In the locker-room, she changed quickly, put on her white headscarf, and dawdled there till the janitor threw her out. In the foyer, standing like a white-headed ghost among the departing athletes, she waited again, the orchids clutched to her breast. An old lady asked whether she had grown them. A schoolboy wanted her autograph. The Shepherdess plucked at her sleeve: "Chas--the party, for God's sake--Val is looking for you everywhere!."
The front doors of the sports hall slammed behind her, she stepped into the night air and nearly fell flat before the bluff gale whipping over the tarmac. Staggering to her car, she unlocked it, laid the orchids on the passenger seat, and heaved the door shut after her. The ignition wouldn't catch at first, and when it did the engine raced like a horse straining to get home. As she roared down the drive into the main road, she saw in her mirror the headlamps of another car pull out after her, then follow her at an even distance to her guest house.
She parked and heard the same wind tearing into the hydrangeas. She wrapped her coat round her and, with the orchids inside it, made a dash for the front door. There were four steps and she counted them twice: once as she bounded up them, and the second time while she was standing panting at the reception desk, as someone tripped after her with a light and purposeful tattoo. There were no residents about, not in the lounge, not in the hall. The sole survivor was Humphrey, a Dickensian fat-boy who played night porter.
"Not six, Humphrey," she said gaily as he groped for her key."Sixteen. Come on, sweetheart. Up to the top row. There's a love-letter in there too, before you give it to someone else."
She took the folded piece of paper from him, hoping it might be from Michel, then let her features register suppressed disappointment when she discovered it was only from her sister, saying "Good luck for the show tonight," which was Joseph's way of whispering "We're with you," but so low she barely heard.
The hall door opened and closed behind her. A man's feet were approaching across the hall carpet. She allowed herself one swift glance at him in case he was Michel. But he wasn't, as her expression of disappointment showed. He was someone from the rest of the world and of no use to her at all. A slender, dangerously peaceful boy, with dark, mother-loving eyes. Wearing a long brown gabardine trench coat with a military yoke to give breadth to the civilian shoulders. And a brown tie to match the eyes which matched the coat. And brown helpless shoes with stubby toecaps, double stitched. Not a man of justice at all, she decided--but of justice denied. A forty-year-old gabardine boy, robbed of his justice at an early age.
"Miss Charlie?"
And a small overfed mouth in a pale field of chin.
"I bring you greetings from our mutual acquaintance Michel, Miss Charlie."
Charlie had hardened her face like someone preparing to take punishment. "Michel who?" she said--and saw how nothing in him stirred, which in turn made her very still herself, in the way we stand still for paintings, and statues, and motionless policemen.
"Michel from Nottingham, Miss Charlie." The Swiss accent aggrieved and faintly accusing. The voice furry, as if justice were a secret matter. "Michel asked me to bring you gold orchids and take you to dinner for him. He was insistent that you come. Please. I am the good friend of Michel. Come."
You? she thought. Friend? Michel wouldn't have a friend like you to save his bloody life. But she let her glower say it for her.
"I am also charged with the responsibility to represent Michel legally, Miss Charlie. Michel is entitled to the full protection of the law. Come, please. Now."
The gesture took a large effort but she meant it to. The orchids were awfully heavy and it was a long way through the air to lift them from her arms to his. But she managed it; she found her courage and her strength and his arms came up to receive them. And she found the right brassy tone for the words she had decided to say.
"You've got the wrong show," she said. "I don't know Michel from Nottingham, I don't know Michel from anywhere. And we didn't meet in Monte last season either. Nice try, but I'm tired. Of all of you."
Turning to the counter to pick up her key, she realised as she did so that Humphrey the porter was addressing her on a matter of great moment. His glazed face was shaking, and he held a pencil poised over a great ledger.
"I said," he puffed indignantly, in his steep, North Country drawl, "what time was it you was wanting morning tea, miss?"
"Nine o'clock, dear, and not a second earlier." She moved wearily towards the stairs.
"Paper, miss?" said Humphrey.
She turned and glanced heavily back at him. "Jesus," she whispered.
Humphrey was suddenly very excited. He seemed to think that only animation would wake her up. "Morning paper! For reading in! What's your fancy?"
"Times,dear," she said.
Humphrey sank back into contented apathy."Telegraph," he wrote, aloud."Times is orders only," by which time she had started to haul herself up the big staircase towards the historic darkness of the landing.
"Miss Charlie!"
You call at me like that again, she thought, and I just may come down a few steps and smack you very hard on your smooth Swiss mountain pass. She took two more steps before he spoke again. She had not anticipated such force in him.
"Michel will be very glad to know that Rosalind was wearing his bracelet tonight! And is actually wearing it still, I think! Or is that a gift from some other gentleman?"
Her head, then her whole body faced him down the stairs. He had transferred the orchids to his left arm. His right hung at his side like an empty sleeve.
"I said go away. Get out. Please--okay?"
But she was arguing against her own conviction, as her faltering voice betrayed.
"Michel orders me to buy you fresh lobster, and a bottle of Boutaris wine. White and cold, he says. I have other messages from him also. He will be very angry when I tell him you refused his hospitality, also insulted."
It was too much. He was her own dark angel, claiming the soul she had carelessly pledged. Whether he was lying, whether he was the police or a common blackmailer, she would follow him to the centre of the underworld if he could lead her to Michel. Jolting on her heels, she bumped slowly down the stairs to the reception counter.
"Humphrey." Tossing her key to the counter, she took the pencil from his unresisting hand and wrote the name Cathy on a block of paper before him. "American lady. Got it? Mate of mine. If she rings, tell her I've gone out with six lovers. Tell her maybe I'll drive over for lunch tomorrow. Got it? " she repeated.