taxi. The taxi driver braked sharply just as they were approaching the dacha . . . A tall blond girl, who looked like a fairy, jumped out from under the wheels. She burst into laughter and flew on, chased by a horde of screaming gnomes.

Katya was the darling of the whole village. Tash watched with admiration how deftly she dealt with the boys. She attracted the ones she liked with a single glance and shooed away the others with a single word. Tash worshiped Katya's beauty. Katya was a real 'it girl', worthy of the admiration of all the boys who flocked around her. Tash herself was so ordinary. By a stroke of good fortune she had ended up in what she then considered to be the epicentre of the Universe – the small village of Peredelkino, near Moscow. When one of the local boys started paying attention to her, she couldn't believe that he could be interested in a short girl with thick pigtails, and she ran away blushing. More than anything, she was afraid that they would find out her secret: that she was not one of them; that her mother had died, and she was living in a small town with her dad, "a tramp who started a family without figuring out how to provide for it," as Hannah used to say. A tramp who, furthermore, had saddled her with a stupid name – Tash. "After Natasha Rostova," as he explained.
Tash hated her stubborn curly hair and secretly cut it at the back so her braids wouldn't look so thick. She hated that she was short and too skinny. She envied Katya's straight golden hair, her posture and her grace. Katya reminded her of a beautiful princess from H.C. Andersen's fairy tales.  Tash spent every summer holiday at her grandmother's, and each year she would find in Katya some new features to admire.  But one fine day that worship came to an end . . . She came to Peredelkino and found that Katya had cut her golden hair into a bob. And on that same day, Tash became aware that something else had changed too: in her reflection in the mirror, instead of ugly stubborn curls, she saw shiny brown hair. Now she had something better than what Katya had. But she still couldn't figure out what to do about it. The solution, however, soon presented itself. Lesha was fourteen and the dream of every girl in Peredelkino. For the last two years, Katya and her friend Rita had fought for his attention, winning his favour successively. But this time Lesha chose Tash, who had got much prettier over the winter. She had grown taller and finally unwoven her ridiculous braids. Her skinny body was now curvier, and her eyes sparkled with the devilish twinkle you see in girls who have just crossed the threshold of puberty. Still unaware of her new 'beautiful' status, Tash refused from habit to go on a date. Alex, however, was persistent, and by mid-summer all Peredelkino knew that Alex was in love with Tash. Now even Katya saw Tash in a new light. If Lesha had chosen her it meant she was worthy. One sunny morning, Katya knocked on her door and offered friendship. To Tash's surprise, not only did her terrible secret not alienate Katya, it made their friendship even stronger. Katya decided to take care of her less fortunate friend. As for Lesha, this news plunged him into transports of delight – with a peacock's pride he paid for Tash at the local cafe and took her on excursions all round the city.

With her five feet ten inches, signature bob and highly sought-after androgynous look Katya was a fixture on the runways of Paris and New York for ten years. However, her childhood dreams of real beauty wouldn't leave her in peace and Katya set herself the goal of achieving her ideal. She began to make adjustments to her appearance, got carried away a bit – and, by the time she was through, had chanced to modify almost every part of her body. Model agencies had patiently stood by her through her metamorphoses, but they couldn't forgive her final innovation – breast enlargement to double D. The catwalk was closed to her forever.
Such a dramatic turn of events didn't faze her at all and the busty blonde with a fortune, a wealth of experience, top-model status and a million Instagram followers returned to Moscow for the husband hunt.
 
​​​​*****
After half an hour Katya slowly got up from the sunbed and started pulling on a silk tunic embroidered with rhinestones.
"Get up, you lazy cow, let's go to lunch!" she commanded. Her strong deep voice was better suited to a truck driver than to a sexy model with the face of an angel.
They had been staying at the Stowes' villa in Costa Smeralda for nearly a week now. Nick was a first-class host and, so as not to cramp the independence of his wife's unmarried girlfriends, he'd provided them with a car upon arrival. To Katya, the vintage look of the miniature Fiat Panda 4x4 was a source of incredible delight. She insisted that Tash capture her from every possible angle posing with such a democratic car: in the driver's seat, on the bonnet – she even climbed into the boot. All to convince her millions of Instagram followers that top models were no strangers to the simple pleasures.
 
