‘. . . They send their apologies,’ Carlotta said, pouring the champagne into tall flutes and handing them out. ‘They took advantage of the fresh powder and lost track of time. They said to go on without them.’
‘Well, when will they be back?’ Matty asked. ‘We could wait.’
‘They said they couldn’t be sure.’
Clover, Matty and Johnny swapped looks. This was becoming ridiculous.
Carlotta straightened up; her mid-length dark hair was held back in a low ponytail and she moved with a steady briskness. She was officious and seemingly not prone to smiling. ‘Dinner tonight will be tafelspitz.’
‘Tafelspitz,’ Johnny echoed blankly.
‘Yes. It is a traditional Austrian dish – boiled beef broth with root vegetables, horseradish and minced apples. Mr Foley thought you might enjoy a typical Austrian meal on your first night here.’
‘Boiled beef broth? How kind of him,’ Johnny said with a lightness that betrayed sarcasm.
‘It sounds delicious,’ Clover said quickly. ‘Is Mr Foley always so considerate to his guests?’
‘Mr Foley has never had guests here.’
‘Really?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
‘Well, I mean to say, his guests do not usually come for dinner.’
Matty caught Clover’s eye and smirked.
Clover tried to ignore her. ‘Have you worked for him long?’
Carlotta nodded with a note of pride. ‘Since he arrived in Zell am See.’
Clover took a sip of her champagne. It was good stuff, vintage – biscuity, with a golden colour. ‘So that’s over a year now, isn’t it? You must know him quite well.’
But Carlotta was clearly not inclined to chat; she briskly replaced the champagne in the ice bucket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed in the kitchen,’ she said, hurrying away.
Once she was out of sight, they swapped looks again.
‘She’s terrified you’re going to interview her,’ Matty muttered.
‘She’s right to be. She must have some dirt on them, surely?’ Clover said, reaching for an olive.
‘Well, I just wished I’d changed into my trackies,’ Matty moaned, tugging at the waistband of her skinny jeans. ‘I thought it was the least I could do to make an effort for the first meeting. But they can’t even be arsed to show up?’
‘So good of them to arrange for our dinner to be “boiled beef” though . . .’ Johnny puffed his cheeks out, feigning nausea.
‘It’s all fine,’ Clover demurred with a placidity she didn’t quite feel. ‘We shouldn’t be surprised by any of this. Foley plays games. This is what he does.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s simply showing his hand.’ She took another long, slow sip of her champagne but inside, she felt rattled. This wait, wait, constant waiting, for him to get back . . . She felt like she’d been holding her breath all day. It was disconcerting being alone in the home of the man who was her friends’ mortal enemy. They were expected, but not welcome.
‘Well, he obviously hasn’t read the sponsor’s memo about bringing us onside,’ Johnny sighed. ‘Which means it probably is going to be the arm-wrestling route.’
Matty and Clover both chuckled. Matty reached for a breadstick. ‘So when do you think they’ll show? Halfway through dinner, when we’ve got boiled beef broth dribbling down our chins?’
‘Probably.’ Clover looked around the impressive space again. It was going to take some getting used to. They were sitting by the fire, now lit and crackling away; Carlotta’s return to duty had been efficient. The town was just a confection of lights below them, the lake an ink spot below a starry sky.
‘Hey. Cool beats,’ Johnny said, noticing a vinyl record player behind the billiards table and going over for a closer inspection.
Clover looked up at the glass wall of Kit’s bedroom on the mezzanine, the copper bath gleaming even in the dark. She wished now they had taken their time up there, snooped with a little more purpose, instead of scuttling in and out within minutes.
She got up and began to wander, too restless to sit. A chess board was set and mid-play on a side table. She went over, assessed the state of the contest; moved a piece. It was weighty in her hand.
‘You’re a rebel without a cause, you know that?’ Matty asked, an eyebrow arched as she watched on.
‘Can’t help myself,’ Clover shrugged. ‘Want to see if you can beat me?’ She was teasing but it was a valid question. She was good. Her father had taught her when she was young and it had rapidly become ‘their’ game, her way of getting his attention when he came home from work. She hadn’t played in years, though. She would be rusty . . .
‘Bet I get you sub-ten moves,’ Matty said as Clover brought the small table over so they could play in front of the fire.
Clover laughed. Her friend was the most competitive person Clover had ever met. ‘Hmm, fighting talk.’
Matty sat forward on the edge of her seat, scrutinizing the state of play. ‘I’ll play white,’ she said after a moment.
‘That’s not fair. You’ve already got my bishop.’
‘I always play white,’ Matty shrugged as Clover dragged over one of the giant sheepskin beanbags and sank into it.
Clover took a deep swill of her champagne and examined how the black team was doing, minus the bishop. ‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘This is a jam.’
‘Pretty tricky,’ Matty murmured, scrutinizing the board too. ‘Which piece did you just play?’
‘Rook to F4.’
‘Hmm.’
The Who started playing through the surround-sound speakers. The quality was excellent, Johnny sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping through the stacks of records, head nodding as he sang along.
Clover sensed a tranquillity settle over the room as they stopped clock-watching, at least for a bit. The fire crackled lazily, champagne fizzing in their glasses, the quiet knock of the chunky chess pieces as they were moved around the board in a slow gliding dance.
‘How the other half live, eh?’ Matty murmured, moving her knight and taking another sip of champagne. She looked around the room again as if she could hardly believe it – living the good life in a millionaire’s ski chalet. ‘If only they didn’t have to come back; then it really would be perfect.’
‘Slight issue of paying the rent, though,’ Clover murmured back, her hand hovering over her king.
‘What are you talking about? Your flat’s worth a fortune! You could sell that and easily buy half of this.’
