Sashaobligingly held out his arms and allowed her to admire theseattributes.“Really, Lady Fitzroy.I’m fine.”
“Mon pauvre garçon.Call meMarielle.”
She waslike a Languedoc queen being gracious to a commoner whom she’dwronged.Sasha, fundamentally gracious in his own way, only madeher a slight bow, aware of how affronted she’d be if he took her upon the offer.“It’s good to see you.Mrs Gibson, too.”
Gibson,his firm ally from the moment when she’d worked out how the landlay between him and Laurie, turned to Marielle.“Now, my lady.These good lads of ours have just popped in to see Dr Matthews, sowe’d better let them go.”
“D’accord.But one moment...”Shefrowned, emerging from her mists into a moment of clarity.“Laurie,darling.It’s a dangerous world.You have to look afteryourself—and my poor Sasha too.”
A shiver tightened the skin between Laurie’s shoulder blades.She was convincing during these rare touchdowns.“We look aftereach other, Ma,” he said uneasily.“Net’inquiète pas.”
Themoment passed.Marielle went blank again, then mischievous,reminding Laurie of the sweet woman she’d been before her husbandhad crushed her glitter to dust.“Oh, Laurie.Your accent remainshorrible.”She pressed a jewelled hand to his cheek for a moment,then sailed off alone up the stairs.
Lauriewatched her go.“You’d better get after her, Mrs G.Hope youbrought your butterfly net.”
“I never leave home without one.”Gibson dug in her handbag,briefly making Laurie wonder if she’d meant it.“Here.I was goingto put this into the post today, but since I’ve bumped intoyou...”
She handed an envelope to Laurie, who took it from hercuriously.The paper was thick and heavy, the address carefullyinscribed.Mr L Fitzroy and Mr SPetrica...“What’s this?”
“Nothing.Open it when you get home.”She was blushingfuriously again, and when Laurie’s eyebrows went up she backed awayfrom him, beginning her pursuit of Marielle.“Ridiculous—a woman ofmy age!To say nothing of a man ofhis.But he wouldn’t take no, Laurie,and...well, eventually it was the only way to make him stoppestering me.We don’t expect you boys to be able to come.We knowhow busy you are.”
She ranoff up the stairs in Marielle’s wake.Sasha took the envelope fromLaurie’s hand.“Wait,” he said in wonder.“Charlie’s off on hisstag do, isn’t he?”
“Right.Though I’d never in a thousand years have thought...”Laurie broke into laughter.“There’s a little Ealing comedy rightthere.The housekeeper and the chauffeur.”He blinked away astinging sensation from his eyes.It was funny, God knew, butGibson and Charlie had been real and present in his life as acouple, married or not, since before he could remember—prosaicguardian angels of the kitchen and garage.“Where are they tyingthe knot?”
“St Bartholomew Riverside, on the fifteenth ofJuly.”
“But that’s a tiny little place.Miles out, too—near Dagenham.Shall we big it up for them, Sash?St George’s, Hanover Square, andall the trimmings?We probably could, now we’re going to beRomeo.”
“No, you idiot,” Sasha told him, chuckling.“They wouldn’t likethat.St Bart’s is lovely, and Mrs Gibson’s family all live outnear Dagenham.That’s why they’re doing it there.”
She has family?Laurie only juststopped himself from asking.She’d been part ofhisfamily, subsumed in the Fitzroyestablishment.“Does it say that on the invitation?”
“No.We were just chatting in the kitchen one night when youand I went to visit Clara.Didn’t you know?”
“Er, yeah.Of course.”Laurie was mortified, for once toobitterly so to lay his shame at Sasha’s feet and have it redeemedby confession.Sasha found his aristocratic gaffes amusing most ofthe time, but Laurie was afraid he might not think this onefunny.Laurie, she lived with you fornineteen years...He reached awkwardly fora subject change.“Christ.I hope she doesn’t want to leave and setup a rural pub somewhere with Charlie.Where will I find anotherone like her?”
“I shouldn’t worry.She’ll make a great Mrs Charlie, but he’llalways come second to your mum.”
