‘Well it’s a funny story– Viktor’s nemesis, Walter Steinherr, who owns most of the town, bought the other three, just to spite Viktor I think.’
‘Sounds a bit mean.’
‘That’s rich white men for you!’ Cat joked.
‘Isn’t it your boss’s choice who he sells to if he built them?’
‘Well, he co-built them with a Russian billionaire… but that’s another story for another time,’ Cat added and quietened down. Gossip on the mountain train was ill advised because there was often a Kivvi, Steinherr, Sommar or worse, a Stognev, on the train. Or one of their staff, and the staff always knewwaytoo much. ‘We need to go out. When you’re settled in, every night is party night. Give me your number.’ Cat thrust her mobile into Emme’s hand for Emme to type her number into. Emme happily obliged.
‘Don’t you have to work evenings?’
‘Well, maybe not every night. But when I’ve cleaned up dinner and prepped breakfast; when my friends have wiped down their restaurants, we meet up. The nannies not so much, you often have to babysit while Mr and Mrs go out, although I don’t seeLos Harringtonout much… Even Tiago gets one night off a week…’
‘Tiago?’
‘My guy Tiago– poor dude, he works the supermarket by day and is the night manager in the Steinherrhof six nights a week.’
Cat made a pitiful face that showed she had it good, then did a sudden double take as she looked up. Emme turned to see what had caught her attention. She saw the back of a silver-haired man carrying an attaché case in one hand and a wool coat slung over his arm, walking hastily up the carriage.
‘That’s your boss!’ Cat mouthed. ‘Best I…’ she drew a zip across her mouth, and Emme didn’t know if it was for her benefit or Cat’s.
After almost an hour of further chatter, about Cat’s life in Argentina– her grandmother’s funeral she had just been home for– and happily not much about Emme, the train pulled into Kristalldorf station, where a beautiful gold and cream clock lit the darkened platform like a bejewelled moon.
All the remaining passengers– commuters, families, holidaymakers and thrill seekers– gathered their coats, scarves, ski paraphernalia and suitcases; as this was the last stop, Emme took her time. Cat looked at her colourful Swatch watch with the energy of someone who was always in a hurry and Emme didn’t know whether she felt invigorated or exhausted by her. She’d left her flat for Gatwick at 6am and now the sun had just set.
‘Gotta fly, catch up soon yeah?’ Cat said. She fist-bumped Emme on the shoulder, hauled her backpack and her board over her shoulders, and weaved off the train.Emme wondered if Catalina would ever bother– why would she? She was the chef for a super-rich family and always had friends to party with. But she already knew Kristalldorf wasn’t big enough to avoid anyone. Not that she wanted to. Cat had a warmth and a sparkle about her that had helped calm Emme’s nerves.
Chapter Three
‘Happy birthday, Daddy!’ gushed doe-eyed Vivian Steinherr, youngest daughter of Kristalldorf’s most powerful hotelier, as she raised her champagne glass and looked adoringly at her father, sitting at the head of the table next to her. His two sons were out of town but Walter was celebrating turning seventy with his beloved daughters, Vivian and Anastasia, Anastasia’s husband Dimitri, and their three children, Orfeas, Ophelia and Olympia, named after their father’s Greek ancestors, who were home from boarding school for the occasion. On Walter’s other side was his wife, Kiki, who trailed a pointed fingernail in figures of eight on her husband’s arm.
‘Thank you, Vivi,’ Walter said, raising his Baccarat glassware and chinking it against Vivian’s. He wasn’t in a celebratory mood, but he put a good face on it. He had been particularly grumpy since repeat mystery infections had led to his recent cancer diagnosis, which he was keeping from everyone except his physician, Dr Blitzer, who he spoke to about the cancer almost in code.
Walter wasn’t particularly frightened of his cancer– he was not a young man– he was more inconvenienced by the myeloma, because it was causing increasing pain in his bones, and by the increasing amount of appointmentshe didn’t really have time for. He didn’t want aggressive treatment either; at his age it felt rather pointless. For now, Dr Blitzer recommended a ‘watch and wait’ strategy, and Walter decided not to tell a soul. Not his wife. Not his children.
