I felt dreadful, and had left her equal amounts of apologetic texts and voicemails, telling her that I was fine and I’d see her at the apartment later this evening.
I was comforted to see that nothing in the bookshop had changed and, as Orlando was never normally there when I arrived, I busied myself with my usual routine. However, when he still hadn’t appeared by eleven o’clock, I began to worry. I looked to the door at the back of the shop that led to the staircase and the space above, which I’d never entered but could only presume was where Orlando lived. Of course he might be up there conducting one of his auctions . . . But as he hadn’t appeared through the door yet with his three o’clock cake, dismay ran through me. I knew Orlando’s routine was sacrosanct.
I spent the next half hour pacing up and down, oscillating between looking through the window onto the street and hesitating to listen for the door at the back of the shop.
By noon, I was beside myself, and decided I had no choice but to see if he was upstairs. Opening the door, it creaked at my touch, betraying my movements. I crept up the steep staircase and arrived on a small landing to find three doors in front of me. I knocked tentatively on the door to my right.
‘Orlando? It’s Star. Are you there?’
There was no reply, so I grasped the handle and pushed it open to find myself in a tiny kitchen containing an ancient sink, a Baby Belling oven and a fridge whose shape was now back in vogue from fifty years ago – this was almost certainly the original version. Retreating, I performed the same routine at the next door and found an equally antique bathroom with a hideous linoleum floor, reminding me of the apartment CeCe and I had lived in before we’d moved. How Orlando managed to look so fastidiously well groomed given the facilities he had at his disposal was a mystery to me.
I turned to the last door and knocked again. ‘Orlando,’ I said, louder this time. ‘It’s me, Star. Please, if you’re in there, let me know. I’m worried about you. Everyone is,’ I added plaintively.
Still nothing. I tried the handle, but this time it resisted my pressure. It was obviously locked. There was a sudden thump from inside, as if a heavy book had fallen onto the floor. A bolt of fear went through me. What if he hasn’t taken his medication?
I went at the door with more urgency. ‘Please, I know you’re in there, Orlando. Are you okay?’
‘Go away,’ came a muffled voice.
I felt a rush of relief. If he was well enough to be rude, I didn’t need to worry.
‘Okay, I will,’ I called through the door. ‘But I’m in the shop if you want to talk.’ I went back down the stairs, restoked the fire and walked outside to text Mouse and let him know that, at the very least, Orlando was alive, if still refusing to come out.
At one o’clock, the time I hoped he would appear to fill his permanently demanding stomach, there was no trip of footsteps down the stairs. Grabbing my purse and keys, I left the bookshop, locking the door behind me, and headed for the shops along the road. If there was one thing that might smoke Orlando out, it was the smell of food.
Twenty minutes later, having returned with my ingredients, I went up to the tiny kitchen. The lack of utensils proved a problem, but I found one small saucepan in which I sweated off shallots and garlic for a sauce, then added cream, herbs and a dash of brandy. There was also a misshapen frying pan for the two filets mignon, to which I also added mushrooms and halved beef tomatoes. Once everything was under control, I left the kitchen and walked across the landing, noting with pleasure that it was filled with the tempting smells of garlic and meat juices.
I knocked on Orlando’s door. ‘Lunch is ready,’ I called through it gaily. ‘I’m plating it up now and taking it downstairs. Perhaps you could bring the wine – it’s chilling in the fridge.’ Then I arranged the steaks and their accompaniments on our plates, and stood at the top of the staircase.
‘Don’t be too long now, nothing worse than a lukewarm filet mignon,’ I said, then walked carefully down the stairs with my bait. Approximately three minutes passed before I heard his tread on the stairs. And a sad, dishevelled Orlando lookalike appeared in the doorway, holding a bottle of Sancerre and two wine glasses. His hair was awry, and the shadow of unshaven stubble crossed his chin. He was wearing the paisley dressing gown I’d seen at High Weald, and his peacock-blue embroidered slippers.
‘Is the door locked?’ he asked me as he glanced at it anxiously.
‘Of course. It’s lunchtime,’ I replied calmly.
He shuffled forwards, and for the first time in my life, I saw for myself the cliché of someone ageing years overnight.
‘I hope you like the steak. It’s as rare as you can get, and the sauce on the side is herb,’ I encouraged, sounding even to myself like a nurse speaking to a child.
‘Thank you, Star,’ he mumbled as he set down the Sancerre and two glasses. Then he levered himself into the chair as though his bones ached. Giving a huge sigh, he garnered the energy to reach for the bottle and pour a generous measure into each glass.
‘To you,’ he toasted. ‘At least I have one friend and ally.’
I watched him slug back the contents of the glass and immediately refill it, and wondered anxiously what a drunken Orlando would be like.
‘Eat up,’ I urged.
It was the only time in our short history that I put my knife and fork together before he did. He ate like an ailing patient, cutting the fillet into minuscule bites and then chewing each one endlessly.
‘The food is perfect, as you know very well, Star. It’s me that isn’t . . .’ His voice petered out as he put another tiny piece of steak into his mouth. Swallowing, he took a vast gulp of wine and gave me the shadow of a smile as he put his cutlery down. ‘Today, even food defeats me. You’ve heard from my brother, I presume.’
‘Yes.’
‘How can he? I mean . . . the cruelty! This’ – he swept his arms around the bookshop – ‘is my world. My only world.’
‘I know.’
‘He says we will be bankrupt, or, more accurately, the bank will rupture all we have unless we sell. Can you believe it?’
‘Sadly, yes, I can.’
‘But how? This . . . bank person can’t presume to steal what is ours? Surely my brother is exaggerating?’
The expression on his face was so heartbreaking I had to swallow hard before I could answer him. ‘I’m afraid not. Apparently, there are debts—’
‘Yes, but they are nothing compared to the price this building would raise if they sold it. They must realise they have surety.’
‘I think the problem is that the banks are not in particularly good shape either. They’re’ – I knew I had to choose my words carefully – ‘nervous too. The world economic situation isn’t that healthy just now.’