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A four-wheel drive was waiting and Dimitri took the wheel, speeding along a straight road which looked uncannily quiet after the crowded streets of Moscow. Soon they were entering the forest through a concealed and guarded entrance and passing mansion after mansion, some completely hidden behind high, dense hedges, while others offered a tantalising glimpse of turrets and towers.
Dimitri indicated left and the car swung through a huge pair of electronic gates and Erin peered out of the window. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘It’s a private estate and each house is called a dacha. In England some people own second homes in the country and this is similar. Many Russians have them. It’s where I did most of my growing up.’
‘I thought you grew up in Moscow.’
‘No. My father was in the city a lot, but my mother preferred it here. They call it Moscow’s secret city. Many people think it doesn’t exist—that it’s just a myth—but as you can see for yourself, it isn’t. Just that not everyone knows where to find it, and that’s deliberate. It’s where the rich live—and play. Where there’s no pressure to be modest and no shame in showing off your wealth. They say that security here is tighter than in the Kremlin and very few outsiders are permitted entry. You should count yourself privileged, Erin.’
Privileged? She felt closer to panic, especially when Leo clutched at her hand.
‘Look, Mummy—look!’
Erin turned her head to see him pointing towards a stunning art deco house, which Erin recognised immediately. It was the house from the photograph. Up close, the tall house was even larger and more imposing than it had appeared in the glossy photo, and the unusual curved wooden door made it look like something out of a fairy tale.
There were so many questions Erin wanted to ask but there wasn’t time because the front door was being opened by a homely-looking woman whose creased face broke into a wide smile when she saw Dimitri. She looked as if she wanted to fling her arms around him but didn’t quite dare. And Erin was surprised by one of the most unguarded smiles she’d ever seen on the oligarch’s face as he bent his head to kiss the woman’s cheeks before speaking to her in rapid Russian.
‘This is Svetlana,’ he said, ‘who used to look after me when I was a little boy, even younger than you are now, Leo. Svetlana—this is Erin, Leo’s mother.’
‘You are very...welcome,’ said Svetlana in halting English, her eyes softening as she looked down at Leo. ‘Come inside, little one. You must be tired.’
Automatically, Leo shook his head. ‘I’m not tired,’ he said.
‘Well, that is good!’ Svetlana smiled. ‘I wonder, do you like gingerbread, Leo? We have much famous gingerbread here in Russia and we like to eat it with hot, sweet tea. It was Dimitri’s favourite when he was a little boy. Would you like to try some?’
Expecting continued resistance, Erin glanced down at her son—but he was wearing the same expression he’d had the first time she’d taken him to meet Father Christmas. Was the child who was notoriously picky when it came to food really taking Svetlana’s outstretched hand and wandering off with her towards the back of the house as if they’d known each other all their lives? It seemed he was.
For a while she stood listening to the sound of their retreating footsteps until at last they became silent and she was left alone with Dimitri. His hands were on her shoulders as he helped her out of her coat, his fingers brushing softly across her back and making her spine tingle.
‘Come with me,’ he said and she followed him into a reception room which overlooked the sweeping gardens at the back of the house. It was a breathtakingly impressive room and she looked around it with an undeniable sense of wonder. Who would ever have guessed that such an exquisite place lay in the middle of some random forest?
Fabergé eggs stood on gilded furniture, and a bonsai tree which stood in pride of place on a lacquered Chinese table made her think of his apartment in London. She walked over and stared at the perfectly formed miniature leaves and wondered how on earth he could get experts to come and tend it—all these miles from Moscow. How many apartments and houses and bonsai trees did he actually own? Did they all merge into one, she wondered—so that sometimes he forgot which city he was in? Were the women who passed through his life just as interchangeable as his houses?
She looked up to meet the blue ice of his gaze. ‘Is this your real home?’
He gave an oblique smile. ‘I visit here maybe three or four times a year—more if the opportunity arises.’
