Page 57 of The Last Postcard

Distracted, I went to the wardrobe and pulled it open, as if I’d find the answer there. The scent of sandalwood and musk enveloped me. Here were his suits, a dozen of them, and shelves of neatly folded shirts. Here were stacks of clean, silk underwear, finely woven, and a whole rack of ties. One in particular took my liking, a deep, secretive green; the same colour as Dar Portuna’s gate. It slid from the rack like a whisper. Slowly, I looped it around my neck, feeling its coolness against the hot skin of my throat. My hand lingered on the fabric, hanging above my bound breasts …

A terrible jangling broke the silence, made my bones leap in my skin and my heart blunder into panic. It was the bell, I realized, the bell at the gate. People hardly ever rang it. Bouzid usually knew who was coming and when. The tie slithered through my fingers. As I stooped for it, I saw something crammed into the bottom of the wardrobe.

Had it not been for the colour, it wouldn’t have caught my eye, but that shade of cream linen was lodged in my memory for ever. It was the suit Langham had worn the first day I saw him, in his shining car. Despite my fear, I reached down and tugged out the jacket. It was in a terrible state; it made me angry to see it so ill treated. I began to shake it, wondering if anything could be done, only to stop. One sleeve was stained, spattered cuff to elbow with something dark and rust-coloured.

Dried blood.

The bell jangled again, for longer this time, and I shoved the jacket back into the wardrobe, slung the tie over the rack and ran from the room, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding down the stairs before I had reached the landing.

What had happened to the suit? I frantically tried to smooth my face, so that whoever was at the gate would not see the guilt or the blood spatters in my eyes.

I needn’t have bothered. It was only a small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. He stared up at me from behind a huge, flat box.

‘For Señor del Potro from Señor Souissa,’ he told me gravely.

Souissa … my mind scrambled before I recognized the name of the tailor.

‘Is he your papa?’ I asked.

The boy nodded with such wide eyes that I wondered whether his papa had spilled my secret.

As soon as I got the package inside, I forgot all about the tailor’s son. In the safety of my locked room, I loosened the string around the box, my hands clammy with anticipation. I’d requested a British-style suit – Langham was British after all – and for a moment, I was afraid that the tailor might not have been up to the job. But as soon as I lifted the tissue paper, I knew I had chosen well, for here it was: a suit of pale tan flannel, as unobtrusive as fine leather. A jacket with notched lapels, a single-breast waistcoat, wider cut trousers that hugged the waist. Three ties, deep red, pale gold and cocoa brown, and shirts, gloriously smooth and unstained. Underwear too, and socks in black and tan. I didn’t want to think about how much it would all cost. When the bill arrived, perhaps Langham would summon me into his office to explain myself. Perhaps he would close the door, leaving the two of us alone …

I stroked the unblemished sleeve of the new suit. Where had they come from, those bloodstains upstairs? Langham wasn’t injured, I was sure of that. And if it was simply an accident, why hadn’t he ordered the suit cleaned?

Lifting the clothes aside, I saw something else in the bottom of the box. It was individually wrapped, with a note pinned to the paper.

I have listed this on your bill under ‘sundries’. I am no expert in these matters, but my daughter advises me that it should suffice. Issac Souissa.

Inside was a garment made from heavy cotton. From the front it looked like a simple vest, apart from a wide elastic panel, and flat laces on either side to pull it in tight. I struggled out of my jacket, smiling at the memory of old Souissa’s horrified expression when I had told him my secret, why I was paying for his silence. He hadn’t been happy, but as soon as I had suggested I would take my business elsewhere, his face had changed. He’d swallowed and adjusted his glasses and said, I’m sure I can accommodate you, monsieur.

My hands were trembling as I drew on the new clothes: the clean underthings, the brassiere that laced in tight to flatten my chest – no awkward bandages threatening to slip or unravel – the crisp shirt, the beautiful trousers.

It all fit better than a dream, and when I looked into the mirror, I could scarcely believe what I saw. I was exactly what The Gentleman’s Guide said I should be: neat and elegant without fuss. The pale brown of the suit contrasted with my black hair, the deep red of the tie was a splash of colour, just a hint of excitement. There was a straw hat to go with the suit, trimmed with a brown band. When I put it on, I had to blink hard to stop tears from falling on that perfect cloth. No one would have recognized me as the person I was before, the scruffy, frightened kitchen girl of the Hostería del Potro. Here was my new face. Here was freedom.

I’m afraid I grew rather vain, and forgot all about Langham, and about lunch as I tried to style my hair exactly the way he did, swept back, using a few drops of olive oil in place of pomade. I posed before the mirror, hands in my pockets, leaning as any young, handsome troublemaker might. I was so preoccupied, I didn’t even realize anyone had returned, until Bouzid came looking for me.

When I opened the door, my face flushed, he paused before speaking, his eyes taking in the fine, new suit.

‘Lady Bailey has asked for an aperitif,’ he told me eventually. ‘She is beside the pool.’ He glanced at me a moment longer before striding away. I smiled to myself as I closed the door. It was as close to surprised as I had yet seen him.

Pernod, with very cold water, that was Lady Bailey’s afternoon habit. Her slim figure was not a fashion statement, I knew now, but a consequence of her devotion to her pipe. Most days, I would sneak extra things on to the tray with her drink: a bowl of salted almonds, or clean, brined olives, or tiny triangles of fresh baked bread from the casbah ovens. Sometimes she would eat it. Often not. That day, I loaded up the tray with whatever I could find, my new, fine clothes making me feel generous towards her. Since my arrival she had been distinctly cool towards me. Perhaps I would finally crack her exterior. It wasn’t until I stepped on to the terrace that I saw she was not alone.

Langham was kneeling beside her, one hand touching her arm. Where on earth had he come from? I hadn’t heard the car in the road, hadn’t heard the front gate open at all. My neck prickled. How long had he been back? Had I replaced everything properly in his wardrobe?

I was still standing there when he looked up. For a second, I couldn’t hide anything, not my surprise at seeing him, or my guilt at discovering the bloodstained suit. Hurriedly, I looked away.

‘Del Potro,’ he said.

Two words had never held so much meaning to me before. Were they a statement, a dare, a question? I said nothing. The silence bloomed between us.

‘Is that my drink?’ Lady Bailey’s voice was sharp.

‘Yes, madame,’ I murmured. Cheeks burning, I set the tray down beside her.

She said nothing more, only stared at me with her eyes shaded and her lips tight. I knew I should turn away, knew I shouldn’t look at Langham again, but it was impossible; it was as if my eyes were being pulled on a wire towards him.

‘You look very fine,’ he said. I opened my mouth to respond, but stopped, for he had stepped forwards until he was only a hand’s breadth away. ‘Though I’m afraid your tie is a little crooked.’