Overheard #2
“Don’t waste your breath, Ally.” Coleman’s American accent is usually a refreshing change from the clipped British voices.
Today I notice a slight slur in his words.
He’s more than likely been drinking, which of late appears to be the only way he can endure his marriage to Victoria.
“If you hadn’t worked it out by now, the Callicos make the Borgias look like a bunch of amateurs.
Don’t expect any mercy when your time comes. ”
“Do shut up, Coleman,” says Victoria.
“Where is he now?” asks Edward.
“Probably in his bedroom,” says Alice. “He’s barely left since the news broke.”
Usually, she’d be right. Except for my early-morning swims, I’ve holed up in the bedroom since she called me with the news and, predicting my disbelief, forwarded me a ‘breaking news’ link from her phone.
One of the house staff has been leaving a tray outside my door around mealtimes, usually with a mug of tea and a sandwich.
“Staring into that cursed phone, most likely,” says Victoria.
“Somebody needs to remind him about tomorrow,” says Edward. “I will not have him missing his appointment.”
“He knows about it. But I’ll send him a reminder,” says Alice, her tone resigned. “Are we finished?”
“Any update on Sylvie?” asks Coleman as I am about to rise and creep upstairs. I stop because I want to hear everything they have to say.
In the minibus crash that took Albert’s life, Doctor Sylvie Leblanc—Albert’s former colleague and a friend of Coleman’s from his university days—survived with broken limbs and, more worryingly, head injuries.
I’ve met her a few times before, and we chatted briefly when she attended the dinner held at the house the night before their fateful journey.
I always warmed to her, found her genuinely interested in me and my well-being.
She was the only one to survive the crash.
“Still in a coma,” says Victoria. “But her condition is stable. Thankfully.”
“Thankfully,” echoes Coleman.
“You know what I mean. Compared to the alternative.”
Alice told me the police are pinning their hopes on her waking and being well enough to provide a firsthand account of what happened.
“Do we know when the other passenger—” begins Edward.
“Stephan. Dr Stephan Dytrovich,” says Alice.
“Yes. Do we know when his funeral will take place?”
“It already has. Dr Dytrovich was a Muslim,” says Victoria.
“In keeping with tradition, his funeral took place quickly, the second day after he died. His family is observing a period of mourning, and I sent them a card and a sympathy basket of food on behalf of the Callico family. Fortunately for us, Fortnum’s deliver. ”
“Yeah, fortunately for us,” Coleman mutters.
“We don’t have to show up for anything, then?” asks Edward, ignoring Coleman. “No ceremony?”
“We could go to their home and pay our respects directly—” begins Alice.
“No. We can offer our condolences at Albert’s funeral this Wednesday. If they choose to attend,” says Edward. “Do you want to give everyone an update, Alice? On the arrangements?”
Edward has always relied on Alice to handle the day-to-day minutiae of their lives.
Although she rarely discusses anything with the family, they know she also juggles a successful career as a luxury goods distributor.
In the fashion world, focused on Europe and Southeast Asia, she has a reputation as a powerhouse.
I know she postponed an important European business trip to help with the funeral arrangements—not that any of the family would deign to thank her.
Alice is one of those naturally organised persons who never drop the ball once given a project.
The room falls quiet once she has covered everything, including answering a few questions.
“Do the cops have any updates?” asks Coleman. “About the cause of the crash?”
“Only what we already know,” comes Alice’s voice.
“About the driver losing control of the minibus. That his concentration slipped for a second or—something they think more likely—that he fell asleep at the wheel. The police say the autopsy revealed relatively high levels of alcohol and traces of antidepressant medication in his bloodstream. I am more inclined to believe he’d still been drunk from the night before, although he seemed fine when I spoke to him in the kitchen before they set off, having tea and toast with Mrs Buckland. ”
“Highly functioning alcoholics are masters at disguising their true drunken states,” says Victoria.
“Fuck you, dear,” says Coleman.
There is another pause, and once again, I wonder if they are done.
“Okay,” says Victoria eventually, her deep tone turning serious. “I’m going to put this out there, seeing as none of you has the balls to do so. Am I the only person in this room who believes that Gabriel had a hand in this?”
What the fuck?
“He was supposed to be travelling in the minibus that morning. Doesn’t the fact that he decided to change his plans at the last minute mean anything to any of you? How can we know he didn’t tamper with the vehicle?”
“For what reason—” begins Edward.
“You can’t be serious?” says Alice, the shock plain in her voice.
“Forgive my wife,” says Coleman. “She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Will you shut up, Coleman?” says Victoria. “I am simply echoing what we all feel. There is, and always has been, something distinctly unsavoury about Gabriel.”
“I’m sorry, but on this occasion, I have to disagree with you, Victoria,” says Edward.
“If anyone had tampered with the vehicle, the police would have found out. And, yes, they did check. They found nothing suspicious. Moreover, all of us were asked about our whereabouts the morning of the accident, including Gabriel, who did not leave his bedroom until after Albert and his party had left, then only to use the pool.”
After the conversation trails off, I stand and stare off into space.
I’ll make my final escape from this snake pit in the morning when I leave for the solicitor’s office.
None of them needs to know. I’ll call Alice once I’m gone, but I am not wasting any more breath on the others.
I can’t even muster the energy to be more upset by Victoria’s accusation, which only confirms that I need to distance myself from these toxic, entitled people.
In anticipation, I fire off a text message to ask if I can stay a few nights with an old friend, Josh, and his partner, Nishan.
They already know the story of what happened.
Thanks to social media, most of the country does.
Hopefully, my old friend might let me bed down at theirs until I’ve found somewhere more permanent.
As I am texting, a message pops up on my phone, this one from my employer at the charity. Somewhat generously—probably because Albert was a patron—the board members have agreed to offer me another three weeks’ paid compassionate leave, which should give me ample time to find somewhere to live.
Albert may have pulled strings to help me get a job, open a bank account and obtain a passport to become visible in the eyes of the world.
But all I wish for right now is to have my old invisibility back.