There was a light tap on the door and William let in a small Frenchman who introduced himself as Monsieur Dupré, the chef. He handed William the menu, a thick sheet of manila paper with looped writing. William barely glanced at it. ‘I’d like some melon, a little scrambled egg and maybe some salmon.’
‘Of course, Monsieur, and...’ He passed William the wine list. One glance told him it was on a par with that of the Ritz. He asked for a bottle of chilled Pouilly Fumé and some iced lemon tea. Dupré bowed and backed out, closing the door silently behind him.
The tray arrived on a steel trolley with silver domes placed over delicate pale blue porcelain. The cutlery, of silver and eighteen-carat gold inlaid with ivory, was laid out on the damask cloth. The fluted goblet was chilled and frosted, and the wine stood in an ornate silver bucket.
‘I’ll serve myself,’ William said briskly, anxious to be left alone to savour yet another of Justin’s touches of elegance. The eggs were cooked to perfection, the salmon melted in his mouth like butter. The warm crusty rolls were fresh, just as he liked. The melon, cut into fine slivers, was garnished with segments of lemon, strawberries, pineapple and apricots. William ate sparingly, and after a glass of wine, his eyes drooped. He didn’t finish his meal but went into the bedroom, fell on to the damask-covered bed and into a deep, dreamless sleep.
At some point during the night, the tray was removed and the hand-made mosquito nets released above the bed. William turned and his eyes opened and, for a moment, he was unsure where he was. The netting above him felt like hands touching his face and he cringed. He must make it clear to all the servants that his rooms were not to be entered unless at his express permission. Returning to a half-sleep, he saw winding dark corridors, secret rooms — eerie, frightening places. He felt so cold he woke up. Pushing the netting aside William reached for the bedside lamp, patting its base to find the switch. The lamp filled the room with a soft yellow glow. Looking around, he suddenly noticed a painting.
For a moment it looked like a mirage, suspended in the air, but then he realized that it had been framed to stand away from the wall and was intended to appear to float. It was of a woman, her blonde hair cascading from a central parting almost to her waist. A pale blue chiffon scarf covered her shoulders, revealing her perfect breasts. One hand, with long fine fingers and short oval nails, held a white lily. The other rested against the side of her pale neck, as if she was touching her pulse. The painting was in washed, muted colours. Only the face had clarity, as if the artist wanted it to be the focus. It was a childlike, innocent face. Pale blue eyes stared out above a small, delicate nose and the full lips were slightly parted. William turned off the light, but kept staring towards the painting, unsure whether he wished it to remain in the room. Eventually he fell asleep, her face the last thing he saw that night and the first when he woke next morning.
Standing on the veranda, William saw Justin in a white robe heading back towards the house.
‘Morning,’ Justin called up.
‘Morning,’ he replied.
‘I’ve been for a swim,’ Justin said, shading his eyes. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Not yet, will you join me for coffee?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Justin, disappearing.
‘Justin!’ William called after him. ‘The woman,’ he said, as Justin reappeared. ‘The painting of the woman in my bedroom.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Justin called up. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Who is she?’
‘My sister,’ Justin said. Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘Her name is Laura.’
At breakfast, William was wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and a loose floral shirt. On his feet were Gucci sandals, leather uppers with rope soles, but his legs above his socks were unhealthy pinkish blobs. His pale freckled skin never tanned, but turned red and blistered if he sat in the sun too long. His fine blond hair, thinning at the back in a neat round crown, was perhaps the only thing the tropical sun enhanced, turning it from mousy blond to white-silver. Justin, in comparison, was so deeply tanned from months of working outdoors that it was hard to tell what race he was. He was wearing a cheesecloth kaftan and the flip-flops he had worn the previous day. He hitched up the kaftan around his thighs as he stretched out his long legs beside the table.
A large trolley loaded with fresh fruit cascading from iced bowls had been wheeled to within easy reach of the table, with fresh rolls, pastries and home-made breads under a covered silver warming-dish. Various jams and sweet and sour marmalades in silver basketweave jars, matching silver coffee- and tea-pots with hot-water jugs in the same but larger-woven pattern sparkled in the morning sun. The table wore a starched pale blue linen cloth, with matching napkins and heavy cutlery. Added to the array of knives and forks were diamond-shaped grapefruit spoons. Iced flutes held freshly squeezed orange juice. Jugs offered lemon water, or grapefruit juice with sprigs of mint. A small, heated tray held covered tureens with bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, liver, kidneys and onions.
‘No cornflakes?’ William said, looking over the trolley.
‘I’ll send down for some,’ Justin said.
‘No, don’t bother. It was a joke.’ William poured more coffee and proffered the pot to Justin, who shook his head, holding up a glass of iced water.
‘Not until midday. Gets me too speedy.’ He sat munching at an alarming rate.
‘Is she dead?’ William asked, out of the blue.
‘Who?’ Justin enquired.
‘The woman in the painting.’ William dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
‘Laura? No, she’s very much alive.’
‘You’ve never mentioned her.’
‘I’m sure I have.’ Justin took out his cigarettes, noting the way the debris from William’s breakfast now dominated the table. He had read somewhere that the space a person took up on a table was representative of their perceived status in relation to their fellow diners. William clearly felt he was the dominant personality here.
‘Laura?’ William said, his head cocked to one side. ‘The name suits her. She’s very beautiful.’
Justin nodded, picked up a book of matches and lit his Gitane. He drew the ashtray close and laid the match in the bowl then slid it, with a half-amused smile, directly in front of William. He had now reclaimed his space. ‘We should go over the accounts,’ he said quietly.
‘Fine. Whenever.’
Justin stood up and stretched his long arms above his head. ‘Half an hour? Your study would probably be best. Then I can lay out all the plans.’
‘What does she do?’ William asked, looking up at Justin.
‘My sister?’ Justin drew deeply on the cigarette, then let the smoke drift from his nose. ‘She fucks.’ With that he strolled away, the smell of his cigarette hanging in the air.
Justin was waiting in William’s study. He had changed into a pair of white shorts, frayed at the edges and a washed-out blue vest. William pointed to a stack of receipts and invoices. ‘Has Michael been privy to all of this?’