White linen shorts and a T-shirt highlighted Tash's golden tan. The way her friend managed to get an even bronze tan sitting under an umbrella always amazed Katya. Incredible! Why does everything come so easily to her?
The girls sashayed gracefully to the table. Anna and Nick were sipping cocktails. Nick had thoughtfully chosen a place close to the pool so the girls could talk disparagingly about the other guests more freely. Over the years he'd got used to the amusing company of his wife's unmarried girlfriends. He listened patiently to their endless love stories and was particularly proud when, on occasion, he was called as an expert.
              "Nick," said Tash, "what do you think, if we—" 
"Oh no! Don't turn around." Katya's husky voice stopped Tash in her tracks.
Katya was facing the sea. Her admonition had left Tash no choice but to turn around regardless, whereupon she saw a tender heading to the shore. It took her a split second to make out Alex as one of the figures on board. Yes, it was him.
"Oh no!" she whispered softly. "Is this my fate? To be haunted everywhere I travel by ghosts from my past?"
The mood that had soared with the beautiful weather and the champagne fell immediately flat.
"What do you expect? By a certain age . . ." Nick tactfully paused ". . . and given a certain lifestyle" – he winked and raised an eyebrow, implying that Tash's lifestyle didn't fit into a framework he would himself consider acceptable – "the number of ghosts is bound to significantly exceed the number of possible vacation spots, giving rise to situations such as this one."
He took a sip of chardonnay and held it in his mouth for a second, trying to tie down a new, elusive note. He smiled at his discovery, and at this demonstration of his own cleverness.
Tash's heated retort didn't let him savour the moment for long.
"There is no logic in what you say!"
Her usually soft voice became forceful in only two cases. The first, simply enough, was when she drank too much. The second was more psychological, when she got started on the subject of what Katya called 'complex conclusions' – a particular hobby-horse of hers. As it was still early in the day, Nick was dealing with a psychological episode.
"Even if the number of ghosts exceeds the number of all holiday destinations, the probability of bumping into them in certain places does not depend on their number, but rather on their preferences."
Anna looked around the table. How this petty bickering bored her!
"It seems you both have big problems with logic," she concluded, moving the plates.
But she was wrong.

*****
The train slowed down. A black, faux leather suitcase propped open the compartment door from the vestibule side. A plastic tag depicting Edvard Munch's 'Scream' – signed N. Romanova, in blue ballpoint pen – dangled rhythmically, swaying to and fro with the motion of the train. As the train arrived on track four of Kazan railway station Tash looked through the grimy carriage window, searching for her grandmother Hannah in the crowd.
Today, instead of the usual grunts and educational reproaches, her grandmother greeted her with unexpected warmth. For the first time in her life, Hannah Steiner was proud of her granddaughter. And there was a great deal for her to be proud about! Tash had stepped off the train as a winner - a winner of the National Mathematics Olympiad! And with the victory, she had secured a place at the university. No joke! For years Hannah had been planning to tear Tash free from the clutches of her worthless dad and take charge of her granddaughter's upbringing. Finally the opportunity had presented itself. "I'll have enough time to influence her while she's staying with me. She doesn't have any time to waste! Her loser dad couldn't support his family, he couldn't earn money, and he even dragged the poor girl into that charity nonsense – free courses for the poor, in their shit-hole . . . ! Why would she stay in 'the dump' among beggars when she can dazzle in the city! She's such a beauty! I hope she'll be smarter than her mother and not marry a loser . . ." Hannah patted Tash on the head.
"Let your hair down," she said sternly. "I don't want to see that ponytail ever again. You are a beauty! Don't you dare go wasting it, young girl!"

From the first days of her granddaughter's stay Hannah went on the offensive.
"By the way, Katya got accepted by the modelling agency." A manicurist with bleached hair filed her nails carefully, listening all the while to how Hannah Genrikhovna guided her granddaughter along the one true path.
"Why shouldn't you apply too? You are even prettier that Katya." She cast a critical eye over her granddaughter who was dressed in a simple pyjama set. "Thank God, you got your mother's face." Hannah looked sadly at a photograph of a beautiful young woman hanging in a brown frame above the table. "And I hope you've got my brains. Your parents would never win any Olympiad."
              "Grandma!" Tash sat at the table, right across from her. She swallowed, took a deep breath for courage and quickly blurted out, "Please stop going on about daddy. You know he is trying hard."
              "Have you forgotten? Stop calling me your grandma." Hannah kept a close eye on every move of the new manicurist. "Call me Hannah. Practise at home and you won't mess up in public. How can I possibly have a seventeen-year-old granddaughter when I'm only forty-eight?"
              The peroxided manicurist was about to smirk, but Hannah's icy gaze returned her immediately to her work. Hannah's age was the best-kept secret in the village. Indeed, she looked much younger than her sixty-five. The Hitchcock blonde had never been destined to meet 'the one'. Daddy used to say that Hannah was doomed to loneliness because of her unbearable character.
Her personal life was a skeleton hidden very deep in the darkest family cupboard. Tash knew that Hannah had been born in Western Siberia, where Tash's great-grandmother and great-grandfather, ethnic Germans, had been exiled by Stalin in 1937. In the sixties, they were rehabilitated and returned to Moscow. Despite the hardships, her great-grandfather, a famous biologist, remained a supporter of communism and stayed in the Soviet Union until his dying day – even during 'the thaw', when Soviet Germans emigrated en masse to West Germany. However, the young Hannah left for West Germany in the seventies, immediately after the Treaty of Moscow, between West Germany and the USSR, was signed. Nobody knew what exactly happened in Germany, but two years later Hannah returned to the USSR with a one-year-old daughter, a German passport and a bundle of German marks. She bought an apartment for her parents in the city, and moved to Peredelkino with little Anna in her arms. In the registry office, Tash's mother was recorded as Anna Genrikhovna Steiner, after her grandfather. Over the course of her long life Hannah broke many hearts, but didn't find the right man to share her life with. She gave all her love to her daughter. Anna inherited her mother's beautiful face and impeccable body, but, unlike Hannah, her beauty wasn't refined, but rather wild and free. Hannah dreamed of Anna becoming an actress, a shining star of the Moscow stage and Mosfilm's silver screens. She signed up her daughter to every imaginable art club, speech and acting class. But Anna applied instead to Stroganovka, got pregnant by a classmate – 'the tramp' – in the first year and moved with him to 'the dump' straight after graduation. Hannah couldn't get over her daughter's thoughtless behaviour and refused to accept the union. Only at her daughter's funeral did she finally come up to 'the tramp' and demand that Tash spend all her summer vacations with her. And she got her wish. When the school term finished, Tash moved in with her grandmother.

