‘When did you first notice something was wrong?’
Ali Sparrow sighed. Everyone asked her the same question.
And she was always careful to give the same answer.
But somehow she had expected greater originality from Foy
Chesterton, a man who had recently sung every verse of
‘American Pie’ at his seventieth birthday party and organized
a signed copy of his self-published autobiography for
the 300 guests as a going-home present. Although of course
now the happy ending looked a little premature.
Ali had come into the room hoping for solitude and an
excuse to examine the objects on the circular mahogany
dining table in her own time before the antiques dealer
arrived. As had Foy, actually. But by the time she noticed
the familiar tussle of wiry grey hair emerging from an
armchair by the fireplace it was too late for either of them
to retreat without it looking as though they were trying to
avoid each other.
‘You must have seen things, overheard conversations . . .’
his voice trailed off as he peered around the side of the
chair to fix her with his blue eyes. ‘Nannies always have the
bird’s-eye view, Ali. People forget you’re in the room. You
melt into the scenery. Like wallpaper. N’est-ce-pas?’ The tone
of his voice was molten, as though every word contained
hidden intent. He smoothed down the front of his mustard-
coloured corduroy trousers with one hand and
patted the seat of a stiff upright dining chair with the
other, indicating that she should come and sit down
beside him.
‘You can help us. Help Bryony. She’s been good to you,
hasn’t she? We’re all trying to understand what has happened.
Nick’s act of folly . . .’
‘Acts of folly,’ Ali wanted to correct him.Instead she
stared at the chair until its red and green silk stripes started
to dance before her eyes. This room had always intimidated
her. It was less the imposing furniture, the hard
bronze statues by Caffi eri that straddled the fi replace, or
the armchairs in ghostly colours with feathery fringes
around their edges. After more than two years, she was
accustomed to its bi-tonal formality. It was more what
went on here. This was the room where everyone was
called to account and she was no exception. She walked
towards Foy, aware that her role had imperceptibly altered
over the past month and she no longer needed to humour
him, but unsure how little she could indulge him.
Ali was vaguely aware of him looking down at her bare
feet. Apart from Foy, no one wore shoes in the drawing
room unless there was a party. It was one of Bryony’s
rules. Ali enjoyed the way the pile was so thick that you
could feel it like grass between your toes and trace your
tracks back across the room. But there was something
vulnerable about bare feet, especially when the rest of
your body was covered and you were standing before
someone who had an innate ability to make you feel
exposed. Instinctively, she curled her toes into the pile but
it was too late. He had already absorbed the gold ring on
her index toe and the small tattoo across the instep.
‘It’s just decorative,’ said Ali, anticipating his next question.
‘Like wallpaper.’ She remained standing, knowing
that if she sat down she might never get up. The urge to
unburden herself might prove irresistible and then she
would write herself out of her role in this drama. Besides,
she was due to meet Felix Naylor in less than two hours
for what he described as a ‘preliminary chat’ and he had
given her firm instructions to talk to no one but him
because no one else could be trusted.