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7.06? Shit!
Sophie flung back the sheet and rolled out of bed. Dorian’s still asleep? Then she remembered where she was, and sank back onto the mattress, collecting as many of her wits as she could find. Which frankly wasn’t a lot: she’d woken at two to pump, found it too hot to get back to sleep, taken a shower, tried to read but her head was aching and she didn’t have any aspirin. Those two glasses of wine... ‘Fool,’ she scolded herself. A vision came to her of the homeless wreck who begged by the pharmacy in Sentabour. Then her sister Lexie lecturing her: ‘A fucked up world like this and you’re bringing children into it? That’s selfish, Sophie. Selfish and irresponsible.’ Sophie groaned, swung herself out of bed, and clamped the pump to her breast.
She wondered about the others. Must be some mighty hangovers skulking around. Martin’s especially, or else he was just not good at holding his drink. Either way, he’d been so incensed by Eddy Ferrucci’s determination to be rude that the pair of them ended up in a fight. While Gareth humbly went off to get the luggage, Martin had sprung to his defence, finally responding to Ferrucci’s persistent taunting by jumping from his chair, putting up his fists and challenging him to a fight. ‘Egad, sir, you’re a boorish brute! Come on now, Queensbury rules. What? Are you yellow too? The blackguard!’ When Eddy laughed him away, Martin grabbed him in a bear hug, attempting to lift him from the chair, with the consequence that it toppled over and they writhed around on the terrace like a many-limbed monster in its death throes. Gareth tried to untangle them but to no great effect, and it was only when Isadora, with far greater energy, threw herself on top of them that they finally rolled apart.
‘All in jest,’ panted Martin, miserably failing to arrange his shirt correctly. ‘Bit of harmless fun.’
Eddy didn’t look so sure, but he managed to retain a little more dignity about his person, and as he sat down again, he remarked with a chuckle, ‘That’s the spirit! I’ve always heard that the heart of a novel is conflict. Isn’t that right, Forster?’
Sophie had gone to bed at that point, and a few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs, the others having also concluded that the evening’s conviviality was dead and buried. Poor Adeline and Gareth. After all that work. What sort of group dynamic now? But perhaps, she thought, as she fell asleep, by the end of the week we’ll be chanting in unison in the Zenhouse.
The first indication that it wasn’t going to work out like that came as she made her way downstairs and met a distressed Penelope Best coming up, smart as ever in a blue sleeveless dress, but hair all over the place. Ignoring Sophie’s cheery ‘Good morning,’ she stared back in confusion, almost, it seemed, in fear; then she removed a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead, muttered something incomprehensible and carried on up the stairs, her face screwed up in a fair imitation of Dorian’s wrinkled tomato. A bout of colic? But she’d neither eaten nor drunk to excess, only forsaking her composure to rebuke her husband, and even then it was soft, discreet, and Sophie had thought that she must have a horror of drawing attention to herself. Wondering what could have caused such a fluster, Sophie continued somewhat apprehensively downstairs.
Apparently nothing, at least not in the dining room, where Isadora, bright and breezy as ever, greeted her with a perky ‘Good morning! Did you sleep all right?’ before turning her back to arrange jars of homemade jam on the sideboard. ‘It’s self-serve, tea or coffee, but we can fix chocolate if you want. Ever so sorry, we’re running a bit late. But Gareth’s just come in with fresh baguettes and croissants, I’ll just – ah, here they are, lovely!’ This last was addressed to Gareth, whose head loomed briefly in the hatch leading to the kitchen. Sophie caught a glimpse of his face, harassed and grim, as he handed the bread through. Behind him, an equally frazzled Adeline scuttled in a billow of steam at the hob, while the morning’s news droned from a radio in the background. The hatch slammed shut again.
Sophie mumbled her thanks and filled a cup with coffee. ‘Eggs and bacon too if you want the full English.’ Isadora proudly opened a chafing dish, emitted a throaty chortle, and whooshed back to the kitchen.
Forgoing the bacon in favour of bread and jam, Sophie sat down. She didn’t know much about English aristocrats, but she thought Isadora might be one, exuding the sort of jollity that came from generations of blithely ruling an empire, signing off her declarations with the emphasis of a foghorn. ‘I recommend the quince and cinnamon. Haw! Haw!’