The agency informed her that she wasn't tall enough for the catwalks – just a couple of centimetres shy – but her face was perfect for magazine and TV advertising. Her German passport also came in handy, giving her a big advantage when it came to getting work in the EU. The prudent Hannah had made sure that all family members, with the exception of 'the tramp', obtained passports.
As Hannah had predicted, the temptations of city life fascinated Tash. She entered her first year at university with the firm intention of working hard, but by the second year she had given herself up completely to a life of partying. Morning lectures were a nightmare after sleepless nights on dance floors – she just slept through them. If she learned the secrets of marketing at all it was thanks to her natural intelligence. The uni, the shoots and the parties provided an inexhaustible source of new acquaintances. And indeed she had the numerous affairs that Nick had hinted at, tactfully alluding to them as 'a certain lifestyle'.
During those first two years she remained diligently under her grandmother's wing. Hannah had all the time she needed to knock her father's 'Samaritan crap' out of Tash's head and replace it with a healthy pragmatism. By the third year Tash was earning enough money to live on her own, skilfully juggling rich boyfriends who were ready to jump through hoops for her. Her beauty had blossomed like a spring flower. 

*****
The first time he saw Tash, Alex immediately decided that this girl had to be his. And he put quite an effort into achieving that goal: regular calls, tons of flowers, planned 'chance' encounters. Tash's girlfriends wasted no time in labelling him 'ideal': young, handsome and rich. Wasn't that the fairy tale?
She had no choice but to surrender. They messaged each other incessantly, spoke five times a day, made joint holiday plans – and he even introduced her to his mother. But one cold December day, out of the blue, Alex ghosted her . . . She accepted his choice, convincing herself that there must have been a pretty good reason.
Nick watched how the poor things – his wife and her friends – tortured themselves with their typical female theories about the ghosting: he'd had an accident; some evil woman had got her claws into him. He finally took pity on the weaker and, therefore, less intelligent sex and decided to lift the veil on the mysterious disappearance.
"Well, he didn't see you as 'the one'!" Nick was trying unsuccessfully to cut an artichoke. "Would you like me to enlighten you? Give away the reasons men ghost?" Tash and Katya held their breath. "Feel free to take notes."
All eyes were on him.
"There are several reasons. Reason one is bad sex. Every man has his own fantasies – if you don't accommodate them, they'll be accommodated somewhere else. The second reason: sex again, but this time it's you who's not happy with the sex. You either complain or you don't express your enthusiasm strongly enough. The third reason: you are trying too hard – but he isn't ready for anything serious and doesn't want to lead you on. Number four: you are overcontrolling and not willing to adapt to his lifestyle. After all, guys want to lead and expect concessions. Reason number" – Nick looked at Katya – "five: you require too much effort. This is very tiring."
Katya smirked. "If they're not interested there's plenty who will be. No one's forcing them."
"Reason six," Nick said calmly, continuing where he left off, "lack of respect. You tell him what to do, and that's emasculating. Reason seven" –  Nick looked at Katya again – "you cadge presents. We love giving presents, but hate when you ask for them."
"You can't generalise . . ." Katya seemed offended. "How else will they understand what they need to give if you don't hint?"
Nick smiled smugly, appreciating the effect of his speech.
"Reason eight: when you take everything for granted and do not express gratitude for his efforts. Reason nine . . ." Nick thought for a second.
"The list here is endless," Tash said. "Don't you think that you've just listed what's important to you?"
He ignored her remark. "Do you want to get married or not? Then, listen."
Anna looked at her husband. He was unique - such a sweetheart. He was as nice to the scaffolder as he was to the Duke; he had an uncanny ability to defuse conflicts and he never got offended.
​"Anna, would you kindly explain to your friends that a man – at least in the beginning – must be praised and cherished and indulged in all his whims." Nick was relishing his role of advice guru to inexperienced women. "Ask my wife how she behaved before we got married, how often she expressed her desires or dissatisfaction." Nick winked at Anna. "Now she's married and got me wrapped round her little finger."
​"Getting a man to marry you is an art, but holding on to him is hard work." Anna was proud of her achievements. Nick sometimes joked that their marriage was a textbook example of how it's first after the wedding that a man finally opens his eyes – and a woman, her mouth.
​"Also don't forget" – Nick smiled at the dark-haired waiter who was refreshing their glasses – "you are in a highly competitive environment. And if you don't do it, someone else will – someone with a strong determination to get married, like my precious wife had." Nick kissed Anna on the cheek. "These determined ones master everything so skilfully that a man doesn't know what's hit him till he's walking down the aisle."
​Tash summarised the lecture. "Okay, I've got the idea: I will cherish and admire and smile like an idiot!" Everyone burst out laughing.

