‘I believe she is here, yes. I must say, though, she isn’t what I would call a good hostess. She didn’t do a scrap of entertaining when I was there last, not one introduction—’

‘That’s because she isn’t the hostess,’ one of the men said lazily. ‘She’s just a guest up there.’

‘What trash,’ Dolores laughed. ‘Everyone knows she and Langham are special friends.’

‘Not what I heard,’ the other man said, with a strange, leering smile. ‘I heard he’s one of them.’

‘But the two of them have been seen together,’ Dolores persisted. ‘And people say he was engaged to a Russian heiress, after the war.’

‘Smoke and mirrors, darling,’ the man said, taking a cigarette. ‘It always is.’

Dolores turned her bright eyes on me. ‘Well, which is it? Surely you know whether Langham and Lady Bailey are … au fait.’

‘I—’ I stammered. I had no idea whether Langham and Lady Bailey were a couple. They had certainly seemed close. But I remembered the feel of Langham’s eyes on me, his expression. One of them. My face began to burn.

I was saved from answering by the appearance of a waiter.

‘What’ll we have?’ Dolores asked.

‘Scotch?’ the moody man suggested.

I swallowed. Blood and ice and liquor, pooling on the floorboards …

‘Not Scotch,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Something else.’

‘Mr del Potro is quite right. Brandy is better. Fundador!’ she said to the waiter. ‘Fundador and a bottle of Apollinaris! Vite!’

She looked back at me and laughed, her knee touching mine beneath the table. And though my guts were kinked with nerves, I smiled back and tried to do the things any young man might, until I could convince her to take me to Dar Portuna, and to Langham.

Tangier

July 1978

Sam stepped out on to the street. Only then did he realize he was trembling. Taking a deep breath, he found a doorway and sat down, resting the writing case on his knees.

What had just happened? He started to roll a cigarette. An old lady, her mind wandering and confused at the end of her years; that was all. But even as he struck a match, the strange shudder returned at the back of his neck.

I was there the night it happened. I saw him. I saw them both.

He took a drag. Who was she talking about, and what did she mean, that night at Dar Portuna? Abruptly, he remembered the pencil-written note, and its words: A, I am sorry. One day, I hope you’ll understand.

She’d mentioned the name Arthur. Was he A, or was Alejandro? And in either case, who had written it? He blew out smoke, and rubbed at his face with one hand. What was wrong with him? He didn’t need to know this stuff in order to write.