couldn’t possibly be related. But from the front, you’d see the same anxious expression
appear in the same kind of large, long-lashed brown eyes, and you’d have to guess again.
Not that Sergey had to. He knew they were the closest of relations – a mother and child. A
Mrs Clement and her 22-year-old daughter.
They hadn’t seen him yet. Of course, they’d expected Professor Bayeva herself to meet
them. She’d meant to, but “I’ve been called away unexpectedly, Sergey,” she’d said, “would
you mind picking up my friends? I’ll be back by nightfall.”
Sergey didn’t mind. Not only did the professor pay well but he always appreciated a
chance to practice his English. And besides, he thought, smiling to himself as he picked his
way down to them, having two such pretty ladies in my car is no hardship at all.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he enunciated carefully, in English, as he drew close to them. They
turned to look at him. “You come with me, please.” He gestured toward the road.
“No. Please go away and leave us alone,” snapped the older woman, in fairly good
Russian, her dark eyes imperious. “We are not buying anything.”
Sergey was not put off. Persisting in English, he said, “Madam, I am not selling. I am
driver. For you.”
In the same language, she said, “We didn’t ask for a driver. A friend is picking us up.”
“Yes. That is Professor Bayeva.”
“Professor Bayeva Simmons, you mean.”
“She is Professor Bayeva here,” Sergey said gently. He looked into the woman’s lustrous
dark eyes – he’d always loved dark eyes most of all – and went on, “And she is sorry – ah,
Mrs. Clement –” he pronounced the name and title carefully “–but she must go on urgent
business today. So she ask me. I drive taxi. Often she take it. You see?”
“I do see,” said Mrs. Clement, a smile softly lighting up her face. “Well, Mr. –”
“Filippov,” he said, promptly, returning her smile. “Sergey Olegovich Filippov, at your
service.”
“Well, then, Mr. Filippov, where’s your car?”
“Close. I take bags for you please,” said Sergey, cheerfully, reaching for the handles of
the two big suitcases. There was a little exchange then between mother and daughter which he
didn’t understand because they’d spoken not in English, but in French. Professor Bayeva had
told him that Mrs. Clement was originally French, but now lived in England, and had once
been married to an American. But though he could not understand the words, the meaning was
clear enough. The girl wasn’t keen on him taking her bag. It didn’t offend him – he had a
much-loved niece about the same age, and she could be just as snippy about anyone touching
her things, as though they contained State secrets. Shooting an understanding glance at them,