*****
​Alex walked on the smoothly mown emerald-green grass. Captain Luca, an old Italian with a wrinkled face, managed to find them a table for lunch at the Cala di Volpe. At the peak of the season, usually tranquil Costa Smeralda turned into a Who's Who of the Tatler and Vanity Fair set; they checked in for a few days on the island before rushing on to other destinations. "Two days of this annoying fuss, and we'll be sailing to Corsica. The main thing is not to run into anyone I know . . ."  And it was while his mind was preoccupied with these thoughts that Alex noticed a familiar face – the face of his ex. Her friend Katya was unashamedly checking out his friends. Alex hesitated. It was the first time he had seen Tash since their de facto breakup. She was smiling. He smiled back, saving himself and everyone else from the inevitable awkwardness that unresolved relationships inflict on subsequent encounters.
​"Alex" – Katya grabbed his hand as soon as he got close enough to her chair – "introduce me to your friends immediately. What a waste that I've not been introduced to such handsome men before now!"
The 'handsome men' occupied the table next to them. She knew about most of them from their love affairs with her friends. Well, so what! When after a turbulent and cosmopolitan New York, where the supply of eligible men comfortably exceeded demand, thanks to the constant influx of new recruits arriving from around the world to work or study or just live – when after New York, Katya suddenly found herself in what she considered a 'provincial' Moscow, where extremely high demand surpassed exceptionally limited supply, she sadly concluded that occasional encroachment on to romantic territory previously laid claim to by her friends would be inevitable. And, it was not without great internal torment, it must be stressed, that she was ready to lay down friendship on the altar of great love.
​An hour later, the hot Sardinian sun and three shared bottles of champagne had provided the necessary rapprochement between the tables. Nick was happy to find himself at last in male company. A week on the all-female team, providing boundless love to his wife and sympathy to her friends, had left him dead tired. Katya was already picturing herself as a coveted doe from National Geographic – waiting for the five young stags to start fighting over her.
 
*****
Alex admired the beauty of the rugged coastline from the stern of the tender. The wild beach sheltered a small lagoon in which a number of motorboats, for travel to  nearby islands, lay tied to a wooden pier. At lunch, Nick had told the story of how his father had come to acquire this site in one of the most picturesque corners of the island – near the Hotel Romazzino – back in the days of the Aga Khan.
The house blended harmoniously into the landscape. So seamlessly was its architecture woven into the surrounding nature that, from afar, it resembled a hobbit house from Tolkien's novel nestling in the hills of the Shire. At seven o'clock a tender carrying the group of six young men tied up to the pier at the Stowes' house.
An old Italian man in uniform accompanied them to the upper terrace. Alex went to the railing and surveyed the site from above. Wow! Rectangular in shape, it comprised four levels. The coastline alongside the house stretched for much further than he could have imagined. On the seaward side, the house was bordered by a wild tropical garden. On the other side there were two tennis courts and a pool with a waterfall. But the architectural pièce de résistance was the upper terrace with its breathtaking sea views; this never failed to make an impression on even the most sophisticated of guests. He looked out at the massive scarlet disk that hung over the horizon, its reflection adding reds and sparkling shades of vermilion to the calm blue of the sea.
The host sat on the quilted brown leather ottoman. He flicked the ash from a half-smoked cigar into the crystal ashtray in front of him and got up to greet the guests. He was dressed in a white linen suit. Nick loved theme parties from his boarding school days and imposed a rule for his house guests: new day, new style. Today's theme was Hollywood chic. The air smelled of fresh lavender and rosemary, and Muddy Waters' velvety voice – "I just want to make love to you" – echoed across the terrace. Katya posed for Instagram in a long green dress, against the spectacular backdrop provided by the sunset. Anna was in charge of the camera; no less glamorous herself, she searched for the most flattering angles to capture her friend's beauty. Tash reclined on a sofa explaining to the housekeeper in poor Italian that she needed salt to wash out the stain she had just got on her dress. A week under the gentle Sardinian sun had done its job – Tash looked great. Alex's gaze lingered on the deep cleavage of her chiffon dress before eventually dropping down to the stain. He took the housekeeper's arm and said in perfect Italian,                                               ​"Puoi per piacere dare il sale alla bella signora?"
The housekeeper nodded and ran away smiling, happy to fulfil the request of such a gallant signor.
"Today is Ferragosto! People drink and have fun. Nick and I have a tradition: we watch the sun go down with a glass of wine in our hands and we make a wish".
Anna approached each of the guests, inviting them to come over to the wrought-iron railing and enjoy the sunset. "Make a wish!"
"Do they come true?" Katya perked up.
"Of course, silly girl! Everything that you really want comes true."
Tash got up from the sofa and went over to the railing.
Alex watched her. " I wonder what she is going to wish for?"
Katya looked impatiently at Alex's friends. "Oh Lord, how gorgeous they are! I wish that one of them will take me shopping tomorrow . . . No, wait! Why the hell am I wasting my wish on that when I'm quite beyond compare?" Katya thought deeply, searching for a worthy alternative. "I wish for . . . a bronze tan just like Tash's . . . and maybe a little brow lift on the outer ends."
While Nick was wistfully watching the sun go down, Anna's gaze inspected the terrace. "The house definitely needs renovating . . ." But now's not the time. She needs money for something else; she must, at all costs, lay her hands on Samantha Lewis's jewellery . . . Samantha's husband, Eaton Lewis, had just been sentenced for money laundering, and for several days rumours had been circulating in well-informed circles that she was broke and needed to sell her diamonds. These diamonds were the real deal! Fifteen years with Eaton – fifteen years of constantly improving fortunes – had left Samantha the owner of one of the most desirable jewellery collections in London. "I need to hurry up and fix a necklace to wear for the Marchioness's birthday party on the fourth of September." Back in the day, the Marchioness was just a Baroness; she had meant to marry Nick but Anna came along and stole him away. "She will be furious when she sees the diamonds around my neck!" This thought excited Anna immensely, and she gently patted her husband's head.
Nick looked at his wife . . .
. . . How lucky he was with her! A caring wife, a wonderful hostess! The only thing they lack to complete the perfect picture is a child. They need a baby!
Alex's gaze dipped into the warmth of the Mediterranean sunset, then returned to rest on Tash's shoulders, cool like sculpted marble . . . 
. . . She's so elegant and beautiful! If only she could have understood him back then! If she could only have seen his potential! After all, he'd achieved everything himself! Not thanks to his uncle's connections, as she'd sarcastically claimed. He needed an understanding woman!
 
