It feels as if everyone has been here for months and I am the late arrival. They know the order of the day, where the bathrooms are, they slip in and out of rooms, and I am left entirely out of step, like I’m at one of those shows that requires audience participation, except I’m drunk and wasn’t aware I’d even bought a ticket.
‘You look like you’re dying on your feet,’ The American mutters into my ear.
‘I feel it.’
‘Why don’t you go and lie down before dinner, have a bath, freshen up?’ she suggests. ‘Might make you feel better.’
‘And you can keep me sober for longer?’ I ask. She shrugs.
‘You just have to make it to nine, half of us will be in bed by then and the other half will be drunker than even you can manage.’
‘There’s one issue.’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know where my room is.’
‘Oh! Sabine!’ The American suddenly calls out and seconds later, the familiar bobbed figure of Sabine emerges, the same unfazed smile she had greeted us with earlier fixed onto her face.
I am whisked into the quiet calmness of the house, having to trot to keep up with Sabine as she slips up the stairs. ‘Now most of the bedrooms are on the ground floor, due to the…’ Sabine pauses, thinks about how best to phrase it, ‘access.’ She pauses, looks at me to see if I understand that she is politely letting me know that most of the party aren’t a fan of stairs. I can only imagine the situation becoming practically perilous when alcohol is added into the mix. ‘So, it’s only you and one other guest on this floor.’
‘Okay.’ I suddenly notice the vastness of the corridor, the creaking darkness of the passageways. ‘I don’t suppose there are any ghosts lingering about, are there?’
‘Oh no.’ She shakes her head quickly. ‘Only rumours.’
‘Rumours?’ My neck snaps to her.
She pouts her lips. ‘Well, yes, but I’ve lived here for twenty-two years and never seen anything of concern so don’t be alarmed.’
‘Brilliant.’ I manage a straight-lipped smile as she reaches for a key, stopping at a door painted a dusky blue with a brass knocker. She lets me enter first. The room is thankfully much lighter than the corridor, with tall deep-set windows upholstered into window seats with banking views over the grounds. The bed, a ridiculous four-poster, sits opposite the windows and I am desperate for the morning, to sit there with a coffee and take in the early sun. Everything is in shades of blue and white, from the periwinkle on the walls to the magnolia patterns on the curtains, and culminates in a willow-pattern eiderdown on the bed.
‘Madame picks all the rooms for the guests,’ Sabine says, watching me take it all in. ‘She says you were in need of something…’ She looks for the word, racking her brain for the English word, ‘peaceful,’ she shrugs.
‘She was right.’ I run my hand over a chalky white armoire with a bunch of hydrangeas in a white porcelain vase. ‘It is very peaceful.’
‘You have a bathroom.’ She opens the door onto a large marble space with old brass fixtures and a claw-foot bath by the windows. I notice a box of toiletries already prepped on the side. ‘You also have access to a balcony. It’s shared with your neighbour, I hope that’s okay.’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Wonderful. Well then, I’ll leave you to it, there’s the itinerary for the weekend on the dressing table.’
‘An itinerary?’
Sabine just grins at me. ‘She is quite strict about it too, so don’t keep her waiting.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Sabine closes the door leaving me on my own. I take in some more of the room, try to listen for voices but all I can hear is the occasional snippet of birdsong, the frogs beginning to wake up for the evening.
I find the itinerary in pride of place on the bedside table along with a little bag. Sabine was right: by every event there is a dress code, a time and a location. I baulk a little at the dress code; prior warning would have meant I could have at least packed to order. I look for my battered old carry on but it isn’t anywhere to be seen. I open up my wardrobe to find to my horror that everything has already been packed away, even my incredibly old and slightly holey knickers have been pressed and put into a drawer. The biggest concern however is that there are definitely more clothes than I had packed. The American had clearly taken her own initiative.
I collapse onto the bed with the little paper bag and pour out the contents onto the quilt. There’s a couple of face masks, an array of expensive-looking skincare, a couple of pre-mixed cocktails in mason jars and a box of chocolates I recognise from the chocolatier in the village. I think The American may have far more money than even I realised, and by God, is she on a mission to spend it before she goes.
My phone pings. For a moment that idiotic hope lingers until I see that it’s my mum asking how I am. I take a picture of the room and send it to her. She sends a vomit emoji back followed swiftly by a love heart and then sends a rather long-winded apology about clumsy thumbs and not wearing her glasses.
Chapter 32
Dinner is a barbecueon the terrace, a strangely casual affair considering that we all look like we’re going to the opera. Not only had The American gone to the effort of selecting my outfits, she had labelled them with the specific nights they were to be worn leaving me little room for manoeuvre. Tonight is a red satin dress with a plunging neckline that makes me look like I am attending the Oscars in the 1990s. I have rebelled somewhat by leaving my hair damp and putting on as little make-up as possible without looking as if I am actually a corpse. She rolls her eyes when I appear, exactly at seven, and tells me I am being immature. I tell her perhaps we should both act our age.
