“And he never suspects?”
“Amazing how overinflated egos can blind powerful men, isn’t it?”
Am I surprised? I’m not sure I am, even though I had no idea she had such a devious streak. I am mildly impressed and happier than ever that she has my back.
“You’re married to him so you can manage him? That can’t be all. What do you get out of the relationship, Alice?”
“Security. Companionship. The usual. He also has a talented tongue and a sizeable penis that he knows how to use. The man is an animal in bed.”
“Alice!” I say before laughing. She is not a prude but has never been as frank with me. She stares out across the lawns, a wistful expression in her gaze and a sadness in her voice.
“We both wanted children. I thought having them might ground us both, but that hasn’t been possible. Despite everything we have, we don’t have the one thing we really desire.”
As she is speaking, I notice Lorenzo approaching. He stops a few paces from the table until Alice stops talking, and we both turn in his direction.
“Good afternoon,signora. Would you like something to eat?”
I feel uncomfortable hearing Lorenzo adopt a subservient role. I still have memories of him tackling adversaries in the lush gardens behind him that look so beautiful and innocent in the afternoon light. And of course, images of him straddling my groin.
“Lorenzo, I can get Alice food from the kitchen if she wants anything. I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“But it is my pleasure. Andla signorais our guest,” he says, and he winks with a barely discernible grin. I interpret the gesture as meaning I can make things up to him later.
“The Negroni is utter perfection, by the way,” says Alice, holding up the glass. “But something to nibble on would be wonderful. Maybe some slivers of cheese?”
Lorenzo nods and leaves while Alice’s gaze lingers on his backside as he moves away.
“And the view just keeps getting better.”
“Alice, stop. It’s disrespectful.”
“Oh, please. Tell me you haven’t noticed?”
My eyes swing back to Lorenzo’s backside, and memories of sampling his body begin to permeate my thoughts. Alice knows me too well, and I need to change tack.
“Any news on Sylvie Leblanc?”
“Good and bad,” she says, her playful face gone. “She’s been doing well, getting better by the day. But they had an incident at the hospital—they’re treating her at a top specialist neurology and neurosurgery hospital in London. I don’t know the exact details, but one of the life support machines tripped and went offline during the night. She almost went into cardiac arrest. Almost. They managed to get to her in time and stabilise her. Someone’s with her twenty-four-seven now. But on the upside, she came round for a number of minutes, although she was very agitated and had no idea where she was or what had happened.She’s in an induced coma to speed her recovery, but they’re more confident that she’ll pull through.”
I have never liked the word ‘incident’ used in this context. I especially don’t accept that a piece of equipment designed by medical technicians and tested exhaustively before being put into production solely to keep a patient alive could simply ‘trip’.
“She’s going to be okay, Gabriel,” says Alice, reading my mind.
“Good. Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”
We finish up two jugs of Negroni and a plate of cold cuts and cheese while Alice catches me up on stories from the funeral and other updates. We laugh together like old times, and I can almost feel Albert sitting with us, pretending to read a book but rolling his eyes, tutting his disapproval, and secretly enjoying the interaction. Far too soon, her phone rings. We hug farewell and promise to stay in touch. I accompany her to the front door to say goodbye. From the top step, I spot the sleek cream Bentley not far away, stationed majestically in the lane, with a uniformed driver stationed by the car door.
“Okay, look,” says Alice, turning to me at the door. “One last thing before I go. And this, too, is strictly between you and me. The police returned Albert’s belongings to us, his clothes and the items he had on him when the accident happened. They boxed them up before they performed the autopsy. I know this is a little unorthodox, but I went through them. Folded into the breast pocket handkerchief was a note on a recycled paper serviette, the type they use in Callico House’s kitchen, with the CH insignia in the corner. Out of morbid curiosity, I suppose, I unfolded the paper and saw someone had written him a note.”
“Saying what?”
She unclips her handbag and pulls out the folded paper, something I recognise instantly. Embroidered silk napkins were always brought out for formal events. This thick paperequivalent was used in the kitchens or when staff provided meals to rooms.
“Take a look for yourself.”
I unfold the napkin and stare at the words in beautiful cursive handwriting, the loops and embellishments of French penmanship.
Don’t call, text, or speak for now. We don’t know who we can trust. Say nothing until we can meet privately. But I tell you now, if SJP finds out we know, he will destroy us.