Sylvina was loath to leave Paris but now she saw that she had little choice: William was impatient to go home. She decided that Justin was getting a better deal than she was and feverishly upped her spending sprees. She ordered a new wardrobe from Valentino, Givenchy and Christian Dior, with matching shoes, hats and handbags. She had never liked London, but at least she was returning to it in style.
William got back to The Boltons with so much luggage that his chauffeur had to order another car to follow the Rolls. His servants looked on, speechless, as Sylvina was introduced, her suitcases filling the hallway. ‘Michael, this is Countess Lubrinsky.’ William’s secretary gave a small bow, flushing as she acknowledged him with a glacial smile. She told the chauffeur to make sure that all the cases had been removed from the second car, and asked the housekeeper to see that they were taken up to her suite. Her perfume hung in the air, sweet and heavy. From her body language alone, everyone could see that she loathed the house.
A few days later William burst into Michael’s office, demanding an update on his business. Michael wanted to discuss the exorbitant outgoings of Justin Chalmers. William dismissed his worries with a waft of his hand: he had little or no immediate interest in the island. ‘Don’t fret, for God’s sake, Michael. I certainly won’t be having financial worries for a fair few years yet. Just get me up to date on the business.’
‘But, sir, this Justin Chalmers—’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, his bills are vast! Purchases being shipped in from India and heaven knows where else.’
‘He’s an interior designer, Michael.’
‘So all the accounts I’ve sent you are acceptable? Fine. I’ll confirm that with the accountants.’ He hesitated before continuing. ‘Er, what about the account you opened in the name of Countess Lubrinsky? It’s already in the red.’
‘Top it up,’ said William, bored.
‘But it’s another twenty-five thousand.’
‘Michael, she is to be my wife.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Michael’s voice sounded strangled.
‘You heard, Michael. Countess Lubrinsky and I are engaged to be married.’
‘Engaged?’ Michael stuttered.
‘Yes, that is correct. Beautiful woman, isn’t she?’ Then William began to pass the sheets of drawings he had made of the toys in Paris. ‘Get these over to the art department, then on to the factory. I like the cat-and-mouse one. But we’ll have to come up with a different concept. Tell the artists to make it up as a fox and chickens.’
William tapped on Sylvina’s door. He was told to enter and found her trying on a gown.
‘Whoever did your décor should be shot,’ she said. ‘This is so ghastly, I feel ill.’
‘I told my secretary,’ he said, looking around irritably. He’d never noticed the blue and white flock wallpaper, depicting Chinese fishermen with little rods.
‘Told him what?’ she asked, as she looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror. Even that was hideous — and, worse, the mirror was so cheap it made her look fat.
‘That we’re engaged.’
She turned sideways for a different angle of herself in the spectacular black velvet sheath dress. ‘Bit premature, isn’t it? Weren’t we supposed to discuss it first? I thought we’d only make an announcement if it was essential. They don’t even know I’m in England yet. We need to be seen around a lot first.’ She smoothed the velvet over her hips. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t run to the press, because we’re not ready to make any announcement yet.’
‘Christ, it’s an engagement, not a wedding date. It’s covered in your fee and you agreed.’
‘I’m not saying I didn’t but, I think you might have had the manners to discuss it with me first. It was a silly thing to do, especially after we’ve spent so long working on your profile.’
He flopped into an armchair and opened a magazine. ‘Oh, Michael’s not going to tell anyone. He’s worked for me for years. Have you seen this month’s Paris-Match? There’s a photo of us at the races. Very good of you, but not so flattering of me.’
Sylvina peered at the series of photographs. ‘Darling, it’s me who has to be the catch of all time. And, besides, I think you look very sophisticated.’
‘I think I look a bit of a prat.’
Sylvina told William she had hired a well-known PR agent who would ensure that wherever they went a paparazzo would be at hand, the flash of whose camera would draw attention to them. But William seemed to have forgotten that this had been paid for. Like a young movie-star, he had started to believe his own publicity. And he loved it.
‘You never cease to amaze me,’ she said, turning her back for him to unzip the dress.
‘Why? Is it seeing the man emerge before you? Well, I’ve done everything you told me to do.’ He chortled.
It was hard to believe that in such a short time he had changed so much. There was a confident air about him, and his voice was louder than it had been in Paris.
‘You’re very cheerful,’ she said.
‘I’m glad to be home.’
Sylvina let the gown slip to her ankles and stepped out of it, naked. William reached out, as if to touch her, and she stepped back. ‘Don’t get too confident, William.’
He snatched away his hand as if she had slapped it. ‘It was just a bit of lint on your shoulder,’ he snapped. ‘I should be allowed to touch you, considering the money I’m paying you. But don’t worry, I don’t want to.’ He walked out and slammed the bedroom door shut behind him.
Sylvina sighed. He’d done it to her again. It unnerved her, the way that at one moment he was under her control and at the next she would realize that he could get rid of her whenever he liked. She had to be more careful now they were on his turf.
The couple had dined with film stars and cabinet ministers in Paris, attended premières, had been seen at Longchamps and Auteuil. Now that they were in England the wheels of publicity were turning here. Michael monitored the growing frenzy around the pair with trepidation. He couldn’t grasp what was going on, but knew it was building towards something. Perhaps it was just the announcement of their nuptials, but he had detected that the Countess, far from caring for William, was at times almost disdainful of him. He was sure she was simply bleeding him of a lot of money. And Michael was aware of how much, because he oversaw her accounts. Nothing quite made sense — not just the Countess, but the vast fortune being paid out to Justin Chalmers. And when he took a call from William’s financial adviser, who was fishing for information, Mr Flynn appeared as nonplussed as himself at the astronomical sums being moved to the British Virgin Islands. He asked if Michael had any notion of what was going on.
‘I believe he’s having the island refurbished.’
‘The amount he’s shelling out could refurbish bloody New Zealand. This is just a small place, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not aware of the detailed instructions, just that the island is being prepared for Sir William to stay there with some guests.’
‘Well, please ask him to contact me. He’s not returned any of my calls...’ There was a long pause, then Michael heard a light cough. ‘Just between you and me, Michael, I know he took quite a public thrashing over this Maynard business. He’s not having some kind of breakdown, is he?’
‘No, he seems in very good spirits.’
‘Ah. Well, get him to call me because I don’t want to continue throwing money at this chap Chalmers until I’ve spoken to him. I need more details.’
Michael hung up, and addressed himself to another of Sir William’s scrawled messages. The Countess did not wish to remain in The Boltons so he had arranged to rent a house for her in Mayfair. Having now formally announced their engagement in The Times, they were at last holding centre-stage, and Sylvina felt it would look better if they did not appear to be cohabiting.