‘Half. That’s helpful.’
Carlotta came through to refresh their glasses. ‘Is everything . . . okay for you?’ She seemed to freeze momentarily as she took in the sight of them all – Johnny cross-legged and playing vinyls, Clover and Matty playing chess.
‘Great, thanks,’ Clover smiled.
‘Chef has said dinner will be in fifteen minutes.’
‘Wonderful.’
Carlotta hesitated, then nodded. She refilled their drinks, poked the fire and threw on another log. She hesitated as she turned to leave again and Clover saw her survey the tranquil scene, as if confused.
‘Is everything all right?’ Clover asked.
‘Yes. Yes.’ Carlotta straightened primly. ‘It is just you are not . . . what we expected.’
‘Oh?’
But Carlotta didn’t reply as she walked back towards the kitchen, leaving them all to wonder what exactly Kit, Ari and Beau had been saying about them. And what exactly were they expecting?
She stirred and turned over, her body falling back into dead weight, happy oblivion . . .
The sound came again, startling her, making her limbs twitch and her brain begin to spark, but not enough to push off the blanket of sleep. Her breathing was deep and slow, already lulling her back from this reluctant half-waking as she opened one eye and stared blankly into the blackness. But the sliver of light coming under the door in the opposite corner wasn’t where she expected it to be. The confusion roused her further. What . . .? Where . . .? Everything felt unfamiliar. She was disorientated.
Then she remembered.
She felt her muscles set with tension, her heart begin to quicken as she realized what she was hearing.
What time was it?
Her hand flailed for the phone. Three thirty-eight glowed in neon green light, creating a spectral radiance in the room. ‘Mats!’ she whispered.
Matty, her face half-covered by a silk eye mask and wearing a headband with Bluetooth that piped her dream apps straight into her ears, didn’t stir. They had stayed up as late as they could, but the early start and long journey – not to mention the emotional trepidation of what awaited them here – had forced them to eventually file downstairs for bed just after one. It was clear their hosts had no intention of ‘hosting’.
‘Mats, they’re back!’ Clover whispered, half-heartedly kicking her leg out across the space between their beds. But it was too wide to reach. Matty, somehow sensing a disturbance, groaned and turned over onto her other side.
‘Ugh.’ Still half-asleep, Clover lay perfectly still, trying to make out what was happening downstairs. She could hear the rattle of equipment scratching along the floor, knocking against walls, sliding along racks. Someone dropped something. Someone swore. Someone laughed.
It was hardly a stealth mission. They were clearly hammered, the timbre of their voices carrying up the stairs and carelessly interrupting the night, not giving a damn who was disturbed. Or perhaps that was the point – another passive-aggressive act of defiance. It was almost four in the morning. They had stayed out all day and all night, making absolutely certain that there was no chance of meeting her and the others tonight. They had wanted the snub to be absolute, making their point in the most hostile way. And now this? She wondered if Johnny had been woken up too. Whether he was lying there, listening and waiting for Ari ‘Eyeball’ Jones to come and stand at the end of his bed.
She listened to the commotion with a slowly simmering anger. She turned on her side, her back to the door and staring at the wall; she could feel the reverberations of her pounding heart on the mattress. So this was it – Foley’s first move. It was the kind of mind game Cory had described to her as they sat on his porch and stared out at a sea he could no longer surf. ‘Anger makes people weak because then they lose control,’ he had said. ‘Foley’s always looking for which buttons to press to make you lose control.’
Her anger was his aim. Was she angry right now? Yes. But she’d also been angry long before tonight. She was angry for Cory, for Mia, for those three little boys who no longer lived beside the sea; and if she was going to get what she had come for, then she had to be cleverer and calmer than that. She couldn’t afford to lose control.
She closed her eyes, determined to sleep. She breathed deliberately deeply and slowly, concentrating on softening her muscles . . . This was how she would win.
She jumped as the door to Ari’s room, beside theirs, slammed shut suddenly, with clearly no consideration for them – or Fin, or Carlotta – whatsoever. It was a ‘fuck you’ in door form. If Johnny hadn’t been scared witless before, he would be now . . .
She sighed, trying again. Breathing deeply, breathing slowly, relaxing her muscles as a quietude began to settle over the chalet once more. Everyone was in their rooms now, at least, their petty point made.
. . . But something, an instinct, fluttered through her; she had that strange sense of being watched, and her eyes opened just in time to see a cone of light on the wall snip out of sight, like the closing of a fan.
She twisted and sat up with a gasp – but the door was already shut. She sat motionless for several seconds, breathlessly replaying the moment in her head. It had all been so fast, so silent, she could almost have believed it was a trick of her imagination. A middle-of-the-night delirium. Almost. But she knew someone had been standing there, watching them. She had felt it.
Anger propelled her as she threw the covers back and flung open the door – the hallway was empty. It was beautifully lit with dim pools of amber light shining up the stone walls but she wasn’t interested in aesthetics at four in the morning. She stepped out in her t-shirt, straining to hear footsteps on the stairs, but everything was silent. Every door was shut.
She frowned, confused and muddled with sleep. Had she imagined it after all?
A tiny ‘ping’ came from the lift.
Useful on big nights when you can’t manage the stairs. She sprinted down the corridor as the doors began to close.
‘Wait!’ she gasped, but the doors were already almost touching as she got there. She had just enough time to see his head lift at the sound of her voice and his famous blue eyes meet hers for the first time.
Then he was gone.
Clover fell back against the wall, her heart pounding. The waiting was over. Not a word had been spoken, but that one look had said it all. It had blazed with contempt. It told her everything she already feared, everything she already knew – that he wasn’t going to go quietly on this. He was a world-class competitor, used to the fight.
He knew how to win. At any cost.