She could text Ivan. Tell him she was outside and then he’d come and save her. She was already getting sour looks from the other wannabes in the queue. At least she was wearing earrings, that counted, right? By looking at the party dresses, the sequins and designer-wear on display Billi was realising this wasn’t her world and she didn’t understand the dress code at all.
What was she afraid of? She had better things to be doing than standing across the street from the Firebird. It didn’t look like much. Hidden just off Piccadilly down Jermyn Street it was down in the basement, there were a few steps down to a door with a bird in glowing golden neon above it. The air trembled with the vibrations of the bass.
Text him. Save yourself the embarrassment. Have him come out and get you.
No. She was going to do this properly and surprise Ivan. But she wasn’t going to waste her time in the queue. Billi crossed the narrow street and headed straight to the front.
The bouncers glanced at her, but forgot her instantly. Billi squeezed through the dozen or so clustered around the glamazon.
“My friends are in there! They’re waiting for me!”
“I’ve been here two hours! You got to let me in!”
“I don’t want to go in the club, honestly. Just need to use the loo. I’ll be straight in and straight out!”
Billi nudged a girl aside with her elbow to get to the rope. “Hi. I’m here to see Ivan Romanov.”
The glamazon looked her up and down. “You’ll just have to wait outside. You might catch the tsarevich when he leaves.”
Tsarevich? He must love that. “No, you don’t understand. He’s waiting for me. Inside. I’m his...”
What are you going to say? His girlfriend? Tell her that and she’ll only laugh.
“He’ll want to see me, that’s all. I’m Billi SanGreal.”
The glamazon paused and even the bouncers stopped to look.
“You’re not quite what I’d pictured,” said the glamazon. She snapped her fingers at the nearest bouncer. “Her.”
Some in the crowd audibly gasped as the rope was unhooked for Billi. One girl threw herself forward. “Her? You’re letting her in? But... but look at her! She’s got a black eye!”
“She’s not even wearing heels!”
More outrage reigned down as Billi slipped through and headed into the flaming heart of the Firebird night club.
What had once been a dingy, cavernous Victorian era cellar had been transformed to a baroque fantasy land of gilded balconies, glittering chandeliers, sweeping velvet curtains and luminescent firebirds suspended from the ceiling, their feathers made of shimmering gold and their eyes of brilliant red gems and neon flames trailing behind them. The dance floor was heaving and Billi watched it all from the balcony that ran all the way around it. There were alcoves with plush sofas and private tables and waitress service.
Billi stopped one. The girl wore a sheath of a dress made of chromatic feathers, even her eye make-up was of flames. “I’m looking for the tsarevich.”
“Dressed like that? Good luck.”
“Funny. Just tell me where he is.”
The girl gave her a second look, now not as sure. “At the back. There are the private rooms. You know, for extra special guests. You one of those?”
She saw the doors below, across the dance floor and past the DJ’s booth. She also saw the guard. “I hope so.”
She descended the wrought iron spiral staircase, past the beautiful people, then wove through the throng on the dance floor.
All relationships had bumps along the way. What mattered was how they dealt with them. She needed to understand Ivan’s point of view. He was the natural leader of the Bogatyrs. Of course he needed to be involved. Moscow was only a few hours away and didn’t he have friends with their own planes? It was like commuting from the home counties. Nothing to it. They’d find a way to make it work, they’d find a way to make it better.
Where else would she ever find someone like Ivan?
Complaining about him seemed churlish, ungrateful.
Oh, your boyfriend is a fabulously wealthy, incredibly handsome prince? Oh, poor you! It must be so hard to have every whim catered for. Boo hoo.
Get over yourself, SanGreal. Do you know how lucky you are?
She did, and yet...
What? She couldn’t handle perfection? That things were actually going well? Was she such a masochist that she needed trouble, that she craved chaos? Billi preferred to crawl her way up from the bottom. Being at the top made her dizzy.
The guard at the door peered at her from over the top of his shades. “Miss SanGreal?”
“That’s me.”
He turned the door handle. “Just want to say I’m a big fan of your father’s. Go right in.”
“Er... thanks. I’ll tell him next time he fancies going clubbing.”
The door closed behind her and the music became a muffled beat and the wild lighting transformed to spotlights from hidden places within the vaulted ceiling. Grand portraits hung from the bare walls and there were objets d’art arranged within small alcoves. People mingled in discreet groups, the conversation barely above a whisper, only occasionally broken by an abrupt laugh.
“Billi SanGreal?”
Billi turned to see... “Katiya?”
Of all the people in all the world, what was she doing here?
Katiya smiled. “Ivan told me you hated the Firebird.”
She was even more beautiful than when they’d met, very, very briefly, in Moscow. Back then Billi had taunted her, in self defence, about getting old. Katiya was twenty now, which was fifty in modelling years, but there was just no other way to describe her except as... perfect. All long limbs, porcelain skin, eyes of crystal blue. What else? Oh, right. Her father was a Russian oligarch. She remembered something about him buying an island.
Katiya had mastered the art of being aloof. She