Vivian was thirty-one, as charming as she was composed, and had the most luminous complexion in Kristalldorf. Walter was an imposing man with pale-blue eyes like his daughter, white hair and a bushy moustache. He wore a shirt and a cardigan with thick gold buttons.
Despite his devoted daughters insisting he have a party for his birthday,heinsisted not. There were always parties in Kristalldorf: hotel launches, restaurants celebrating their Michelin stars, the Kivvis’ annual Christingle, The Kristall Ball, the spring music festival, the list felt endless. So the last thing Walter Steinherr wanted to do was attend another damn party.
He might have had his pick of venues, seeing as he owned most of the town, from the restaurant at the Steinherrhof to the terrace at the Alpenrose. Sometimes, when Walter was feeling mischievous, he hosted private dinners in one of the three vacant and enormous chalets he owned at Seven Summits. Each of the seven chalets had at least five bedrooms (all with ensuites with rain showers and mountain-view balconies), private ski rooms, wellness areas, a hammam and elevators. Finnish tycoon Viktor Kivvi had worked closely with Russian developer Alexey Stognev, and world-renowned architect Ludwig Smythson, to the highest spec, with his own Kivvi elevators installed into each premises, of course.
No one else in Kristalldorf had the money or the inclination to do what Walter did: cut a private deal with Stognev behind Kivvi’s back to buy three of the villas just to spite him– and then leave them mostly unoccupied.
The small consolation for Viktor was that he and his family lived in the largest of the chalets, which was the only one of the properties to have its own cinema, card room and bar.
The wasted income on Seven Summits was something that irked Walter’s children, especially his eldest daughter Anastasia, who was sitting at the opposite end of the long table to her father. Anastasia had ideas, if only she could have a closer look inside the empty properties. Walter was very guarded about them. He was becoming more guarded, more private in general lately.
Tonight Walter wanted an early dinner– he had always liked to eat early– in his mansion at the foot of the mountain; a mansion that looked more like a Snow Queen’s palace, its turrets and gables giving it a Disney-like charm. Inside was a sturdy sweeping staircase, elaborate tiled floors adorned in ornate rugs, crystal chandeliers and crackling fireplaces.
Anastasia had tied scores of gold balloons to her father’s chair, which made him look a little ridiculous– as if this serious stalwart of a man might just take off and float out of the mansion towards the mountains.
Walter didn’t like to be made to look ridiculous. He had expensive but demure tastes, which is why it was such a shock to everyone when he married Kiki five years ago. American Kiki had white-blonde hair, a baby-smooth forehead, pneumatic tits and lip fillers that made her lookolderthan her thirty-five years. Vivian did a better job of disguising her disdain for Kiki than Anastasia did; Vivian was good at making polite chat, asking Kiki how her day had been, even though the answer would predictably involve shopping or a spa. Vivian was partly relieved that her father had a companion. Anastasia, however, loathed their stepmother, who was two years younger than her and a money grabber as far as Anastasia could see. But then Anastasia had loathed all her former stepmothers. In her eyes no woman would ever live up to the saintly and distant memory of their dead mother. No woman would be good enough for their father. No woman would not be a perceived threat to her inheritance.
Next to Kiki sat Anastasia’s two daughters, Olympia and Ophelia, who were ten and eight and had hooded eyes like their father, Dimitri, a lawyer for his father-in-law’s businesses. Anastasia, with her dark locks and perfectly symmetrical face, was at the other end of the table next to their twelve-year-old son Orfeas, who had impeccable manners and wore a blazer as sharp as his bowl cut.
Walter’s butler entered the ornate dining room and silently furnished glasses with wine while two maids brought plates of smoked salmon, chateaubriand, escargots and river trout garnished with dill. The adults raised their wine glasses; the children drankapfelsaft.
‘Yes, happy birthday, Papa,’ oozed Anastasia, not to be outdone by her sister. ‘To the strongest seventy-year-old man on the planet! Weadoreyou.’
