‘Hello, I’ve been sent to carve the beef. Where is it?’ he said shortly.
I took in his unruly hair, greying slightly at the temples, his strong facial features dominated by a pair of watchful green eyes that I felt sweep over me. He was wearing a moth-eaten V-neck sweater over a shirt with a collar that was fraying, and a pair of jeans. As he came towards me, I saw that he towered over me. There was a definite resemblance to Orlando, but this man was a far more rugged – and certainly unkempt – version, and I wondered if this could be the brother Orlando had mentioned to me.
Gathering my wits, I replied to his question. ‘It’s there, on the range.’
‘Thanks.’
I studied him surreptitiously as he walked past me, and noticed the tense way he held himself as he pulled a knife from the drawer. His silence as he began to carve told me that he possessed none of the easy warmth of his possible relations. I hovered in the kitchen, suddenly uncomfortable, as if he felt I was an intruder, and wondered if I should find my way to the dining room. Just as I was about to do so, Marguerite reappeared.
‘Is that nearly done, Mouse? They’re about to eat their plates if you don’t hurry up.’
‘Such things take the time they take,’ came the reply, equally cold as his initial sentence to me.
‘Well, you come through with me, Star, and we’ll leave Mouse to perform his magic.’
Of all the characters I’d imagined in my head that could possibly be the famous ‘Mouse’, it wasn’t this man, who, although handsome, could freeze an atmosphere in a few seconds. As I followed Marguerite from the kitchen to a low-ceilinged dining room with a fire playing merrily in the grate, I only hoped I wouldn’t end up sitting next to him for lunch.
‘There you are, dear girl,’ said Orlando, whose flushed cheeks indicated he’d been enjoying the wine he’d brought up from the cellar. ‘This looks absolutely splendid.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come and sit down by me. Mouse is on the other side of you and I thought you could chat to him about Flora MacNichol. He’s done some research on her recently.’
‘Star, can I introduce you to everyone at the table?’ said Marguerite.
She did so, and I automatically said ‘hello’ to the half a dozen new faces, trying but failing to absorb all their names and how they were connected to Rory.
‘Is Mouse a relative of yours?’ I asked Orlando in an undertone.
‘Of course he is, dear girl,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s my older brother. Have I not told you that? I’m sure I must have done.’
‘No.’
‘And before you say it, I am aware that he stole all our parents’ beauty and brains, leaving me to embody the runt of the litter. A role I fulfil comfortably.’
Yes, but you embody warmth and empathy, while your brother has none of either . . .
Mouse strode round the table to sit down next to me. As he did so, Orlando stood up.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I have the honour of proposing a toast to Master Rory on the occasion of his seventh birthday. To your health and wealth, young man,’ Orlando signed to Rory as he spoke. He raised his glass with the assembled company and I saw Rory positively glow with happiness. Everyone lifted their hands in the air to applaud and, swept up by the good cheer of the table, I lifted mine too.
‘Happy Birthday,’ muttered Mouse from beside me, making no effort to sign the words.
‘Right, please, everyone, let’s eat,’ Marguerite urged.
I was sandwiched between the two brothers – one who, as usual, ate his food like a human waste disposal, and the other who hardly appeared interested in the process. Glancing around at the wine-mellowed company, I experienced a sudden frisson of pleasure, and allowed myself to think how far I had come in the months since Pa’s death. The fact I was sitting at a lunch table surrounded by strangers was akin to a miracle.
Baby steps, Star, baby steps . . .
I also felt transported back to the many Sunday lunches at Atlantis with Pa Salt, when all of us had been younger and living at home. I could never remember any strangers being present, but then, Ma, Pa and we six girls made eight – easily enough people to produce the kind of warmth and chatter I was experiencing here. I’d missed being part of a family.
I realised the Ice Man on my right was speaking to me.
‘Orlando told me you work for him.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I doubt you’ll survive for long. They usually don’t.’
‘Steady on, old boy,’ cut in Orlando good-naturedly. ‘Star and I muddle along together rather well, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ I said, in a far louder and more definite tone than I would normally use, defensive of my odd but sweet employer.
‘Well, he needs someone to sort him out. The shop’s been running at a loss for years now, but he refuses to listen. You know the shop will have to go soon, Orlando. It’s on one of the most expensive streets in London. It would fetch a very good price on the market.’
‘Could we possibly discuss this another time? I always find that mixing business with the pleasure of eating gives me indigestion,’ countered Orlando.
‘You see? He always makes an excuse not to face up to it.’
The words were murmured and I turned to see that Mouse’s green eyes were staring directly at me. ‘Perhaps you could make him see sense. The business could even go completely online. The rates on the bookshop are astronomical and the footfall, as we both know, is negligible. The sums simply don’t add up.’
I dragged my eyes away from what was a strangely hypnotic gaze. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about the business,’ I managed.
‘Forgive me, it’s inappropriate of me to talk to an employee about it.’
Certainly when the employer is sitting within hearing range, I thought angrily. He’d somehow managed to patronise and belittle me, negating his lukewarm apology.
‘So, what exactly is the connection between you and Flora MacNichol, Miss . . . ?’
‘D’Aplièse,’ Orlando answered for me. ‘And it may interest you to know that her real Christian name is “Asterope”,’ he said slowly, waggling his eyebrows at his brother like an excited owl.
‘Asterope? As in one of the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades?’
‘Yes,’ I said curtly.
‘She goes by the name “Star”. Which I think suits her very well indeed, don’t you?’ Orlando put in helpfully.
I doubted Mouse did agree. He was frowning, as though something about me was a huge puzzle.
‘My brother told me your father died recently?’ he said eventually.
‘Yes.’ I put my knife and fork together, hoping to end this line of enquiry.
‘But he wasn’t your real father?’ affirmed Mouse.
‘No.’
‘Although he treated you as if he was?’
‘Yes, he was wonderful to all of us.’
‘So you wouldn’t agree that a blood tie provides an inextricable bond between a parent and a child?’
‘How could I? I have never known one.’