It was Christmas Eve before the inevitable row burst. He was dressing for dinner, which they did for just two nights and had Boxing Day in mufti—kids in new pullovers, Rod in new socks and slippers, and, if he showed up, the Fat Man in a shiny new “weskit” or a bow tie Troy would see him wear once and never again.
From Sasha and Hugh’s room came the first low-flying cliché.
“Bitch!”
Well, she was, wasn’t she? But she was their bitch, and every time Hugh called her that Troy would happily have thumped him.
He was in his own room, which was unfortunately next to theirs, trying in vain to ignore the swapping of insults, and to tie his own bow tie.
He heard a door slam, then the door to his room opened, and when he turned around Sasha was pressed against it, tears of rage refusing to roll from her eyes.
“I swear, Freddie, one day soon I’ll kill the fucker.”
“Don’t,” he said simply. “I am awash in death right now. Save it for the new year when you’re bored and having nothing else to do.”
She moved off the door, neat and beautiful in her little black dress.
“Sorry,” she said, a word that hardly ever passed her lips. “Wasn’t thinking.”
She stood in front of him, took the two ends of his bow tie in her hands.
“Venetia?”
Troy nodded.
“Was it your case?”
“It was Jack who was called out,” Troy said, only half lying.
“But it was an accident, wasn’t it? I mean, I’d hate to think …”
“Yes,” he said, lying. “It was an accident.”
Her hands created the knot that always seemed to elude him, saying as she did so what she had said to him since childhood whenever she tied his tie, “The little rabbit runs round and round the tree, and then he goes down the little rabbit hole.”
And with that he was looped, and tied, and dressed.