‘I bet you have a man who comes in to do that for you, don’t you?’ teases Sophie. ‘Your own sex butler.’
‘I do not,’ says Tor, quite firmly, and we all burst into fits of laughter again.
‘I bet the British make terrible sex butlers,’ I say.
‘I’m not joining in,’ says Tor, keeping a straight face with some difficulty.
‘If madam would be so kind as to allow, I would like to provide some additional stimulation on behalf of his lordship, who is currently experiencing a slight detumescence in his private estate,’ says Sophie in a refined English accent.
We shriek too loudly again, which attracts several annoyed glances. It’s a raucous united release from our various anxieties about Adams, ageing, children, marriage, and, of course, murder.I laugh too, but part of me is mimicking again and I envy their immediacy and unbridled joy.
As the laughter subsides, a bell jangles loudly, the door of Sable d’Or swings open, and Cait appears, wild-eyed and tear-stained.
Chapter28Insurance
‘I thought you were at your mother’s?’ says Tor, as Cait arrives at our table looking gloomier than ever.
‘I had to come back,’ says Cait, her voice trembling. ‘Police called me.’
‘What’s the matter?’ says Aisha.
Cait starts to cry before she’s seated, and she’s soon blubbering inconsolably. If this is about Owen, I’m going to be quite annoyed with her. You shouldn’t cry over a little spilled blood. Not of a man like that.
I try to hug her but it’s not the least sincere as I’m trying to avoid her tears getting on my D&G floral print blouse. Aisha takes over, shushes Cait quickly, sits her down, and strokes her hair, which could do with a good wash and blow-dry.
‘Tea with honey,’ commands Aisha, with a nod to Sophie.
Sophie’s eyes are wet with sympathetic tears and she doesn’t move. There’s emotion again, making her experience things that haven’t happened to her. I turn to Tor. She’s not even feigning interest and is distracting herself with her phone.
‘What’s happened? Are the girls all right?’ asks Sophie.
‘Yes, they’re fine... fine... they’re with Mum,’ says Cait, gulping.
‘Is it Owen?’ I ask, trying to move us to the point more quickly.
She shakes her head. I let out a little exclamation of mild surprise.
‘My house burnt to the ground,’ she splutters.
‘Oh God. That was your house!’ says Sophie. ‘We’ve all been talking about the fire.’
‘I only went there to collect clothes for the girls, but it was damp, so I put the heating on. I must’ve forgotten to switch it off.’
‘Well, you’ve had a lucky escape if the boiler blew up,’ says Sophie.
I’m not unsympathetic, but I do think it’s a good thing that her house was incinerated. Not only was it a poor example of Edwardian architecture, but it removes so many unsavoury memories. People find de-cluttering the past so difficult and this gets the whole thing done in an instant. It’s a completely fresh start for her.
I return from the counter, having ordered the tea with honey myself, to hear Cait relay her tale of woe as Sophie and Aisha comfort her in a pincer movement. Tor, meanwhile, is looking at Cait in the manner of a mother looking at a friend’s child who’s just reported a severe case of headlice.
‘Was it an old boiler?’ says Aisha.
‘Only thirty years old,’ says Cait, and looks around the table. ‘Are you OK, Lalla?’ she says, which takes me aback.
‘I’m fine, Cait, why?’
‘There’s a bruise,’ she says. ‘On your neck.’
My hand rises automatically to rearrange my scarf. Owen’s abuse has made her notice these things.
