aircraft doors opened and she was faced with the blast of hot air – reminiscent of a hairdryer – she could feel herself begin to droop. ‘Where’s Sylvan?’ she asked the silent, stern-faced man who collected her bags. ‘Didn’t he come?’
‘
Monsieur le Président
is busy.’ He looked her up and down insolently. His look said what his mouth wouldn’t.
Too busy to come for his wife
. She recognised the sentiment as if he’d spoken it out loud. ‘Please to follow me.’
The palace certainly
looked
like a palace. Neo-classical, with a long, double row of peeling white pillars and a driveway of raked gravel, leading to a long sweep of identical barred windows, three storeys high . . . Like a palace and an army barrack at once, she noticed with a small chill. Where the hell was Sylvan?
Monsieur le Président
indeed! The car braked noisily to a halt and the door was flung open, allowing the air-conditioned cool to escape and the fierce, hot breath of the outside to rush in. A hand reached in – a large, pink-palmed black hand with a signet ring squeezed tightly into the flesh. She stared at it for a second, and then gingerly stretched out her own.
She was helped down from the car and brought abruptly face-to-face with a long line of unfamiliar faces. Servants were lined up; she recognised the uniforms from photographs Sylvan had once shown her (white drill, khaki shorts, red cummerbunds and, incongruously, white gloves); they wore the same disinterested, impassive faces of servants the world over – blank, almost haughty in their indifference. A man in a navy-and-white striped suit with a white carnation pinned to his lapel moved swiftly forwards.
‘
Madame! Bienvenue
!’ His outstretched hand and proprietary air marked him out as someone of importance, if only in his own estimation. She shrank from him instinctively. ‘Welcome to Lomé. Please, come this way. This way,
madame
, this way.’ He ushered her deftly past the line of blank faces and up the front steps. It was marginally cooler inside the portico. She lifted the heavy curtain of her hair away from her neck, wishing she’d had the foresight to pin it up instead of leaving it flowing down her back. It was Sylvan’s fault, she thought to herself crossly. He liked her hair loose and flowing. Oh, where the hell was he?
‘
Chérie
.’ His voice suddenly broke through the din surrounding her arrival. She looked up. Sylvan was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her with an amused, playful smile on his face. She opened her mouth in surprise. It had been just over a month since she’d last seen him.
‘Sylvan?’
‘
Chérie
.’ He descended slowly, grandly. His stomach, once flat and solid, was now bloated. He’d broadened in almost every direction. Anouschka’s eyes widened.
‘Sylvan? What . . . what the
hell
have you been
eating
?’
She saw by the quick, severe frown that appeared between his brows that she’d angered him before she’d properly opened her mouth. With a quick, peremptorily dismissive wave, he shooed the small crowd who’d clustered around her away. ‘Go on, get lost. I’ll call you when I need you. Yes, you too, Atekpé.
Even
you.’
‘But,
M’sieur le Prési
—’
‘Buzz off! Now!’ Sylvan cut him off. He stood on the second or third step, staring imperiously down at them as they backed out, one by one. Anouschka’s mouth was still hanging open as the door at the bottom of the stairs closed and they were finally alone.
‘Don’t ever do that,’ Sylvan said, waiting for her to mount the last few steps to join him. ‘Don’t criticise me in front of them. In front of
any
one, for that matter.’
‘But I—’
‘Don’t.’ His voice was cold. Then he relented. His face – broader now than it had been a month ago – broke into a smile. ‘You look beautiful,
chérie
. Come.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come and see your new home.’
It was a role to be played that was no different from
‘
Monsieur le Président
is busy.’ He looked her up and down insolently. His look said what his mouth wouldn’t.
Too busy to come for his wife
. She recognised the sentiment as if he’d spoken it out loud. ‘Please to follow me.’
The palace certainly
looked
like a palace. Neo-classical, with a long, double row of peeling white pillars and a driveway of raked gravel, leading to a long sweep of identical barred windows, three storeys high . . . Like a palace and an army barrack at once, she noticed with a small chill. Where the hell was Sylvan?
Monsieur le Président
indeed! The car braked noisily to a halt and the door was flung open, allowing the air-conditioned cool to escape and the fierce, hot breath of the outside to rush in. A hand reached in – a large, pink-palmed black hand with a signet ring squeezed tightly into the flesh. She stared at it for a second, and then gingerly stretched out her own.
She was helped down from the car and brought abruptly face-to-face with a long line of unfamiliar faces. Servants were lined up; she recognised the uniforms from photographs Sylvan had once shown her (white drill, khaki shorts, red cummerbunds and, incongruously, white gloves); they wore the same disinterested, impassive faces of servants the world over – blank, almost haughty in their indifference. A man in a navy-and-white striped suit with a white carnation pinned to his lapel moved swiftly forwards.
‘
Madame! Bienvenue
!’ His outstretched hand and proprietary air marked him out as someone of importance, if only in his own estimation. She shrank from him instinctively. ‘Welcome to Lomé. Please, come this way. This way,
madame
, this way.’ He ushered her deftly past the line of blank faces and up the front steps. It was marginally cooler inside the portico. She lifted the heavy curtain of her hair away from her neck, wishing she’d had the foresight to pin it up instead of leaving it flowing down her back. It was Sylvan’s fault, she thought to herself crossly. He liked her hair loose and flowing. Oh, where the hell was he?
‘
Chérie
.’ His voice suddenly broke through the din surrounding her arrival. She looked up. Sylvan was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her with an amused, playful smile on his face. She opened her mouth in surprise. It had been just over a month since she’d last seen him.
‘Sylvan?’
‘
Chérie
.’ He descended slowly, grandly. His stomach, once flat and solid, was now bloated. He’d broadened in almost every direction. Anouschka’s eyes widened.
‘Sylvan? What . . . what the
hell
have you been
eating
?’
She saw by the quick, severe frown that appeared between his brows that she’d angered him before she’d properly opened her mouth. With a quick, peremptorily dismissive wave, he shooed the small crowd who’d clustered around her away. ‘Go on, get lost. I’ll call you when I need you. Yes, you too, Atekpé.
Even
you.’
‘But,
M’sieur le Prési
—’
‘Buzz off! Now!’ Sylvan cut him off. He stood on the second or third step, staring imperiously down at them as they backed out, one by one. Anouschka’s mouth was still hanging open as the door at the bottom of the stairs closed and they were finally alone.
‘Don’t ever do that,’ Sylvan said, waiting for her to mount the last few steps to join him. ‘Don’t criticise me in front of them. In front of
any
one, for that matter.’
‘But I—’
‘Don’t.’ His voice was cold. Then he relented. His face – broader now than it had been a month ago – broke into a smile. ‘You look beautiful,
chérie
. Come.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come and see your new home.’
It was a role to be played that was no different from
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