Out on the terrace, for those so inclined, you could sit in a group round the table; if you preferred less company, there were tables for two inside. Sophie hesitated: the only other guest was Maya Ferrucci, strangely small beneath the luxuriant pergola. Deciding she ought to make an effort to be sociable, Sophie waved and took a step towards her. Maya neither returned the greeting, nor even acknowledged her, and Sophie, muttering, ‘Fair enough,’ turned back and sat down inside.
A few minutes later, as she was reading a message from Luc – All good, on our way soon xxx – Lyle walked in and placed a hand on the opposite chair. ‘May I?’
Sophie slid the phone aside. ‘Of course,’ she said, though by that time she’d decided that Maya had done her a favour; at least until she was fully awake, she’d be quite happy not making the effort. Lyle had no such trouble: apart from copious amounts of sweat trickling down his scalp, he seemed to be in fine, sociable shape, launching straightaway into a commentary on the evening’s entertainment that veered – surprise, surprise – into a speech about proper writer’s machismo, as practiced by Hemingway and Mailer. ‘Martin in comparison? Diddly-squat. As for Eddy, god knows what it was. An attack of verbal acne.’
‘Do you think he’ll be able to keep it up all week?’
‘The offensiveness? Quite some feat if he does.’
‘You know what my theory is? It wasn’t aimed at Gareth at all but Maya. Did you notice? The more she giggled, tried to make light of it, the thicker he piled it on.’
‘Maybe. I was a bit too far gone myself to notice.’
‘You seem to have recovered very well.’
‘Couple of paracetamol before bed. Generally does the trick. Not that I make a habit of it, I hasten to add.’ He took a soggy bite of croissant dunked in coffee, barely pausing to munch before going on, ‘Alcohol and writing. It’s a common misconception they go together, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Look at Scott Fitzgerald. Great writer but only three books in him. Of course, you could argue...’
Nodding at what she hoped were appropriate moments, letting his pleasant, mellow voice wash over her, Sophie drifted into a drowsy form of awareness, little whirls of activity impinging from a distance: Adeline and Isadora flitting in and out; the hatch opening and shutting; a head or a pair of hands popping through. Gareth reappeared in the kitchen where the fractious atmosphere continued to hiss and spit. Must be the heat. As if the day wasn’t hot enough already, to be at a stove must -
‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Something to do with stream of consciousness. Or had he moved on to Henry James? ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Absolutely.’
Lyle shot her a puzzled glance. Then studied his croissant as if surprised to see it still there and took another large bite.
‘Good morning.’ Claire arrived, smile as summery as the pale floral dress swishing about her calves. They returned the greeting, she made a circular movement with her hand, and her entrance in this way expedited, helped herself from the buffet and withdrew to a corner of the room.
‘Both of them were, in fact,’ said Lyle, flakes spilling from his lips. Then, ‘This heat, goddammit,’ he muttered, as two symmetrical beads of sweat emerged in front of his ears. ‘Makes the morning workout a real challenge.’
‘Quite.’ Both of who? Oh God, wake up, you twit! Can’t ask now – change the subject. ‘Is Isadora the cook here? The dinner was delicious.’
He nodded. ‘The “renowned local chef” dropped out at the last minute.’
‘Ah.’ Hardly surprising the Forsters were on edge – they were in over their necks. ‘But she writes too, she said.’
‘Yeah. She’s had a few stories published. Davina Crest, she calls herself.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Erotica.’
‘Really?’ Sophie’s interest was piqued. She’d assumed something erudite – historical fiction, maybe – but in fact it fitted perfectly. The chirpy features and lustiness, the hair cut in an old-fashioned bob that made her look like a flapper from the 1920s, the generous bellow of her laugh... Bet she romps in a sumptuous oasis.
Then Eddy Ferrucci appeared in the doorway, and Sophie muttered, ‘Uh-oh. Looks like he’s still got the acne.’
Lyle turned to look, offering a cheeky ‘Morning, Monsieur Ferrucci! Did you have a good night?’
Ignoring him, Eddy collared Adeline, who was at the buffet, passing instructions to Isadora through the hatch. ‘Our shower head. It needs fixing.’
She turned to him, forcing a smile. ‘Gareth said he saw to it yesterday.’
‘Well, I hope his writing’s better than his plumbing. It sprays all over the place.’
‘Right. Well, as soon as he has a moment, he’ll see to it.’ The smile didn’t waver, only a twitch of her eyes betraying annoyance. Eddy went outside to join his wife.
‘Makes you wonder why he’s even here,’ said Sophie. ‘Both of them in fact. What are they hoping to get out of it?’
