Chapter Five #2
Beauchamp stepped forward before Vidal could reach for a third card and laid his own on the counter beside Vidal’s elbow, Mercè still asleep in the crook of his other arm.
“On the household account, please.”
The receptionist took the card with visible relief. She tapped it, the terminal produced an affirmative chime, and a slip of paper began to scroll out of its base.
Vidal had gone quiet beside him. Beauchamp took the receipt, folded it once, and slid it into his inside pocket.
Eight hundred and sixty-eight pounds was the better part of a fortnight’s discretionary float, and the float was meant to cover groceries and incidentals through to the end of the month.
He would need to put in for an out-of-cycle reimbursement, which meant a form, and a conversation with the Comptroller’s office.
“Shall we, sir?”
Vidal didn’t speak on the way out of the surgery.
He pushed through the door ahead of Beauchamp without looking at Penelope, who half-rose from the velvet bench with a hopeful little wave that Vidal didn’t return.
The brass bell over the door gave its little chime as it swung shut, and then they were on the pavement in the thin April sun, and Vidal was walking towards the car at a clip.
Beauchamp shifted Mercè against his chest and lengthened his stride to match.
The driver had the rear door open before they reached the car.
Vidal slid into the back seat with none of his usual flourish, arranging himself against the far window.
Beauchamp eased Mercè off his chest and into the carrier, settled it onto the seat between them, and climbed in after.
For half a minute after the car pulled away from the kerb, Vidal said nothing at all, which was a phenomenon on the order of a solar eclipse. Then he turned his head and looked at Beauchamp from under his lashes.
“Major. Thank you for what you did at the desk.”
“It was nothing, sir.”
“It was very gracefully done. Of course I will see to it that you are reimbursed by close of business. The cards, you understand, this is a temporary thing. A bank in Geneva that has become confused. I will sort it out this afternoon.”
“There’s no rush, sir. The household account exists for exactly this sort of contingency.”
“Nevertheless.”
“It’s not an issue, sir. Truly.”
Vidal nodded once and turned back to the window. His mobile was already in his hand pressed against his ear.
Vidal began to speak in Catalan, his voice low and even. Beauchamp kept his eyes on the back of the driver’s headrest and gave him the courtesy of pretending he wasn’t there.
It did him no good, because Vidal’s face was not built for privacy.
His voice stayed level, but his brows did not.
Beauchamp watched, in the reflection of the window glass, as they steadily rose up Vidal’s forehead.
Vidal said something that ended on a rising note, and his jaw went taut.
Whoever was on the other end spoke for some time.
Vidal listened with his lips parted and one hand pressed flat against his chest. He said Sí, papà, very softly, and then a long sentence that Beauchamp did not understand.
But the way that the colour had gone from underneath Vidal’s tan told its own story.
The call ended. Vidal lowered his mobile to his lap and turned his eyes towards the window.
Beauchamp watched Mercè turn a slow circle in her carrier and settle herself with her chin on her paws. “Sir, if I may. There’s a place not far from here that does an excellent burger. We could sit outside. I think the air would do you good. My treat.”
A bewildered smile pulled at one corner of Vidal’s mouth.
“Major, that is very kind. But I cannot possibly impose. You have already paid for Mercè’s check-up, and I will not have you paying for our lunch as well. I have some dignity left, you know. I am clinging to it by the fingernails, but it is there.”
“It’s not an imposition, sir. And it’s not a fancy place. Have you ever had Five Guys?”
“Have I ever —” Vidal sat up a little straighter against the window.
“Major. I have had Five Guys. I will tell you a thing now, and you must promise me on your honour as an officer of the Household Division that it will go no further than this car, because if it gets back to certain quarters I will never hear the end of it.”
“On my honour, sir.”
“My friend Barnaby has become besotted with the stuff. Truly besotted, Major, in a way that would distress his mother and bewilder his tailor. He has been ordering it on a frankly alarming schedule ever since he began conducting his sexual relations with Lex Murphy, the boxer. You will know the one I mean.”
Beauchamp knew the one he meant. The kiss between Lex Murphy and the Marquess of Ashworth at the MGM Grand Garden Arena, after Murphy had taken Morozov apart over ten rounds for the unified heavyweight title, had occupied most of the news cycle for a fortnight last autumn.
“I’m aware of the gentleman, sir.”
“Barnaby is so deeply in love with him that he has begun to eat hamburgers in cardboard containers without complaining about the grease. This is a man, Major, who once sent a bottle of Krug back at the Connaught because he detected a hint of cork. Now he is sucking malt vinegar off his fingers in a place with paper napkins. Love is a humbling thing…”
“It does seem to be, sir.”
“So yes. I have had Five Guys. I have, against every instinct of my upbringing, grown rather fond of it.” Vidal turned in his seat so that he was facing Beauchamp properly for the first time since the desk, and the smile had come back almost all the way.
“I will accept your offer, Major, but only on one condition. You must allow me to repay you with a home-cooked meal. I will make you something proper. Something with garlic, and good oil, and a tomato that has been allowed to die a dignified death in the sun. Do we have an agreement?”
“We have an agreement, sir.”
“Good.” Vidal sat back against the headrest and laid one hand flat on the top of the carrier. Through the mesh, one yellow eye opened, found him, and closed again. “Driver, the Major will give you the address. I am, all of a sudden, ravenous.”