Romy’s life is less monitored than that of the average Drone. But still, she spends the next twenty-four hours feeling as though she has a flashing beacon attached to her back and everyone is staring. But the day goes on and nobody looks and nobody comments, and she goes through the motions without anyone spotting that something is different in her world. And, inside, little grains of fear and anticipation. Because, whatever Vita says, having Lucien’s eye light upon you will change your life forever.
She takes her time in the Bath House in the middle of the morning, when there’s not much competition. Washes twice with the lavender soap from her box, rinses and rinses her naked scalp, trims her fingernails and toenails, and goes to find her solstice dress. It lies, ironed and neatly folded by the Launderers, beneath her spare uniform. It’s not hard to slip it into her backpack that’s usually full of tools and take it with her without anyone noticing.
In the Great House, Vita waits for her where the sweeping staircase meets the first-floor landing, and leads her briskly, in silence, past the series of knocked-through bedrooms that constitute the Infirmary and its pharmacy, to the door that leads to the private quarters. The number of people who have gone past this door can be counted on one’s fingers and toes, and they never speak of what they’ve seen.
I’m one of those, now, thinks Romy. Me, who has always been an outsider here.
Vita fetches a key from her pocket. Turns and looks Romy up and down. Then she shakes her head slightly, as though the sight of her leaves her mystified, and opens up.
They step onto a staircase. Soft moss wool carpet, white walls. The carpet is so thick that their footsteps are muffled as they walk. Vita stops at the first door in the corridor at the top, pushes it open. ‘You can get changed in here,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait outside. There’s an en suite. You might want to wash, I suppose.’
She goes in. It’s a bedroom, the sort she’s read about in books. High ceilings, high windows, a four-poster, a chaise longue, a full-length cheval glass in one corner, a linen press, a dressing table. She’s surprised to realise that she knows all the words, although she has never seen such furniture in the flesh before. That extra year in the Pigshed, reading, when she was fourteen. The room is spotless. Not a mote of dust in the shaft of sunlight that falls through the curtains, the bedclothes folded neatly on top of the bed, awaiting an occupant.
She puts her rucksack on the chaise.
Who cleans this? she wonders. It’s not just sitting here. Someone comes in and cleans. A Launderer, I suppose, sworn to secrecy.
She goes through the door to the right, and gasps. There’s a bath. A whole bath, for one bedroom. And a basin that sits atop a cupboard and what she can only assume is a flush toilet. That can’t work, surely? All this way up in the top of the house? How does the water get here?
She turns a tap on the sink and hot water gushes out. They have plumbing downstairs, of course, but the water comes in a trickle, to preserve resources. She puts her hand on the handle that sticks out of the porcelain cistern above the toilet, pushes it down and laughs in astonishment as water thunders into the pan. She’s heard of these, but never seen one. It’s like magic.
She washes her face perfunctorily, sniffs her armpits, but despite her nervousness she can still smell a faint whiff of lavender. On the sink lies a whole bar of the same soap, still wrapped in its greasproof paper. She makes a note to bring her old bar and swap it for that one, if she’s invited back. And allow time for a bath all to herself. If she’s invited back.
Of course I will be, she thinks. He won’t find me wanting.
She changes into her dress and studies herself in the mirror. Long and thin and strong and tanned, eyes big and green and frightened. I look vulnerable, she thinks. He’ll like that. I can kill a sheep with my bare hands – have killed a sheep with my bare hands – but I know what he’ll want today is an innocent to teach. I can give him that. I shall give him anything he wants, because the world depends on it.
She lets herself out.
‘Rules,’ says Vita.
‘Yes,’ says Romy.
‘You never speak to anyone about anything here.’
‘No.’
‘And you do what he asks and you never question him.’
‘Of course,’ says Romy. ‘I always have.’
‘And you leave when he tells you to.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you must please him, or you won’t be asked back.’
