They had left the bedside light in Sonia’s bedroom on this time. The lampshade was bright red and their perspiring bodies had glistened in scarlet hues as they had entangled their bodies in the act of love. The light was still on and Merlin gazed contentedly at the bare shoulder poking out above the sheet. Sonia had fallen asleep almost immediately after, but Merlin’s mind was buzzing. They had met in the winter, but after an old-fashioned courtship and then Merlin’s injury this was only the fourth time they had made love and Sonia was the first woman he had been with since his wife had died almost exactly two years before. The first time had been hurried and unsatisfactory. They had both been very nervous and Merlin had felt as if he’d never done it before. He’d also felt guilty wondering what Alice would have thought. The second and third times had not been much better, but this night, things had clicked. For the first time, Sonia had insisted on the light. “I want to see your face, Frank, your beautiful face.” Any lurking anxiety or guilt had been thrust back to the depths of his subconscious as he’d watched Sonia slip out of her clothes. She had laughed with hands on hips as she jutted out her pert, high breasts. Her skin shimmered in the ruddy glow. This time they had also taken the wise precaution of drinking some alcohol – all they had drunk before was hot tea. They’d shared a very nice bottle of wine and Merlin had taken a whisky nightcap. Enough to help loosen inhibitions without undermining performance. However it came about, it had been beautiful. Alice had always told him he was a gentle and generous lover and he hoped he’d retained the knack. He reached carefully across Sonia and turned out the light. He lay back with his arms behind his head. The image of Hernan Cortes, as depicted on the cover of the Castillo book, drifted into his mind. A great man, of course, someone for a Spaniard to be proud of, and what an amount of treasure he had amassed for Spain; but a very cruel man as well. There was another book he must get hold of – the new Hemingway set in Civil War Spain. He had read that it was due out shortly. For Whom the Bell Rings or something like that. His eyes closed as the first wave of drowsiness hit him and the distant sound of throbbing aircraft engines at last faded away.
Chapter 4
Thursday, September 5
The Count had promised his wife that he would be home by six. She had invited some people for drinks and was anxious for him to be there. She was a good hostess, but a nervous one. The meeting, however, had gone on too long and as he looked grimly down Pall Mall, he realised that he would be lucky to get back by seven o’clock. It was a sweltering evening and for some reason London seemed to be momentarily devoid of taxis. The Count had assumed he’d find one immediately he came out of the Club, but he had been waiting a good twenty minutes. The uniformed doorman, who had been looking apologetically at the Count and the now large crowd of other taxi-seekers gathered on the pavement, again stepped into the road and waved his arms frantically, then lowered them and shrugged. “Sorry, gents. It’s an occupied one. You might all be better advised to walk up to Green Park tube. I don’t know what’s up. It just happens sometimes. Change of shift or whatever.”
The Count had been the first to emerge from the Royal Automobile Club into this taxi-drought and so was at the head of the queue. If he’d been at the end of the queue, he would have had no compunction about following the doorman’s advice, but it would be particularly galling to give up his position, walk off and then see a taxi arriving. He would wait.
Ten minutes later, his patience was rewarded and he climbed up wearily into the cab. “Hampstead, please, driver.”