"What shall I wish for?" Tash's thoughts darted between a Loro Piana cashmere coat – it looked so pretty on the hanger in the boutique in Porto Cervo – and her desire to be approved for a Colgate ad. " But if I get the Colgate, I can buy the coat – and many others. So Colgate it is." She glanced furtively at Alex. "Also, I'd really like him to finally understand what a huge mistake he made by ghosting me." So she'll wish for . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar melody: 'I Can't Get Enough Of   Your Love, Baby'. Barry White's soft baritone wafted out over the terrace. When was the last time she'd heard it? Suddenly both Alex and the Loro Piana coat turned into two tiny dots and disappeared into the humid Sardinian air. Tash's face lit up with a smile, and her shoulders no longer seemed cold, but glowed instead with the warmth of orange terracotta in the last rays of the setting sun. She was dancing like no one was watching. After all, now she knew exactly what to wish for . . .

*****
Gianni, the grey-haired owner of the restaurant, had known Nick since the day Nick was born which, no matter how much Nick wanted to forget the fact, was almost fifty years ago. He remembered both Nick's grandfather – the Governor of the Bank of England – and Lord Stowe, Nick's father – one of the most influential industrialists in the UK. Gianni knew that Lord Stowe had left numerous trust funds to his only son, along with real estate in many parts of the globe. Lord Stowe had known his spoiled son well enough to hide his assets in trust funds, and let Nick live off the dividends. But dividends from trusts, sometimes heavily mismanaged by greedy managers, weren't sufficient to maintain his lifestyle. After his father's death, Nick's extravagant ways didn't change. PJs, boats, models and entourage – all that required money. He had to sell houses, first in New York, then in St. Moritz and LA. The pragmatic Anna liked to jokingly call her husband "The Squanderer". After the wedding she put tight controls on the family budget, significantly reducing spending on entourage, which, without the regular infusions, evaporated with remarkable speed.

​"Sardinian air agrees with you. You look stunning." Alex drew a chair back, helping Tash to sit down, and took a seat beside her. "I missed you . . ."
​His father walked out when he was three. Each day, the resemblance between Alex and his dad grew more apparent. Sometimes the pain of watching him was so strong that to release it his mother would take a belt and spank Alex for the smallest mischief. Over the years the pain subsided, giving way to a kind of awe at his phenomenal mind, looks and skills. Her brother, Alex's uncle, had made a meteoric rise over the past few years and headed a large state corporation. Every business in the industry was lining up to get his nephew on to its board of directors. Finally, Alex made up his mind.
Tash was a rare bird given his track record with the opposite sex. She stood out from a series of mature girlfriends. Like a little tyrant, he longed for adoration and didn't tolerate the slightest disobedience.
On that morning, Alex stomped in front of the mirror, choosing a suit for his first working day.
"Which one is better?" He was holding two blue ties in his hands.
"What's the difference? You can turn up in sneakers and track suit and no one will bat an eye. As long as your uncle provides them with benefits, you are immune to criticism."
His eyes flashed with a fierce light. How could she suggest that they only hired him because of his uncle? What a stupid creature! With his new job he needed to find someone with more sense . . .
And he didn't call.

