Page 51 of The Last Postcard

‘Then you must promise to listen carefully, and to hear it whole, beginning to end, for I’ll only tell it the once.’

Sam looked up in surprise. ‘I will, I mean, of course.’

The man gestured at the glass. ‘Drink to it.’

He drank. Brandy stung his tongue, followed by sharp herbs and bitter citrus. It was strong. When he swallowed, the liquor seemed to fill him from gullet to gut.

‘What is this?’ he asked, into the quiet. Beyond the door he could hear faint evening birdsong, the clatter of kitchen pans.

The stranger smiled. ‘The beginning.’

Twin Six

Take a dash of imported grenadine and four dashes of fresh orange juice. Add the white of one egg, half a pony of Italian vermouth and a jigger of dry English gin. Shake well together and strain. Smooth, and very deceptive.

I awoke abruptly, with sweat-drenched limbs and a thundering heart. For a minute, I didn’t know where I was.

Light was filtering in through a carved window screen, illuminating a small room, pristine white sheets that were tangled about my legs. Then I remembered: the party. The food and the encounter with Langham. Afterwards, Bouzid had shown me here, and I’d been too tired to do anything except lock the door, struggle out of my suit, and fall face first on to the bed.

Sitting up, I looked about the room. There was a bureau, a silver lamp, a patterned woollen rug. I stared at it all, thrilled and terrified in equal measure. I had never had my own room before. Slowly, the sense of wonder faded. This would not come free. Nothing did. Langham wanted something in return.

I swung my legs to the floor. Loyalty, that’s what he’d demanded last night. I had agreed; of course I had. Did he know I was lying? I’d never been loyal to anything or anyone before, except, perhaps, to Ifrahim.

The suit I’d bought in La Atunara was crumpled on the chair. The sight of it made me hesitate. It was stained in places, and the length of bandage I had been using to bind my chest was beginning to yellow with sweat. I tightened it reluctantly. I wanted cool, clean linen. I wanted to wander out into the garden dressed in a morning robe and slippers, with no one to answer to or decide what the day held but myself.

Of course, I couldn’t do that. I could only dress again in the suit, wash my face and wet my hair to make it presentable, and step outside the door, to see what was waiting.

I hadn’t seen much of the house last night. I only knew that my bedroom was on the ground floor. I crept down a short corridor into a kind of courtyard, open to the sky. Everything was quiet, only the sound of birds and a clock ticking somewhere. Was Langham sleeping now? Did he wear fine, satin pyjamas? Was he brought his breakfast on a delicate tray? A staircase wound up to a balcony, where the bedrooms must be. I wanted to walk up there, explore dressing rooms and bathrooms and lounges. Instead, I turned, and found my way back to the kitchen.

It had been cleaned, scrubbed of the previous night’s mess and debris. A basket of fruit stood on the table, as though just delivered; apricots and melons, prickly pears and yellow plums. There was no one around to see, so I helped myself. The plums were mottled like the gold of a church altar; they had a drowsy sweetness which filled my mouth. I took another.

Outside, the sun was burning through the freshness of dawn. All around was gentle birdsong, the sound of water. I stepped on to the path, examining the place in daylight.

High white walls surrounded the garden of Dar Portuna. The house was perched on the very edge of the city: on one side were the narrow streets, on the other the remains of old crumbling fortifications, and a steep slope, running all the way down to the port. Citrus trees lined the walls, their dusty leaves hiding orbs of yellow. An old fig tree stood, bent-backed, in one corner. The paths had been swept, last night’s revels tidied away. I came to a stone bench next to a star-shaped fountain, where lilies grew, water caught in their throats. Here, in this garden, the sharp edges of the world were held at bay. Something only the rich could afford: such peace in the heart of a city.

‘Del Potro.’

I spun around, like a guilty thing.

Lady Bailey stood watching me, her pale hair ruffled above her chin, a blue embroidered robe dragging on the ground. I met her gaze. The last time I’d seen her, she had been lying on a pile of cushions with a silver pipe in her hand.

‘You stayed,’ she said.

I remembered some manners, and dropped my gaze. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, you stayed.’ She came towards me, to sit on the bench.

‘Yes.’ I backed up a few paces. ‘Monsieur Langham has given me a room, near the kitchens. I am to be the new cook.’

She looked at me, her grey eyes hard. ‘He never lets people stay. They can drink until the sun comes up, so long as they go home at the end. Why is it different for you?’

I remembered Langham’s face, close to mine in the darkness of the study – the strange tension between us as he asked for my loyalty.

‘I am not a guest,’ I murmured. ‘I am here to work.’

She said nothing, only frowned at me, sucking in her lower lip. Were they lovers, after all? Was she jealous? Her piercing gaze made me nervous.

‘Please excuse me,’ I said. ‘I must go and see if Monsieur Langham would like breakfast.’