swirling behind my closed eyelids – a black- and-white cat and a mournful church and a spray of flowers, red as blood. And through it all, the gypsy’s face turned, watching me with a strange and secret smile.
I opened my eyes, and sat up.
It was no use, I thought. I wasn’t going to sleep. I might as well go down and have that drink with Paul. What happened next, I later decided, was entirely Beethoven’s fault. If he hadn’t written such a beautiful piece of music, I wouldn’t have paused on my way downstairs to listen to it. And if I hadn’t paused, there on the first floor landing, I wouldn’t have been anywhere in sight when the Whitakers’ door opened further down the hall, and Garland came out into the passage. She hadn’t seen me yet – she was looking down, one hand shielding her forehead – but I felt a moment’s panic. I didn’t like the woman, didn’t want to be drawn into conversation, didn’t want Neil Grantham to hear her piercing voice and know that I was standing there, outside his room …
I looked round, seeking some escape. Not down the stairs, I dismissed the obvious. There wasn’t time, and she was bound to see me. But beside the stairs a glass door stood propped open to the outside air, and, feeling a proper coward, I ducked my head and darted through it. Behind me, the rustle of footsteps swept by without stopping, and a heartbeat later I heard a sharp knock. The violin fell silent. Cautiously, I edged along the wall, away from the open doorway, away from the murmur of voices.
I hadn’t picked the best of hiding places, really. I was standing on a sheltered terrace, built upon the flat roof of the hotel’s garage – a broad, square stretch of pavement bordered by a wooden portico and hugged on three sides by the bleached stone walls of the hotel. One couldn’t truly hide, out here. All someone had to do was poke their head around the door, and there you were, in plain view. But for the moment, at least, the terrace was deserted, except for me.
The voices stopped. A door clicked shut. The rustling steps retreated down the corridor. But instead of going back inside, I crossed on tiptoe to the centre of the terrace, where a neat grouping of table and chairs basked in the fickle sunlight of the afternoon. Wiping the dampness from a chair. I sat down. From here I had a panoramic view along the cliffs, from the wedge-shaped Clock Tower guarding Château Chinon to the wilder fringes of the hills beyond the town.
High above me on the cliff path a small cluster of sightseers had paused against the waist-high wall, and their red and purple jackets made a splash of welcome colour on the drab white rise of rock behind them. One of the couples was holding hands and laughing, and I hated them without reason.
The violin began again. I closed my eyes against the beauty of it, settling back with a sigh. He wasn’t playing the Beethoven any more. No, this was stranger music, sweeter, more seductive … yet familiar. I searched my memory for it. Elgar, I decided. That was it. Edward Elgar. The Salut d’Amour .
Neil played it beautifully, with such emotion that the air around me trembled from the sound. I remember wishing he would stop, because I didn’t want to think of love just now. I remember squeezing my eyes shut tighter still, and feeling the sudden damp of tears upon my lashes. And after that, I don’t remember anything.
I hadn’t meant to sleep. But when I next opened my eyes the terrace was in darkness, and a scattering of stars gleamed faintly where the clouds had been before. The chill had penetrated to my bones. I rose and flexed my stiffened shoulders, picking my way cautiously across to the glass door into the hotel. Someone, while I’d slept, had closed that door. I tried the handle. ‘Damn,’ I said, aloud. They’d locked me out.
Hugging my arms to ward off the cold, I pressed my face against the glass and peered along the corridor. I knocked twice, loudly. No one
I opened my eyes, and sat up.
It was no use, I thought. I wasn’t going to sleep. I might as well go down and have that drink with Paul. What happened next, I later decided, was entirely Beethoven’s fault. If he hadn’t written such a beautiful piece of music, I wouldn’t have paused on my way downstairs to listen to it. And if I hadn’t paused, there on the first floor landing, I wouldn’t have been anywhere in sight when the Whitakers’ door opened further down the hall, and Garland came out into the passage. She hadn’t seen me yet – she was looking down, one hand shielding her forehead – but I felt a moment’s panic. I didn’t like the woman, didn’t want to be drawn into conversation, didn’t want Neil Grantham to hear her piercing voice and know that I was standing there, outside his room …
I looked round, seeking some escape. Not down the stairs, I dismissed the obvious. There wasn’t time, and she was bound to see me. But beside the stairs a glass door stood propped open to the outside air, and, feeling a proper coward, I ducked my head and darted through it. Behind me, the rustle of footsteps swept by without stopping, and a heartbeat later I heard a sharp knock. The violin fell silent. Cautiously, I edged along the wall, away from the open doorway, away from the murmur of voices.
I hadn’t picked the best of hiding places, really. I was standing on a sheltered terrace, built upon the flat roof of the hotel’s garage – a broad, square stretch of pavement bordered by a wooden portico and hugged on three sides by the bleached stone walls of the hotel. One couldn’t truly hide, out here. All someone had to do was poke their head around the door, and there you were, in plain view. But for the moment, at least, the terrace was deserted, except for me.
The voices stopped. A door clicked shut. The rustling steps retreated down the corridor. But instead of going back inside, I crossed on tiptoe to the centre of the terrace, where a neat grouping of table and chairs basked in the fickle sunlight of the afternoon. Wiping the dampness from a chair. I sat down. From here I had a panoramic view along the cliffs, from the wedge-shaped Clock Tower guarding Château Chinon to the wilder fringes of the hills beyond the town.
High above me on the cliff path a small cluster of sightseers had paused against the waist-high wall, and their red and purple jackets made a splash of welcome colour on the drab white rise of rock behind them. One of the couples was holding hands and laughing, and I hated them without reason.
The violin began again. I closed my eyes against the beauty of it, settling back with a sigh. He wasn’t playing the Beethoven any more. No, this was stranger music, sweeter, more seductive … yet familiar. I searched my memory for it. Elgar, I decided. That was it. Edward Elgar. The Salut d’Amour .
Neil played it beautifully, with such emotion that the air around me trembled from the sound. I remember wishing he would stop, because I didn’t want to think of love just now. I remember squeezing my eyes shut tighter still, and feeling the sudden damp of tears upon my lashes. And after that, I don’t remember anything.
I hadn’t meant to sleep. But when I next opened my eyes the terrace was in darkness, and a scattering of stars gleamed faintly where the clouds had been before. The chill had penetrated to my bones. I rose and flexed my stiffened shoulders, picking my way cautiously across to the glass door into the hotel. Someone, while I’d slept, had closed that door. I tried the handle. ‘Damn,’ I said, aloud. They’d locked me out.
Hugging my arms to ward off the cold, I pressed my face against the glass and peered along the corridor. I knocked twice, loudly. No one
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