I made my way to the lounge, tying the long, white serving apron about my waist. I already knew the drink that I wanted to mix that night. I had found it in The Gentleman’s Guide. Temptation, it was called; orange and lemon skin entwined, both of them in fine spirits. When Langham stepped into the lounge with his first guest, I already had the drink waiting, and handed it to him before he could ask. His eyes travelled over my face and down to that green tie. Did I imagine it, or did he smile?

Now I have you, that look seemed to say.

A few minutes later, I escaped to the kitchen, leaving Bouzid to deal with the drinks, and the guests. I’d watched them with interest, trying to gauge their relationships with Langham. There was a man with watering eyes, who spoke no English, only French in a thick German accent. A tall, black American woman in a shimmering satin dress who sang a snatch of Italian opera. A florid Englishman in a striped waistcoat that broke every rule in The Gentleman’s Guide.

I was lingering by the kitchen door, waiting for the signal that they had gone into dinner when I heard footsteps and Langham’s hushed voice in the hall. I leaned closer.

‘Any word from Cabrera?’ he murmured.

‘Not yet.’ That was Bouzid.

Langham swore.

‘Call down and see if there’s trouble.’

‘Of course.’

I ducked into the kitchen, and was back at the stove by the time Bouzid put his head around the door.

‘They are going in to dine,’ he told me, and hurried away. To call Cabrera, I supposed.

Trouble, Langham had said … I began to arrange the plates, my heart skipping a little. What did he mean? I’d never heard him sound agitated, never heard him swear in frustration like that. I tried to forget about it. It was probably just business, and I had my own to concentrate on, the heady, eccentric meal that had swallowed my day. First came the starter: poached artichoke hearts, each of them holding a single oyster, surrounded by its liquor and a sauce made from champagne. It smelled earthy, of flesh and salt, like alcohol spilled on sea-wet limbs. I helped Bouzid carry in the plates, but I could not look at their faces, least of all Langham’s.

Make them think of you as a kitchen-thing, a duende, a stove-spirit, then they will want you for your usefulness, and will leave you be. That wasn’t what I was doing. I wasn’t hiding behind a kitchen apron, or keeping to my place at the stove any more. I was out in the open, I was brazen. I watched through a crack in the door as Langham spooned up the oyster and tipped it whole into his mouth.