‘I want to please him,’ she says. ‘I want nothing more. But I’m afraid I won’t know how.’
Vita looks suddenly softer. ‘Don’t be afraid, Romy. Everyone’s a bit afraid, their first time. Just be grateful that it’s Lucien. You’ll get used to it. Just remember that he wants the best for all of us.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Oh, I know.’
‘Right,’ says Vita, and knocks on the door to Lucien’s quarters.
There’s a strange smell. Oily, chemical and yet not. As if he’s been burning something. Lucien stands in the doorway, blocks her view of the rest of the room, and leans a forearm on the jamb. He’s wearing loose cotton drawstring trousers and a billowy shirt in some feather-light, soft material that she’s not encountered before. Silk? Cotton? She’s not sure. Its buttons are undone halfway to the bottom, and she sees a medallion on a leather cord like the one his children wear, and a sea of curly white chest hair.
‘Romy,’ he says, ‘come in, my dear.’
As she crosses the threshold she glances back and sees Vita standing at the door to her own quarters. The look on her face is odd. Despairing. Lost. She loves him, she thinks. Then: no, she loved him once and now she doesn’t know what to do with that. And then she steps into his room and he closes the door behind her, and she becomes the next in line.
She’s in a large room, a salon, doors to the left, door to the right, panels of blond wood on the walls and two huge sofas in dark green velvet. Lucien goes over to one and throws himself upon it, stretches out and leans on one elbow to drink her in. ‘I’ve been looking forward to knowing you,’ he says.
‘Thank you,’ she replies, proud and uncertain. Music – some music she doesn’t recognise, no voices, soaring – coming from black boxes sited on either side of a working fireplace. A table at the back of the nearest sofa, on which a silver tray laden with a dozen, two dozen bottles resides. A huge screen hanging on the wall. She realises that it’s a television. Of course. He has to record the news from somewhere. He watches it on this, plays edited highlights on the projector in the dining hall. She takes a couple of steps forward.
‘Don’t be shy,’ says Lucien. She walks over and looks out of the tall windows. He must watch them all from above, like God studying ants, as they scurry about their business. And then the view beyond the woods. Spectacular. The most spectacular thing she’s ever seen. The chequerboard of green that stretches to the distant blue hills, the small white houses crouched by clumps of trees, the two shades of silver where a river meets the sea.
She turns back to him. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says.
He throws himself to his feet with remarkable energy. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Come and sit with me. But first, a drink. What would you like?’
‘I don’t—’ She looks at him standing by his drinks tray, sees the tendons straining in his throat as he gives her a broad, wolfish, empty smile. Drugged, she thinks. He’s drugged. Is that what that smell is? ‘I don’t know what anything ...’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ he says. Picks up a series of bottles and studies their labels. ‘Cherry brandy,’ he says, ‘you’ll like that,’ and he slops a large measure of something deep red and sticky into a glass. Carries it over to his big green sofa. There’s a sheepskin on the floor in front of the fire. Long hair, combed and silky. She’s never seen such wool.
‘Merino?’ She gestures to it.
‘Leicester longwool,’ he replies. ‘From before you were born. Come. Sit.’
She obeys. Perches on the edge of the sofa, like a débutante at a ball. Lucien presses her drink into her hand. Picks up a glass half full of some golden liquid and takes a gulp. His pupils are tiny pinpricks in those faded blue irises. There’s a dish on the coffee table, and lying in it is a long white roll of paper, like a cigarette only longer and fatter, half charred. It’s this that the smell’s coming from, she thinks. He’s been breathing in the smoke. She sips from her glass. Strong and acrid, and yet noxiously sweet. This will make me drunk really fast, she thinks, and then she thinks, maybe that would be a good thing, and takes a larger sip. Lucien watches her through narrowed eyes, little ripples of self-satisfaction playing over his lips.
‘I’m not your Father any more, Romy,’ he says. ‘In here, by ourselves, I’m not your Father at all.’