              "You didn't call me either," he remarked.
She had a lot to say and wanted to explain in great detail, but she bit her tongue instead, remembering Nick's instructions. She was flattered by Alex's attention. Maybe she can get her revenge?
"I—" She began to speak, but a loud laugh rang out from behind.
She turned around.
 
              Every time the subject turned to love she would recall a small reproduction of Francois Boucher's painting, "Four Seasons. Spring". The one that hung on the wall over her crib . . . The little sheep that spied on the young lovers taking refuge in the shade of a fairy tree. The pink-skinned girl holding a basket of flowers in her hands, and her beau gently straightening a flower pin in her hair . . . Later, when daddy told her Boucher's story, Tash learned that the salons of the Marquise de Pompadour – the mistress of King Louis XV and the artist's chief patroness – were as far removed from sublime love and piety as was the Marquise herself. Nevertheless, she still cherished that sweet pastoral as an everlasting image of true love. Young, carefree lovers, intoxicated with each other . . .
She'd heard about love at first sight, but grandmother used to say that love was an amusement for the rich – smart girls should choose money and status. 
​"Anna," she said softly. "It's him!" Tash nodded towards a table where there was much laughter. "The porter!" Her voice trembled, her cheeks turned pink.
The young group occupied the largest table in the restaurant. Their sleek tanned faces with defiant white-toothed smiles fit so organically into the restaurant's interior, with its white tablecloths and curtains, that one might think the maitre d' had intentionally planted carefully selected models in strategic positions to recreate a dinner-in-paradise tableau. Anna looked at one of the guys. Tash was right: as it turns out, the chap was pretty darn hot. His curly dirty-blond hair framed a manly face with a strongly defined chin. His big blue eyes were set a bit too close, but this flaw made him somehow even more attractive. His posture, his bone structure – everything about him – showed breeding. Anna turned her attention to the woman sitting next to him. Her unremarkable face expressed absolutely no emotion. Her eyes just wandered nervously about the room searching for some object worthy of her consideration. She was dressed defiantly simply, in a white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. For such a glamorous establishment, where most of the guests tried to dress up, it looked a bit dismissive. Such incredible self-confidence, of course, revealed her background. The same background that poor little rich girls reveal when, gifted with neither beauty nor brains, they receive the attention and worship that their parents' money elicits and mistakenly attribute it to their own charm, talent and wit. Anna looked more closely at her . . . she had seen that face before. It took her a minute to remember how she knew her . . . Yes, that was her – that was the daughter of their neighbour Alberto Visconti . . .
​"The girl next to him is our neighbour, her dad is some sort of Italian aristocrat. From that very aristocracy" – she added with a grin – "that doesn't exist. I'll ask Nick to invite them to dinner."
 
Anna treated Tash like the younger sister she never had. She would support her in everything. Anna knew that, unfortunately, the poor thing had only herself to rely on. Her father had been leeching off her lately, barely able to make ends meet with his meagre salary. Anna had to agree with Tash's late grandmother Hannah – Tash simply couldn't afford the luxury called 'love'. That was an indulgence that poor little rich girls like the daughter of Alberto Visconti could count on – and, yes, damn it, even Katya, who'd made a fortune on the catwalks. Tash would have to content herself with the fate her grandmother had worked so hard to prepare her for: she must monetise her beauty in the best way possible – namely, by marrying some millionaire.

Anna was a typical natty American blonde with flawless skin. Born into the family of a wealthy American banker, from early childhood she dreamed of status and recognition. Her parents gave her everything they could – love, care, money, and a  diploma from Princeton. But Anna wasn't satisfied. She didn't find a single worthy titled candidate at Princeton, so she went on a tour of Europe hoping to secure some posh Euro trash. This ended in failure and she had to return to the States. When she reached her thirties it suddenly hit her that the quality of guys around her wasn't improving. So she finally decided to lower her standards. Nick Stowe was forty-five at the time. She met him at one of those parties in the Hamptons, where young and not-so-young women go to meet their future husbands. When she found out he was a lord she used all her charm to bewitch him. Anna adored the social life, and Nick, with his tons of useful acquaintances, was ideally suited to the role of Anna's husband. She, in turn, proved to be a major find for Nick: the perfect hostess, educated and sensible, she knew how to make a subtle compliment, choose the right gift and write a courteous thank-you note. Anna's wedding caused unbearable envy among her ambitious university girlfriends. Lacking Anna's visionary zeal, they had jumped into marriage with classmates who had excellent pedigrees and family money – classmates who seemed to them, at the time, to be at the top of the social ladder. Who would have thought that Anna Bailey, with her undistinguished features, would get a real English lord? If she had married a guy her own age and from a similar background, had three little munchkins with him and lived happily ever after, it would never have occurred to them to envy her – but marrying an English aristocrat was a completely different matter.
For many years Anna witnessed how tough life in New York could sometimes be for Katya. Anna was too pragmatic to fool herself that she'd had anything but the greatest good luck to have been born into a wealthy American family. She knew what Katya, an immigrant from Russia, had had to endure at the beginning of her career – fierce competition, lack of money, lack of sleep, visa problems, constant suspicions of being a gold-digger (she wasn't one back then) – before she became a seasoned and successful model. What about Tash? Tash always blamed her height for preventing a brilliant career on the runway. But she was wrong. Even if she'd been a head taller than Katya she had neither Katya's resilience nor her ambition. In the world of fashion only the strongest survived.

