Chapter Five
Enzo stepped from the shower, drying himself with a big, soft, warm towel before slipping into his robe and rubbing his hair with a hand-towel. He ran his hands through it then, sweeping the thick strands of it back from his brow to fall in ropes across his shoulders.
He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, lips pulled back to reveal a row of fine, white upper front teeth, the buzz of his electric toothbrush filling the bathroom. He had been blessed with strong teeth that had required little dental care over the years. But the years had been less kind in other ways. He could see the crows’ feet gaining definition as they fanned out from the corners of his eyes, the deepening crease down the right side of his forehead and upper cheek where he slept on it. Some mornings before movement brought blood back to his face, it looked almost like a scar.
He could see the faintest discoloration now in the whites of his eyes, but he had long stopped being aware of the contrasting colors of his irises, the genetic inheritance of Waardenburg Syndrome. His jawline was holding up well, but there was a certain lack of definition now about his neck, and if he failed to shave for a few days he could see that his bristles were starting to silver, like the hair on his head. One day, he guessed, his distinctive white stripe would be lost forever.
He rinsed his mouth and padded bare-foot back through to the living room. A comfortable three-piece suite was arranged around a widescreen LCD TV, and the late evening news was playing on FR3. Thick-piled carpet led through an open arched doorway to the bedroom where the covers on his king-size bed had been turned down by the maid sometime earlier in the evening.
A soft knock at the door startled him, although he had been expecting it for some time. His heart beat a little faster as he crossed to the door and opened it a fraction. Out in the darkened hallway, he saw the pale, nervous face of the blonde. She glanced anxiously back along the hall before he opened the door wide to let her in.
She hurried into the room, bringing with her cold air from somewhere outside. As he closed the door behind her, she flung her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him. He kissed her forehead and took her face in his hands, turning it up toward him to look at her. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”
She pulled away. “Oh, papa! It’s obvious, isn’t it? If I hadn’t dyed it, they’d have seen my white streak, and they would have known I was your daughter the moment you arrived.” It was the one symptom of Waardenburg that he had passed on to her.
He took her hand and led her to the settee. “Come and sit down, Sophie, and tell me all about it. Do you want a drink?”
She flopped into the soft embrace of the settee’s upholstery. “Oh, God, yes! I could murder something with alcohol in it. I’ve hardly had a drink since I’ve been here! Four weeks, and it feels like four months. Peeling bloody vegetables and washing floors. This is the last time I ever go undercover for you.”
Enzo smiled as he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of chilled Chablis. “It’ll do you good. You’ll find out what real work’s all about.”
Sophie glanced around the suite. “I see you’re really slumming it.” She watched him uncork the bottle and fill a single glass. “Are you not having one?”
“Just brushed my teeth.”
She pulled a face. “Yeh, toothpaste and Chablis. Doesn’t really go, does it?” She took the glass from him and he dropped into the armchair opposite.
“So tell me.”
She shrugged and sipped her wine. “Not much to tell, really. That letter of introduction you got from your friend at the catering school in Souillac really did the trick. They took me on for the full five weeks, no questions asked. But there’s nothing to do here, papa! You spend most of the time working, and the rest of the time cooped up in a tiny room in the staff annexe watching a crappy TV set that looks like its broadcasting a snowstorm. And the food? You’d think because you’re working in a three-star kitchen you’d eat well. But all our meals are cooked by one of the stagiaires. Pretty bloody awful. We all have to take turns. Even me. So you can imagine!”
Enzo could, only too well. He wrinkled his nose.
But Sophie wasn’t finished. “And the social life is zero!”
“You aren’t here to socialise. You’re here to be my eyes and ears behind the scenes, to pick up the kind of things no one’s ever going to tell me.”
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this, though. I thought it would be fun. Roll on next week!” She took a lengthy draught from her glass.
“That’s Chablis, Sophie. You don’t drink it like lemonade.”
“You do if you haven’t had a decent drink for a month.”
Enzo sighed. Sophie was almost twenty-four now, but it was hard to believe sometimes that she wasn’t still sixteen. “Have you learned anything at all?”
She pursed her lips in a secret little smile and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe.”
“Sophie!” Enzo was losing patience.
Sophie tucked her legs up under her and leaned on the arm of the settee. “Well… a lot of gossip, I guess. Folk just love to blether.”
Enzo couldn’t resist a smile. From the time she had started to talk he had spoken only English to her. He knew that she would be steeped in French language and culture as she grew up, but he had wanted her to absorb at least a little of her cultural heritage. And, of course, the English she had learned was his English, peppered with Scottish words, and flavoured with a gentle Scottish accent, like the warm scent of whisky on a summer’s evening. “And what have they been blethering about?”
“Oh, this and that.” It was clear she had something to tell him. Something she was pleased with. But she wasn’t about to blurt it straight out. “And the sous chef ’s taken a fancy to me.”
“Oh, has he?” This was not what Enzo wanted to hear. “Well, I hope you’re not encouraging him.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Philippe’s a good looking guy.”
“What about Bertrand?”
“What about him?”
“You’re not cheating on him, are you?”
A petulant little pout pursed her lips. “I’m not here to take lectures from you on cheating.” She saw immediately how she had hurt him, carelessly, thoughtlessly. And she immediately relented. “I’m sorry, papa. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
Enzo nodded, but said nothing.
“Anyway, I’m not cheating on anyone. It’s just nice to be getting a bit of attention, that’s all.” She sipped on her wine again. “Everyone who was here when Marc Fraysse was still alive really loved him. I mean, no one’s got a bad word to say about him. Apparently he was endlessly patient with the stagiaires. Unlike his successor.”
“You don’t like Georges Crozes?”
She shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose. Bit of a cold fish. But he’s good, you know? Everyone respects his talent. It seems like Marc really thought the world of him. But he’s got a temper on him. He can lose it sometimes. And you don’t want to be around him when he does.”
“What about Marc himself? Any stories, anecdotes, observations?”
Sophie smiled. “He had a bit of a passion for the horses, apparently.”
Enzo frowned. “You mean he went horse riding?”
Sophie laughed. “No, papa! Don’t be silly! I mean he liked betting on them. It seems he drove into Thiers most mornings to the PMU to place a few bets on that day’s courses.”
Enzo nodded thoughtfully. “And Guy? What’s he like?”
“He’s a lovely man, papa. Treats everyone like a member of the family.”
“What about him and Elisabeth? Is there anything between them, do you think?”
Sophie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Romantically, you mean?”
“Or sexually.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If there is, they keep it incredibly well hidden. They are more like