‘The Dreadful Duo,’ Lyle concurred. ‘Poor Forsters. Tough.’
Isadora came in with Gareth, whose mood had improved enough to wish everyone good morning, bowing somewhat obsequiously as he did so, a performance abruptly brought to an end when Adeline whispered to him, indicating Eddy. Gareth glowered and grimaced; his hands made as if to strangle the poxy creep; then he stomped away, looking more inclined to destroy the shower than fix it.
The Ferruccis came back inside, having found a new complaint. ‘Someone’s burning leaves,’ Maya declared. ‘Don’t they know it’s forbidden?’
‘Oh, the neighbour,’ said Adeline. ‘He does that sometimes. I’ll have a word.’
Claire looked up with a sympathetic smile, though it wasn’t obvious quite where her sympathies lay. With the displeased Ferruccis? Or the Forsters subjected to such torment? Possibly, even, with whoever was causing the smoke. Claire, you felt, had sympathy in abundance.
But no one else reacted, and Maya, deciding she’d finished her breakfast anyway, murmured something in her husband’s ear and flounced away. Isadora followed her, and from where she was sitting, Sophie saw them pursue a testy exchange at the foot of the stairs.
Eddy helped himself to breakfast and sat down. He took out his phone, in which he was soon absorbed, switching between his bread and jam and his messages. It didn’t take long to finish both, and he left the room in something of a hurry.
Sophie watched him join the discussion by the stairs, and then Gareth came down making appeasing gestures, apparently with a positive report on the shower. The group split up, Eddy and Maya returning to their room, the other two to the kitchen.
‘According to Isadora, Ferrucci’s not a writer at all, he’s a businessman.’ Lyle curled his lip as if it was a dirty word. ‘Consultancy work, whatever that means. In Africa, what’s more. That has to be dodgy, surely. Advising dictators is my bet.’ This led him to a consideration of narrative technique in Heart of Darkness, which to Sophie’s relief was interrupted by Claire stopping at their table on her way out. ‘See you in the workshop,’ she said to Sophie. ‘Adeline says we’re going to do flowers. If we want, that is, but I think I do. A change from my normal stuff. Have you seen her work on the stairs? I’m so envious!’ She rippled her fingers and slid away, pretty as a flower herself.
‘Promises to be interesting, anyway,’ said Sophie. ‘Though I don’t think I’ll have much time for flowers. My family’s coming soon. Invading, should I say,’ she added, thinking of Tatty Fur.
‘Meanwhile I shall be doing my best with the Bests. At least he’s entertaining.’
‘Mmm. Up to a point, I suppose.’ She glanced round. ‘Conspicuously absent this morning.’
‘Recovering from last night, I guess.’
‘I think they both are. I met Penelope on the stairs. She looked as if she was about to throw up.’
At that point, Isadora came in and, seeing no one else in the dining room, approached their table, wringing her hands as if she’d just stepped out of a Greek tragedy. ‘It’s terrible!’ she cried. ‘There are people dying all over the place!’
‘Um...’ Sophie blinked, wondering what to do with the sad but inevitable truth that every minute of every day, somewhere in the world, people died. ‘You mean...?’
‘The heatwave. We’ve just heard on the news. They’re dying by the hundreds. All the elderly. It’s awful!’ Isadora stood there miserably, so shocked, it seemed, that Sophie thought she must have relatives among the dead. ‘What can we do?’
Sophie didn’t know. She thought of her grandfather in Lille, her grandmother in Bourges, both alone and vulnerable, and realised she hadn’t been in touch for ages. Had the neighbours checked to see if everything was all right? Luc’s grandmother too, still sprightly at 88, but now increasingly forgetful. And poor, frail Dorian, surely at risk as well – had Luc been keeping him hydrated? It struck her again how self-indulgent it was to be cosseted in this ivory tower, lamenting the dreadful hardship of painting a rose. Finding no answer to Isadora’s question, she merely shook her head.
At that moment Martin Best approached from the terrace, the bulk of his silhouette framed in the sliding door. Hair plastered to his forehead, shirt flaps dangling, dark map of sweat covering his chest. He opened his mouth but no sound came. When he finally spoke, his voice was a horrified croak. ‘Henri Seibel – the neighbour – he’s dead!’
‘What?’ Isadora’s hands went up. ‘Him too?’
‘Too?’ Martin stared at her, bewildered.
‘The heatwave... All over the place, people dropping like flies.’
‘What? No...’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been murdered.’
