Page 42 of The Last Postcard

I nodded, glancing over my shoulder, wondering how to escape.

‘I always can tell.’ She began to search through a tiny bag on her lap. ‘Looking for anyone?’

I took a step away, only to hesitate. The Americans looked wealthy enough. And I had to start somewhere. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I am looking for someone. His name is Arthur Langham.’

They looked blank. I repeated my question in broken French, until the blond man made a noise of recognition.

‘Langham? Is that what you’re saying? Langham?’

‘Sí, Langham,’ I tried to swallow the sound as he did. ‘You know him?’

‘Sure. He lives up on the hill.’ He jerked his hand vaguely. ‘Big place, huh, Dolores?’

‘Langham?’ The woman frowned. ‘Oh, him! Yes, what’s his place called? Like a ship, or a goddess.’

‘Dar Portuna,’ the third man said moodily.

‘That’s it! Dar Portuna.’ She looked at me. ‘Why? Do you actually know the man?’

I faltered. I had known that Langham was rich, and upper class; the woman with him had been a Lady after all, but these people spoke about him as if he were a king. My suit, which had felt so respectable in La Atunara, seemed to be unravelling as I stood there, revealing me for what I was. A stray dog, trailing along after a scrap of kindness. I firmed my chin.

‘Yes, I know Langham,’ I said, with as much confidence as I could. ‘We were in Gibraltar together. I was going to call on him, but I lost his address. Perhaps you would be kind, and show me the way?’

The woman’s eyes kept landing on parts of my face, my lip, my cheek, the corner of my eye. This close, I could smell the gin she had been drinking, her powder and perfume.

‘Why certainly,’ she said. ‘I’d be delighted to. Join us, won’t you?’

The men seemed none too pleased when she said that, but they shifted their chairs to make room for me.

‘Dolores Moberly.’ She gave me her hand, and I brushed my lips across it. ‘That’s Bobby Tallerton and Jim Clough.’ She gestured at the two men.

‘Glad to meet you,’ I said, not caring which was which. ‘My name is del Potro. Alejandro del Potro.’

‘Well, isn’t this something?’ Dolores was leaning towards me. ‘To meet a friend of Mr Langham’s down here in the socco. I confess I’ve only been up to the house once, so far. It’s the devil’s work to get an invitation. I’m sure we won’t have any trouble, though, with you being a personal friend.’

I almost laughed when I heard her tone. She thought I was her ticket into Langham’s house, when in fact she was mine.

‘Do you know,’ I asked, doing my best impersonation of a gentleman’s bored voice, ‘if Lady de Luca Bailey is here with him?’

Dolores’ eyes grew round. ‘You know Lady Bailey too?’

‘Sí, señorita. I saw her only a few days ago.’

‘I believe she is here, yes. I must say, though, she isn’t what I would call a good hostess. She didn’t do a scrap of entertaining when I was there last, not one introduction—’

‘That’s because she isn’t the hostess,’ one of the men said lazily. ‘She’s just a guest up there.’

‘What trash,’ Dolores laughed. ‘Everyone knows she and Langham are special friends.’

‘Not what I heard,’ the other man said, with a strange, leering smile. ‘I heard he’s one of them.’

‘But the two of them have been seen together,’ Dolores persisted. ‘And people say he was engaged to a Russian heiress, after the war.’

‘Smoke and mirrors, darling,’ the man said, taking a cigarette. ‘It always is.’

Dolores turned her bright eyes on me. ‘Well, which is it? Surely you know whether Langham and Lady Bailey are … au fait.’

‘I—’ I stammered. I had no idea whether Langham and Lady Bailey were a couple. They had certainly seemed close. But I remembered the feel of Langham’s eyes on me, his expression. One of them. My face began to burn.