Page 45 of The Last Postcard

The house stood surrounded by its gardens, softly white and draped in shadows. Windows looked down from the highest floors like half-closed eyes, their wooden shutters carved with stars. Below, doors were thrown wide, muslin curtains swept back, lights creeping on tiles until I couldn’t tell what was inside and what was out. From the other side of the house came the sound of the party, piano notes drifting in the lantern-lit trees.

Brushing off the hat, I moved forwards, the brandy making me bold. At a pair of open doors I paused, peering inside. I saw a lounge, empty of people, flickering with candlelight. The remains of a buffet littered a sideboard and before I knew it I was rushing inside, seizing a bread roll from a basket and cramming it into my mouth, glancing over my shoulder. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten properly and on seeing that food, the flash and fire of the brandy disappeared, leaving my belly as empty as a cavern.

I had no idea what most of it was. Eggs sprinkled with red powder, I stuffed one of those down, and a strange thing in a pastry case that tasted like fish. After the opulence of the house and the gardens, I had expected the food to be the same. It wasn’t. The fish was on the turn, the eggs chalky. I seized a cutlet next, which sat in a pool of congealed cream sauce. It was not much better. I licked my fingers and turned to find the next dish.

‘I say.’

A woman was standing in the door. I froze, hoping the dim light would hide any green stains on my clothes.

‘Don’t s’pose you’ve seen Claude?’ she asked.

She was drunk, I realized, her eyes unfocused. I shook my head and fled through another set of doors on to a veranda. There were more people here, reclining on cushions that had been thrown on the marble tiles with no regard for dust or dirt. The music and noise and conversation was louder than before. On a low table beside me, a drink had been abandoned. I picked it up and took a gulp only to cough and grimace at the sting of raw liquor. I held it to the light. It glowed grenadine-red, but like the food, it didn’t taste right, left a sticky burning in my throat.

I kept hold of it anyway, trying to look as if I belonged, even though I was sweating, my hands clammy and trembling. Now that I was here, I had no idea how to go about my plan. Find Langham, I told myself, ask to speak to him in private. I swallowed hard. What happened next would depend on his reaction.

Ahead, a string of electric bulbs illuminated a path to a raised terrace, where the party was in full swing. Around a small swimming pool, people sat drinking, talking, their shoes flung off, their teeth and eyes catching the light. There was a splash: a woman in a silver dress had leapt fully clothed into the pool. She emerged to applause, the jewels around her neck sparkling with water.

Beneath an arbour, a gramophone was warbling out a record, and there beside it stood Langham, just as I remembered him, with his saint’s face and his hair slicked bright. He looked so easy there, so in control, I felt my conviction sputter and die. I’d been thinking about him as if he was one of the gentlemen at the inn; rich, indolent, predictable. But as soon as I saw him, I knew I was wrong. He might have been rich, but he was as sharp as glass.

I took a step back, turned rapidly, only to come face to face with the man from the front gate.

‘You.’ His mouth was tight with anger. ‘How did you get in?’

He seized hold of my arm. I jerked away, the glass flying from my grip, shattering on the tiles.

There was a lull in talk and laughter as people turned to look. Beneath their flat, intoxicated gazes I felt as if every ugly thing I had ever been or done was laid bare. Vomit and burning Turkish Delight, the Señor’s blood and the hot breath of the man I’d robbed in La Atunara, Bautista’s sneer, the goat-eyed man’s hostile stare. Worst of all, I felt Alejandro del Potro begin to fade. I clung on to him as I looked up, into Langham’s eyes.

‘What’s going on?’ he called. ‘Bouzid?’

‘Rien, monsieur.’ The man increased his grip on my arm. ‘An intruder. I will remove him.’

Langham was coming forwards, frowning. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re that boy, from Gibraltar. Del Potro, isn’t it?’

Behind him, I saw a figure stand. It was the woman, Lady Bailey. She looked incredulous, her mouth open.

‘Sí, señor,’ I said, my face on fire.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ He didn’t sound angry, but when I looked into his face I thought I saw the ghost of something else. Suspicion, perhaps even fear. ‘How did you find out where I live?’

‘Some people I met in the Café Central told me.’ I answered in Spanish, as if that would protect me from his glittering, scornful guests. ‘Some Americans. I am, señor, I am here …’ Beneath Langham’s gaze, all of my careful, calculated words seemed ridiculous. He would see straight through them. And that only left the truth. ‘I am here to see you.’

‘Who is this boy, Arthur?’ I heard someone call. ‘What does he want?’

‘He’s the lad I knocked down in Gibraltar,’ Langham called back, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘He says he has come all this way to see me. Isn’t that extraordinary?’

He was mocking me. An easy thing to do, to make his guests laugh. I felt anger flicker in my chest, but kept my gaze steady.

‘What do you want?’ Langham asked. He raised his eyebrows at the hat on my head. ‘I thought we parted on good terms.’

I knotted my guts. Bribery wouldn’t work now, I knew. Nor would pleading or begging. He’d sneer and throw me out for that. I needed to do something else, something surprising, that he wasn’t expecting. Rich people were always bored. I took a breath.

‘We did, señor. You were kind to me, and I have not forgotten it. So, being alone in the world, I have come to ask if you might consider allowing me to work for you, in exchange for room and board.’

There was a pause. ‘Work for me?’ Langham said. ‘Doing what exactly?’

He laughed, but his voice was careful. Looking into his eyes I felt it again, the jostling of unsaid words between us. I raised my voice.

‘I will be your private chef, señor, I will work in your kitchen and serve you and your guests. I will make anything you want. I am a good cook. You will not be disappointed.’