*
‘The King of Spain lives over there.’ Claudine pointed to a little castle near the beach. ‘He’s in exile, of course. As are half the people who live here.’
‘And the other half?’
She laughed. ‘Merchants, adventurers, and of course spies.’
Of course.
‘Fancy an ice cream? Best one in the city is just ahead. Come on, you’ll love it.’
Gino’s Ice Cream Parlour was a thriving business. Not a single table under the green-and-white umbrellas was free, and a roiling file of children and adults led to a counter outside where a young man was busy scooping their gelato. Through the window, an enormous portrait of Mussolini proclaimed Gino’s politics. I held back a sigh. Whether by intent or not, Claudine was ensuring that I was seen in the right watering holes.
‘It’s always like this,’ Claudine said, grabbing my arm and moving fast to slide into a seat almost before it was fully vacated.
A middle-aged woman came to take our orders. Tendrils of hair escaped the chignon at the back of her head, falling in damp waves along her shoulders.
‘Buon giorno, Signora Deschamps.’
She piled the empty glasses onto a tray and sponged down the table.
Claudine waited for her to finish before responding. ‘Good afternoon, Carla. I’ll have a strawberry gelato, please. And for my friend . . .’
I ordered a hazelnut gelato and watched three small children at the next table over attack their ice cream as Claudine prattled on.
‘Bless her, she really could do with a bit more help here. It was better when her daughter was here, but Gino won’t allow her to bring in anyone else. “A family concern” he calls this. Or something like that.’
‘Where’s the daughter?’
‘She ran off with a sailor last year.’ Her nostrils flared, showing her opinion on the matter.
‘It’s a common enough story.’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘There’s something about the uniforms.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘No, I was already married when my husband joined the navy.’ That part, at least, was true.
‘And Monsieur Verin?’
‘Is dead.’
The simple words didn’t lend themselves to further conversation, and after murmuring her condolences, Claudine looked away. I stared over her shoulder at two women farther down the beach. They lounged in deckchairs, their faces half hidden behind large sunglasses with tortoiseshell frames, with a bottle of Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Oil perched on a table between them.
‘Americans,’ Claudine said, following my gaze. ‘I almost envy them.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Ever met one?’ a blonde woman with olive skin said, kissing Claudine’s cheek and sliding into the seat beside her. She waved at the waitress as she spoke. ‘Everything about them is larger than life. They play at war, having no idea what it’s all about. What it’s like to be bombed,’ she said bitterly. ‘So here they are, with their dollars and their white smiles and their naïveté. They think they’re helping but everything they do makes this damned war last forever. But enough of politics.’ A dainty hand waved away the subject. ‘Welcome to Estoril, Madame Verin. I’m having a dinner party tomorrow. Do say you’ll come, we’re all quite curious about you.’
Claudine was right; the gossipmongers were already at work. I hadn’t introduced myself yet, but she already knew who I was. I’d hoped to get my bearings before entering the fray, but wasn’t about to miss the opportunity.
‘I’d be delighted, Madame . . . ?’
‘Ribaud. Gabrielle Ribaud.’ She pulled a cream-coloured calling card from her handbag. ‘The address is on the card, although Madame Deschamps knows where I live. By the way, darling, whoever is your husband talking to?’
Claudine went very still as she located her husband. She pushed her white-framed sunglasses farther up her nose and leant forward. Farther down the beach, he stood facing a man with fair hair and hands in his pockets. Christophe’s shoulders were hunched in what should have been a casual pose. It was impossible to see his face from this angle, but from her expression, Claudine knew who his companion was, and wasn’t pleased.
‘Claudine?’ I asked, curious.
‘I don’t know,’ she lied. For some time, her eyes didn’t leave her husband, until she threw down the spoon and stood up. ‘Please forgive me, Solange.’ She collected her things, fingers trembling. ‘I’m so sorry to do this to you, but the sun’s getting to me. I need to lie down.’
‘Let me walk you back.’
‘No, no. You stay and finish your ice cream. Gabrielle will keep you company. I’ll be fine.’
Christophe’s conversation had become animated, his hands gesticulating wildly. His companion had an unremarkable face, with both hair and chin retreating away from a prominent nose and an even more prominent Adam’s apple. It was the sort that you forget moments after meeting. Almost. The cut of his pale seersucker suit looked faintly English. From his company he kept at the casino, I’d assumed Christophe favoured the Germans, but this was the City of Spies, and I was beginning to realise, the moniker was well-earned.
Chapter Thirteen
For all that the Irishman, Julian Reilly, claimed Claudine loved her husband, both times I had seen them, they’d seemed at odds. And yet, they remained together. Expediency? Shared secrets? Or something deeper? I was curious, but the Deschamps weren’t my priority.
My first three days in Estoril were busy. Under the guise of exploring the coastal towns of Cascais, Oeiras and Carcavelos, I secured a safe house and a number of disguises. I didn’t have the documentation yet for a second identity, but that was something Matthew should be able to sort out.
By the time I returned home, I was exhausted. A note fell to the ground when I opened my gate, and I took a deep breath before opening it. Claudine, noting that I didn’t have a car, was offering to pick me up at eight o’clock for the soirée at Gabrielle Ribaud’s villa.
Two hours later, clad in a teal chiffon gown, I sat in the back of Christophe’s