“God, I hope so.She’s worse than ever, isn’t she?Sorry aboutthepauvre garçonroutine.And the prophecies of doom.”Laurie shivered, lookingout into the dangerous world Marielle had seen beyond the clinic’ssunny garden.“What was all that about, do you think?”
Sashaput an arm around him.“Nothing,” he said firmly.“Look, I loveyour ma.But we both know she’s as mad as a hot-airballoon.”
Laurienodded ruefully.“With mile-long paper streamers.Yeah.Come on,let’s make our getaway before she floats out of Olivia’s window andsomebody scrambles the RAF to shoot her down.”He shielded hiseyes, looking across the road to the row of expensive little shopson the far side.“Actually, hang on here just a minute.I’ll beright back.”
Hedarted out across the street.Sasha watched him go, wondering whathad happened to the shadowed, anxious soul he’d found outsideOlivia’s office fifteen minutes before.He reached inside himselffor an equal resilience.Marielle and marriage were distractingphenomena, but he was so tired, his head echoing with the noon-maredream.Laurie, returning two minutes later with a huge armful offlowers, was a surreal, floating vision.He tapped on the limo’swindow.Through birdsong and a weird static hiss in his ears, Sashaheard him explain to the chauffeur that he was Laurence Fitzroy,heir to the family misfortune, and could he leave these in the backseat, and borrow her lipstick?
She handed it over with barely a flick of an eyebrow.Laurieused it to write on the passenger window—flawlessly backwards, sothat Gibson would see it when she got into thecar—we wouldn’t miss it for theworld.Then he strode over to Sasha,smiling incandescently, putting the sunlight to shame.He’d takenone white rose from the dazzling bouquet, and this he tucked intoSasha’s buttonhole, bestowing upon him at the same time abone-melting kiss.“There, sweetheart.Stefan’s in Budapest,Gibson’s in love.All’s well that ends well—no more bad dreams foryou.”
Chapter Six
Stefan’s in Budapest, Stefan’s in Budapest...The northbound Tube banged out the beat of it, andLaurie, strap-hanging, tried to let the message be hammered intohis brain.Stefan’s inBudapest...
Yes, and ever since Laurie had made that blithe statement oneweek ago, sealing the promise with a white rose and a kiss, he’dbeen far from sure of its truth.He and Sasha hadn’t got as far asthe end of the street before a dark shape had detached itself fromthe crowd, paused on the corner ahead of them as if looking back,and then flickered away.Every other time Laurie left the house,there he was—or theresomeonewas, because there were tens of thousands ofblack-haired Eastern European men of the right age sharing Laurie’sstreets, buses, Tube platforms, and Laurie’s acquaintance withStefan Petrica was limited to the Interpol mug shots John Kucharskihad shown him.He had started to notice another spectre, too—afigure in a grey hooded top.Well, such apparitions were hardlyscarce either.One of them was sharing the crowded Tube carriagewith him right now.
Laurieshut his eyes.Someone’s umbrella was poking his backside, and hisarm was stiff with the effort of shielding a little old lady frombeing crushed by a backpacker’s giant rucksack.The carriage rockedand jerked.Smells of rainy-day London assailed him—wet clothes andhair, summer dust turning to the fine grit that got everywhere,under nails, into the corners of the eyes, driving scents of earthin hot blasts ahead of the trains.Fresh sweat and stale.A traceof a cologne like Sasha’s, transformed by a different bodychemistry but near enough to make Laurie smile.
His fears were just paranoia, brought on by the addedresponsibility of knowing there was no doctor, not even aninadequate one, to help guard Sasha from his dreams.That wasLaurie’s job now, and although the new regime was working well,they were both tired.And Laurie always got twitchy between jobs,too much time on his hands, dangerous projects occurring to himlike trying to learn how to cook.This time he’d turned hisidleness to good account, taking a short RADA fencing course.He’denjoyed it, and the hours had left him free to track Sasha to workin the mornings, fall invisibly into the crowd behind him at nightand escort him home.He was sorry for the subterfuge but a moredirect approach was impossible.Love, Ikeep thinking I see your father—the essence of yournightmares—following us around.
