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They all apparently thought about their diet since coming on the island. Ben glanced down at his prawn cocktail crisps sandwich then eyed the family-sized bag of Maltesers he’d been planning on for pudding and muttered, ‘Next.’
‘What about the money thing, Ben? I don’t want to appear mercenary, but it’s a worry…’
‘He reckoned he was diversifying. Well,weare, I suppose. I don’t know what that means, but it’s into property and pharmaceutics apparently, so that sounds okay, yeah?’
Squeezy flicked him a glance of amusement. ‘You do know that don’t mean animals—farming, yeah?’
Ben went for him, but Squeezy was too quick, and the rest of the meeting was conducted with him making his contributions from the attic. It didn’t improve them much.
Tim puffed his cheeks out and pointed out happily, ‘At least the mystery project worked out well. He clearly enjoyed the sailing, and as for this island…’
‘Yeah, bees knees, this place. Lovely big black phallus is annoying though. I’d like to fucking climb that.’
Tim turned his back a little to the hole in the ceiling, presumably going for theout of sight out of mindsolution to his boyfriend. ‘Although…I suppose this isn’t just it, is it, Ben? He’ll have…plans for this place.’
Ben propped his chin on his hands, staring out of the un-shuttered window to the sea. ‘He’s always got plans.’ Ben could hear the defensiveness in his voice, but also the pride. Nikolas wasalwaysplanning; it was who he was. And they weren’t always bad schemes either.
He smiled and put his feet up onto the branch, tearing open his bag of chocolates. ‘I think it’s actually over. I think we can say Op WoundedWarriorhas finally been won.’ He sat straighter at the silence that greeted this (what he had hoped to be roundly cheered) announcement. ‘What?’
‘Fuck, Diesel, for a man who don’t believe in poking bloody fate, you do have a funny way of showing it.’
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Aleksey had finally discovered the identity of the mystery photographer.
She had posed herself on the steps leading down from the front of Guillemot to the tennis lawn, legs tightly together, knees artfully slipped to one side, a stylish, very slim woman with a thin, hungry face. The caption of this photograph readMe, taken by D, first Christmas at Guillemot, December 1933.
Mrs Wallis Simpson didn’t look all that charmed to be spending her holiday season on an island in the middle of nowhere, but then, Aleksey assumed, she felt there were future compensations to be balanced against this sacrifice. She wasn’t alone with her beloved, as there were other pictures of this Christmas party which showed various groups of people posing at the lighthouse, at the pavilion and, occasionally, getting in and out of small sailing dinghies.
He was astounded by the number and variety of people they had known, although he probably shouldn’t have been. Artists, writers, aristocracy, politicians, European royalty, they’d all come to Guillemot at one time or another.
The next photograph jumped some years, but was interesting in its own way, mainly because of the caption. This time Wallis must have gotten one of these friends to take the photo, because they were sitting together at the pavilion. Ostensibly, they both appeared much the same as in previous photos. He was in a belted suit jacket with trousers that came down below his knees to boots. She was wearing trousers, too, wide legged, which looked stylish on her. She was still extremely thin and was holding tightly to his arm, whether through possessiveness or affection, the fading sepia did not reveal.
On the back, she’d writtenKing Edward VIII, my boy,February 1936.
Possessiveness, Aleksey reckoned.
The next few photographs showed the new king and his wife-to-be at more parties and more sailing through the summer of his first year on the throne. On one of her taken inside the main room, she’d writtenShort break at Luz, November 1936. David still in London with Winston, working on marriage plans. She was sitting perched on a sofa, a curved, elegant piece of furniture that matched the room. Once more in a dress, she held herself upright, regal, and dignified—a queen in waiting.
Aleksey flicked ahead and found one dated 1937. He read it before looking at the picture:Here for some weeks to escape the press. David terribly angry. All in turmoil, but Guillemot will do him good.Summer 1937.
They were sitting together on the steps in front of the house. He didn’t look any different than in the one taken of them at the pavilion only a year earlier. But he was no longer a king. It must have been nice while it lasted, Aleksey reflected.
He wondered where the others were, what they were doing, and thought about going to find them. He knew where Ben had stashed the bottles of wine they’d not yet drunk, and felt their pull. He suspected Ben had counted them though.
He had almost got to the end of the first box. He quickly scanned the remaining few, parties and more parties. It didn’t seem as if the new Duke and Duchess of Windsor lost many friends over the abdication.
He stretched and toed Radulf to see if he was still alive and then suggested a walk. Radulf dragged himself to his feet and put his front paws up on the seat, as if checking the weather first. Aleksey stood; there were voices outside, and Ben and Squeezy appeared, trailed by Tim. Radulf jumped the rest of his vast body up excitedly onto the seat, and in doing so knocked the unopened box to the ground, where its contents spilled out.
Aleksey began to ease them into a pile with a foot, but it hurt, so he stopped and scolded the dog instead.
Ben came in and caught him around the waist and kissed him. He smelt of wood and wind and sea. Capitalising on Ben’s apparently excellent mood, Aleksey asked, ‘Did you enjoy your picnic?’
Ben nodded, still kissing into his neck.
‘That must have been nice: food.’