Nick said, "Stop deciding for her." It was a familiar refrain. "If Tash had just a particle of Katya's determination and your confidence, she would have surpassed you both in every respect. But she's set herself different goals. She doesn't need billions and titles, she just wants to be happy."
Nevertheless, in her capacity as elder sister, Anna did everything to guide Tash in the right – in her "absolutely objective" view – direction.
                         
*****
              Alex was confused. They say, "If you want to know what a woman really thinks, look at her, but don't listen." Tash's attention had suddenly shifted to Anna. Then Tash abruptly got up and slowly walked to the ladies', waggling her hips in a such a seductive way that male visitors risked severe neck injury to keep their eyes glued to her back, all sexy and tanned in a revealing dress.
​Anna observed Tash's manoeuvre from her seat. She appreciated the virtuosity with which Tash had performed it – the mastery that had come with years of practice. The goal was achieved: 'the porter' had stolen a few glances in her direction.
Finally Alex grasped what had just happened under his nose. He was filled with jealousy and rage but he wasn't about to throw in the towel. He called on Nick as an ally and pressed him to move on from the restaurant to the boat as quickly as possible. While Alex and Nick were discussing their next move, Anna and Katya described to Tash what was happening out on centre stage.
            "He's looking over here."
"He is, but he's not showing any signs of making a move," Katya said. She genuinely believed that it was a man's obligation to conquer a woman, and a woman's obligation to respond with complete surrender.
              Her words made sense. After all, if it was a case of love at first sight, everything ought to have worked out all by itself. He should have carried her out of the restaurant in his arms – or fought with Alex for her honour, like a knight in a shining armour, and then carried her off in his arms. At the very least, he should have treated her like an impregnable fortress, just taken her – and then carried her off in his arms! But there was definitely no place in Katya's fairytale for a scenario like this one –   where the heroine provocatively saunters past the hero, successfully attracting his attention, only for him to respond by not even trying to get to know her.
​Suddenly Tash felt tense. Her exposed back was too naked. Her evening dress was inappropriate, her hairstyle, pretentious. She hated Nick for his stupid idea about Hollywood chic. She was sure the table behind them were laughing at their ridiculous outfits. Why on earth was she in this stupid dress when all his friends were wearing jeans?
​"Am I mistaken or would I be completely out of place in their crowd?" she whispered into Anna's ear. "It seems we've been sent invites to different parties. We're black tie and they're casual."
​"Don't you worry." Once again Anna looked carefully round the room. "If anyone here isn't following the dress code, it's clearly not us. Look, everyone's overdressed."
​Tash looked around. Anna was right.
​"Well why does it feel like there's a deep chasm between us, not just a couple of metres?"
​Katya intervened. "That, my dear, is because that is how it is. There is not only a chasm, but an entire universe separating you from their parents' deep pockets. The guy, Anna's neighbour, the one from the non-existent aristocracy, he can buy this restaurant – lock, stock and barrel – and you, my dear, can't even pay for your own dinner."
​Anna looked at Tash, her eyes beginning to swell with tears. She was nervously biting her lip.
​"Besides," Katya added, "don't forget about their pedigree, they don't need people like us. Our great-grandfathers polished their shoes and, if our grandmothers were young and beautiful, they'd roll with them in the hay. There's no way I'd ever date an aristocrat with all their boring traditions. Give me 'new money' every time!"
​"Shut up, Katya. Nick married me . . ."
​"Oh, come on." Katya didn't stop to listen to Anna. She turned to face Tash. "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush . . ." And she pointed to Alex with her eyes.
​"Is that all I am too? A bird in the hand?" said Tash, loud enough for the entire table to hear. A pin-drop silence fell; Nick was the first to break it.
​"A bird? You're a peacock! Look at your dres​​​​​A waiter put a glass of whisky in front of the clueless Nick.
​Alex realised that his moment had come. Now or never! He had to eliminate his rival.
​"You are the most beautiful bird I have ever seen." It was the exact line the conqueror in Katya's fairytale would use – the one before which, according to Katya's theory, the heroine would have no choice but to surrender. "I don't understand why I didn't tell you this before."
His words became all the more flattering; his attentiveness, all the more intent; his thoughtfulness, all the more touching. He worshiped her. He repented, and confessed that only after losing her did he realise how dear she was to him.

