I laugh. He sounds genuine. “No. Just normal stuff. Furniture, televisions, speakers. A sofa, unless you’re my brother and have gaming chairs instead.” Because Lennox had never grown past that.
We filter into the same room as last for dinner, William sticking with me, my loyal lap dog. He’s memorised the seating plan and part of me wonders whether this was his suggestion, whether he mentioned wanting to sit with me and it was passed on to Murray and Lennox.
There’s still no sign of Ben. I don’t need to glance around the room to know he isn’t there. There are a few of our security team having dinner, talking to guests who will have little or no idea of who they’re actually speaking to. Or maybe they do.
The talk is pleasant. Safe. Like last time, we don’t discuss politics. Like last time, I act pretty, keep it light. His hand brushes mine a few times, he’s attentive, maybe asks too much about me. It’s nothing I haven’t had before.
The dancing starts late, after more drinks and a buffet of gateaux and trifles and cake. There’s the obligatory toast and the whisky, then a band.
I don’t dance. I stand at the edges, watching as Lennox swings the diplomat from before around the floor and Elise takes the hand of the English prime minster. Late at night, there are shadows, and that’s where I stay. Not hiding.
Watching.
And being watched.
I’ve almost stayed long enough to be able to leave when I see him. He wasn’t at the dinner, I’m sure. I would’ve remembered. The man in the three-piece suit is dressed in slacks and a button down, his black hair slicked back, his stubble thicker, almost scruff.
He’s serious and formal, even with a band who are anything but, and he’s watching just like I am.
“Who’s he?” I find Murray whose hand is on the waist of his girlfriend, a forty-year-old blonde who was kind enough to take my cocktail from me and swap it for water.
“Isaac Everleigh.” Murray knows everyone. That’s his job. “Aide to the Prime Minister.” He looks at me, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. “He’s a kingmaker.”
I nod and step back, still watching the man whose name I now know. “Ambitious?”
“Very. William Goldsmith’s friend from Cambridge, although I’m yet to find out what Everleigh studied. Or how it was financed.”
“What do you know about him?”
Murray turns and looks at me. “You realise you’ve asked me more about Everleigh than the Prime Minister?”
“Because the Prime Minister is a puppet. We both know that.”
There’s a soft laugh, more of a barely audible chuckle, from Murray. “The question then is, who’s the master?”
I don’t answer because Isaac sees me looking at him. He doesn’t smile or offer a toast, he sips his drink instead and regards me.
His gaze is sharp, probing. I’m a species he’s read about but doesn’t want to approach.
Wise man.
Chapter Five
Morning doesn’t bring fresh air. Everything is claggy; the atmosphere thick with more storms and the promise of lightning that is late to strike. Clouds hang low and the tips of the mountains are shrouded. I know my head will feel thick until the storms have cleared and rather than entertaining the remainder of our guests over breakfast, I want to crawl back into bed with a book and my balcony doors open. When the rain starts again, and the thunder shouts, I want to be outside, soaked, feel the relief of the cool air.
I dress appropriately for breakfast with the guests who have stayed with us overnight, a simple summer dress that I’ve had for more years than my mother cares to remember. It’s yellow and bright, the way I want to feel today, determined to push away the storm clouds.
Simple hair, simple make-up. Breakfast and the absolute minimum of conversation before I can find a quiet spot and watch the storm and feel my head finally clear. Food is being served in the sunroom, the tables laid out formally. Ben is there, sitting in the window with Micky, looking serious and deep in conversation. He notices me, or shows he notices me, giving me a nod that tells me our conversation begins and ends here.
Longing tugs inside my chest and I wonder if someone is unravelling my heart thread by thread. It’s too long since I’ve known Ben. We’ve both grown up and I keep telling myself that he’s not the same person, but it isn’t making whatever it is go away.
I sit down at the opposite end of the room, next to my mother’s prized palm plant. It’s still early and most of the dozen guests who’ve stayed haven’t risen. I sit with my back to Ben, knowing if I don’t I’ll keep staring over, my eyes metal to a magnet.
The sky is seven shades of grey; wisps of dark cloud hovering around the peaks. I could look at the scene forever and if I was ever imprisoned here, it wouldn’t be a hardship.
“May I join you?” The accent is crisp, English, but not as perfect as that of William. There is a regional accent, Devon or Cornish maybe. I turn my head and see Isaac Everleigh, his height looming over me.
“Of course.”
