BETWEEN THE SHEETS #2
The party would be white and red, Hilde declared, like strawberries and cream, like the St George’s cross, like fire and ice.
Slumped in the shade of the lounge we went through The Gentleman’s Guide together, laughing at its tips for greeting ladies and how to tip a hat.
She picked out cocktails she liked the sound of, Ruby Fizzes and Gin Rickeys, and Champagne Juleps.
‘Blood and Sand,’ she murmured when she reached the page. I had stared at it so often, it had taken to falling open on its own. ‘What a name. Let’s try.’ She thrust the book at me. ‘Can you make it?’
I knew the recipe by heart. But make it? I forced a smile. I was Alejandro del Potro now. The past, with its bloody prints, belonged to someone else.
‘Of course.’
It wasn’t hard. Orange juice from the kitchen, a search through the bar for some cherry-flavoured stuff.
I poured it all into the mixing glass before reaching for the Scotch.
And though I tilted my head away, and tried to shut off my nostrils, it was no use.
The smell took me back; it reached up and clawed at me, mingling with the cloying sweetness of juice and cherry, like cheap perfume and blood on a pink flowered rug, and I dropped the bottle with a clatter.
‘Alejandro?’ Hilde looked up. ‘Are you all right?’
I nodded, swallowing bile. ‘It’s nothing. I just need a moment.’
I fled into the corridor, where the air was clean and scented with sandalwood and distant spices from the kitchen. There, I leaned against the whitewashed wall, wiping my streaming eyes, trying to regain control of my untrustworthy body.
‘… wise at the present time …’ I lifted my head a little. That was Bouzid’s voice, coming from Langham’s study. ‘Until we are sure that—’
‘Bouzid, it’s not without reason. A party will ensure that everyone has enough to talk about. Someone is guaranteed to do something absurd and the whole city will gossip about it for a month. It’ll distract them from other rumours.’ There was a thud, a desk drawer being closed.
‘And del Potro? If people talk?’
My face burned against the cool wall.
‘All the better.’ Langham sounded impatient. ‘Another distraction.’
‘But we still cannot be sure if—’
‘We can be sure enough. Bautista confirmed del Potro’s story and in this instance, I believe the old bastard.’ A pause. ‘Del Potro promised me loyalty, Bouzid. And more besides.’
There was silence, as if the two men were staring at each other. Finally, I heard Bouzid let out a sort of sigh. ‘Very well.’
It curdled with the Blood and Sand, that conversation, until I wasn’t certain which had affected me more.
For the rest of the day, it nagged at me, alongside memories of the night at the inn, until all my muscles were filled with jumping, anxious energy.
Perhaps Langham was feeling the same way, for that evening he asked Hilde to bring down her pipe – something he rarely indulged in – and the three of us sat on the lounge floor, cushioned by pillows, hiding our fears behind a veil of smoke.
Friday came, and with it a constant ringing of the bell at the gate.
Barrows of fruit and vegetables from the market, baskets of nuts, sacks of sugar and flour.
Bouzid was the king of operations, and between us we carried box after box through to the kitchen.
None of the delivery people were allowed within the walls of Dar Portuna.
Not even the woman who brought the flowers – blood-red roses and pale lilies, voluptuous hibiscus and dreaming jasmine.
Even the eccentric French decorator was allowed in only on the condition he remained with Hilde at all times.
Such caution would’ve seemed extreme to me, had it not been for the conversation I had overheard the night before, the fact that Langham was clearly preoccupied with something.
When the bell rang for the twelfth time, I was ready to take a hammer to it. I yanked the gate open, ready to receive whatever crate of booze or ice or frivolity had been ordered, only to find Souissa’s little boy, his eyes huge as always.
‘Hola, Daniel,’ I told him wearily. ‘Have you brought my suit?’ In truth, I had almost forgotten about it in my worry.
But the child’s arms were empty. ‘No,’ he whispered to my shoes. ‘Papa asked if you might come to the shop. He needs to check the fit on you, senor.’
I couldn’t keep down a noise of frustration. Perhaps I had been wrong to entrust an expensive suit of white flannel to Souissa, who probably did not have occasion to make many of them.
‘All right,’ I told Daniel, a little irritably, ‘tell your father I will be there in half an hour. I need the suit ready by tomorrow.’ I knew Langham would think it the perfect thing for the party.