​​​​​*****
​"I've lived a life that's full, I travelled each and every highway, and more, much more than this, I did it my way." Tash was dancing in the first rays of the morning sun, a bottle of champagne in her hands. Her dress fluttered in the breeze with the sway of her movements.
​"You know what I just realised?" Anna, staring at Tash, leaned back on a white couch. "This song should be your motto. Your Way . . . The way you want it . . . Right, Nick?" She turned to Nick, who was snoring softly next to her.
​"Don't wake him, I'll ask for him to be taken to the cabin." A hunky steward threw Nick over his shoulder and carried him away. Anna, who had got pretty mellow, couldn't resist the temptation to hurry after them.                         
"Look, what a beautiful view," Alex said softly.
The boat was anchored opposite Cala di Volpe. The apricot-coloured disk rose swiftly from beyond the horizon, reflecting a red strip on the turquoise water. The sea was calm, almost flat, and only Frank Sinatra's voice disturbed the silence.
​"Let's go to the cabin . . ."

*****
​Tash ran her hand over the crumpled sheet. Silky Egyptian cotton gently caressed her naked body. It was dark in the cabin. She opened the blinds with the button and let the golden sunlight stream inside. Tash stretched, got up and walked to the bathroom. The soft pile carpet tickled her bare feet.
The bathroom walls were covered with light marble slabs alternating with wood panels in wenge. The room looked like a giant chessboard from a Padishah's palace. Right in the middle of the room stood a bath made of black stone on bronze baroque legs. "Wow! This room is twice as large as my living room!" Tash turned on the tap to fill the bath with water. She wanted to sit on the edge but the stone had yet to warm up – the shock of the cold against her buttocks caused her to recoil. She jumped up, and her gaze settled on a large oval mirror in a massive gilded frame. A beautiful young woman looked back at her. She was strong, determined and self-confident. The murmur of the water grew less insistent, gradually subsiding. Tash raised her leg over the granite edge and plunged into the water, letting her head sink below the surface. There, under the water, she opened her eyes. She saw a bathroom wall covered with pale-grey tiles with pink flowers on them. There were tin towel racks and a yellow rubber duck that quacked hysterically given just the slightest squeeze. Mum was dressed in her chintz robe, which she always wore when bathing little Tash. For a moment, she thought she heard Daddy's whisper: "You must be honest with yourself! Never betray yourself!" And then, the death rattle of grandmother Hannah – "Promise me that you won't repeat you mum's mistakes." And only mum didn't say a word . . .
Tash got out of the bath, casually shaking off her wet hair. She looked at her reflection again, but there was a slightly different look in its eyes.

​Breakfast was served on the lower deck. Was she the last to come down? All the players from last night were in their places. She noticed a pile of paper shopping bags tied with ribbons on the floor.
"Have a good night's sleep?" Alex looked remarkably fresh; his shirt was dazzling white, not a single crease on his shorts. Tash glanced sheepishly at her crumpled dress and straightened her hair.
Nick, as was his habit at breakfast, browsed through the latest issue of La Stampa, simultaneously enlightening Katya, on this occasion, about how much clout the Agnelli family, who owned the newspaper, had in Italy.
"They are marvellous people . . ." Nick took a gulp of 'Vintage Tunina' and held it in his mouth ". . .but you can't escape their tentacles in the north of Italy. Somehow they are all over the place." Nick wiggled his fingers, miming the tentacles of an octopus.
"That doesn't stop you from hanging out with the octopuses," Anna said, stirring sugar into her coffee.
She glanced at Tash. "Tell us, instead, some more about our neighbour Alberto."
"Oh, Alberto." Nick finally put the newspaper down. "He . . . he is an extraordinary man!" The epithets 'beautiful', 'extraordinary', 'outstanding' came most readily to his tongue. "His father was an Italian prince. They were friends of my father, and, although Alberto was older, on summer holidays we would terrorise the local kids together. He married early, and we parted ways. As far as I remember, his wife wasn't a stunner, but she came from some noble European family, besides being filthy rich. At first he was after her sister, but she had chosen another guy, so he switched to the youngest. She was only seventeen and a bit on the bulky side . . . But he was determined to pin her down before someone else did. Alberto managed to make a decent fortune thanks to her family ties."

The abundance of royal blood in the 'hood couldn't leave Anna unmoved, and she immediately reminded her husband about the promised dinner invitation. It turned out that Nick, with his inherent sense of duty, had already called Alberto's house and been informed by the manager that the owners had left early that morning.
Anna watched Tash, trying to guess how she'd taken the news. Tash was relieved. There was no longer any need to make a choice between the bird in the hand and the two in the bush. There was no such a thing as 'destiny', after all. She had to admit that she was rather pleased about Alex's persistence.

Meanwhile, Alex realised there would be no more talk of mysterious royals and he asked what time Tash would like to go for lunch.
"But I'm still wearing the dress from last night . . ."
            "Nick and I went to the hotel and bought everything while you were asleep."
"Ah, so that's where the big bags with the ribbons came from!" She laughed and kissed Alex on the cheek. He pulled her closer.
"We are leaving for Corsica tomorrow. Would you like to join us?"
"Of course she would," Katya answered for her, "and me too."
Sardinia bored her to tears, and the prospect of a week on the high seas with some young stallions around stirred her imagination. To Katya's delight, and Anna's discontent, Tash agreed.