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Jason Whitehurst stared at her. "Yes. Have you been to Odessa before?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Beastly place… I do a little trade there, no other reason to go. Lord knows what'll happen now Turkey's plugged in with Egypt, though. Still, not your concern. Phone your hotel, tell them my chauffeur will pick up your luggage; he'll take it down to the airport for you.

"Pardon me?"

"Now what?"

"I thought we were voyaging on your yacht?"

Jason Whitehurst pulled at his beard. She couldn't tell if he was amused or angry.

"Ought to read your data profiles a little closer, dear girl. Now then, I've got some people to see here first. So, in the mean time, I want you to find Fabian, get acquainted."

"Your son?"

"That's right. Do you know what he looks like?"

She remembered the picture in the data profile, a fifteen-year-old boy with thick dark hair coming down over his ears. "I think I can recognize him, yes."

"Excellent. Just go where the noise is loudest, that's where he'll be. Now then, a few words of caution. Little chap doesn't have many real friends. My fault, I expect, keep him on board the Colonel Maitland all the time. Not terribly used to company, so make allowances, yes?"

"Certainly."

"Good. I've told him you'll be meeting us here. Splendid girl like you is exactly what he needs. As you can imagine, he's looking forward to your company enormously, so don't disappoint him."

"You want me…?" Charlotte trailed off in surprise.

"You and Fabian, yes. Problem?"

The idea threw her completely. But in the end, she supposed, it didn't make any real difference. "No." She found she couldn't look Jason Whitehurst in the face any more.

"Jolly good. I'll see the two of you in about an hour in my car. Don't be late."

Jason Whitehurst marched off, leaving Charlotte alone with the realization that no matter how well you thought you knew them, the ultra-rich were not even remotely human.

Fabian Whitehurst was easy enough to find. There were only about fifteen boys and girls in their early teens at the ball, and they were all clustered together outside the entrance to the disco. They were giggling loudly, red faced as they swapped jokes.

Charlotte made a slow approach across the ballroom, taking her time to study them. She was only too well accustomed to the inherent brattishness of the children of the rich. Spoilt and ignored, they developed a shell of arrogance early in life, treating everyone else as third-class citizens. Including Charlotte; in some cases, especially Charlotte. Her throat muscles tensed at the memories.

These seemed no different, their voices grated from ten metres away, high pitched and raffish. The girls had been given salon treatments, fully made up, their hair in elaborate arrangements. They nearly all wore white dresses, though a couple were in low-cut gowns. There was something both silly and sad about the amount of jewellery they wore.

The boys were in dinner jackets and dress shirts. Charlotte was struck by their similarity, as if they were all cousins. Their cheeks chubby, moving awkwardly, making an effort to be boisterous. She imagined someone had told them this was the way you had to behave at parties, and they were all scrabbling to conform.

Then she caught sight of Fabian Whitehurst, the tallest of the group. His face didn't have quite the pampered look of the others. She could see some of his father's characteristics in his angled jawline and high cheekbones. Handsome little devil, she thought, he'll be a real handful when he grows up.

Fabian suddenly looked up. For the second time in one evening, Charlotte felt flustered. There was something demanding in his gaze. But he couldn't keep it going, blushing crimson and dropping his eyes quickly. She waited. Fabian glanced up guiltily. She lifted the corner of her mouth gently, a conspiracy smile, then let her attention wander away.

Julia Evans was dancing on the ballroom's wooden floor, with some ancient nobleman sporting a purple stripe across his tailcoat. Maybe there were penalties for being so rich, after all.

Charlotte knew that if she had that much money, she would've taken her pick of the handsomest young blades, the ones who could make her laugh and feel all light inside, and screw protocol. She took another sip of champagne.

"Er, hello, you look awfully bored," Fabian said. He was standing in front of her, an oversize velvet bow tie spoiling the sartorial chic of his tailored dinner jacket. His shaggy hair was almost falling in his eyes as he looked up at her, he flipped it aside with a toss of his head.

"Oh dear, does it show?" she asked encouragingly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see all the other youngsters watching them with eager envious expressions.

"No. Well, sort of, a bit. I'm Fabian Whitehurst." His eyes darted down to her cleavage, then away again. As if it was a dare.

"Yes, I know. Your father said I'd find you over here. I'm Charlotte Fielder. Pleased to meet you."

"Crikey!" Fabian's gasp of surprise was almost a shout. He blushed hotly again at the solecism, his shoulders hunching up in reflex. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You? You're Charlotte?" And for a moment every aristocratic pretension was stripped away, he was an ordinary incredulous fifteen-year-old who didn't have a clue.

" 'Fraid so." Training halted the giggle as it formed in her throat. But he was funny to watch.

"Oh." A spark of jubilation burned in Fabian's eyes. "I wondered if you would care to dance," he said breathlessly.

"Thank you, I'd like that," she said, and drained the glass.

Fabian's grin was arrogant triumph. They walked into the disco together, past Fabian's astonished friends. He gave them a fast thumbs up, lips curling into a smug sneer. Charlotte's serene smile never flickered.

CHAPTER THREE

Julia Evans's office occupied half of an entire floor in the Event Horizon headquarters tower. When she sat at her desk the window wall ahead of her seemed to recede into the middle distance, a delusory gold band sandwiched between the expansive flat plains of floor and ceiling.

The office was decorated in beige and cream colours, the furniture all custom-made teak; work area, informal conference area, leisure area, separated out by troughs of big ferns. Van Goghs, Turners, and Picassos, selected more for price and pretension than aesthetics, hung on the walls. It would have been unbearably formal but for the crystal vases of cut flowers standing on every table and wall alcove. Their perfume permeated the air, replacing the dead purity of the conditioning units.

After her PAs politely but firmly ended her conference with the company's senior transport division executives, Julia poured herself a cup of tea from a silver service and walked over to the window, turning down the opacity. Virtually the only reason she had an office these days was for personal meetings; even in the data age the human touch was still an essential tool in corporate management, certainly at premier-grade level.

When the gold mirror faded away, she looked down on Peterborough's old landbound quarter lazing under the July sun, white-painted walls throwing a coronal glare back at her. The dense cluster of brick and concrete buildings had a kind of medieval disarray to them. She rather liked the chaos, it had an organic feel, easily preferable to the regimented soulless lines of most recent cities. Meticulous civic concepts like town planning and the green belt were the first casualties after the Fens had flooded; the refugees swooping on the city had wanted dry land, and when they found it they stubbornly put down roots. Their new housing estates and industrial zones erupted on any patch of unused ground. A quarter of a century on, and legal claims over land ownership and compensation were still raging through the county courts.