“You don’t need to worry so much. They like you,” Daniel saidin lowered tones, but Cherry gave him a warning look. She’d heard Laura come in behind them.
“I’m just going to finish the soufflé,” she said, and headed into the kitchen.
“We won’t go in there, don’t want to disturb the chef.” Instead he led her up the staircase. As they got to the next floor, they didn’t stop: “This is Mum’s room,” and he continued upward, as Cherry noted how a whole floor could be dedicated to one person’s bedroom and probably huge bathroom and dressing room. She also noted that Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish didn’t appear to sleep together. At the next floor, Daniel led her into one of the bedrooms. “My room,” he said. “Well, it’s not really, not anymore. But this was the room I had when I was growing up.” It held a solid oak king-sized bed, a wardrobe, and a desk, but what set it apart was that it was a photographic homage to the man who stood beside her. Photos covered every wall, every surface: Daniel at Machu Picchu, Easter Island, the pyramids. A range of extreme sports: mountain climbing, skiing, white-water rafting in the Grand Canyon. Pictures of the Grand Tour. There were trophies, cups for rugby, cricket, and tennis. Each one was dust free and gleaming. It was a visual representation of his boyhood and all he’d had access to.
“Wow, quite an achiever.”
“Nothing to do with me. Well, I did run about a bit.... I mean it’s Mum who insists on putting them up.”
“She must be very proud.”
Cherry moved over to the window and picked up a photo of Daniel cycling in the Pyrenees. Someone, presumably Laura, had marked this on the mounting, along with the date. As she put it back down, she looked out the window and her eye was drawn to a bluish-tinged rectangle, about three meters by two, in the middle of the lawn. It looked like glass.
“What’s that?”
He came up behind her. “The window. For the pool.”
Cherry turned, wide-eyed. “You have a swimming pool under there? Underground?”
“Yep. Starts under the garden, goes farther under the house. And off that, under the front of the house, a cellar and a room where Dad likes to hang out, watch movies. And next layer down, small garage. Fancy a dip?”
Cherry stared at the window, tried to imagine what it was like. “Haven’t brought my suit.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Daniel started to kiss the back of her neck, but she squirmed.
“Your mother’s downstairs,” she hissed.
“Yes,” he said, continuing to kiss her.
She pushed him away. “I want to make a good impression. Don’t make me look ruffled.”
“You look absolutely beautiful tonight. Fancy a quickie?”
“Absolutely not.”
A bell rang. He groaned. “My mother has other ideas.”
“Tell me that wasn’t a summons?”
“It’s a large house. She had to call me to the table somehow. What am I going to do about this?” He indicated his groin, which was bulging against the fly of his shorts.
“Think of me naked all through dinner.”
“You are such a tease.” But he loved it, and she knew it. Holding her hand, Daniel led her back down the stairs and they met with Laura in the hallway. She was carrying a tray with four steaming ramekins. “Sorry if I cut the tour short, but this will go flat.”
Daniel dropped her hand as he went to take the tray from his mother. It gave her an irrational sense of abandonment and the nerves swiftly kicked in again.
Dinner was served in the dining hall, where the table was boarded by the largest number of passengers for some time. Cherry was opposite Howard, Daniel his mother. Everything shone with purpose: the cutlery, the glasses, even the dinnerware, a white set with watercolor flowers painted around the edge. A large modern oil hung from the wall, nearly the entire length of the room, a statement that was as confidently expensive as the rest of the house.
“Ta-da!” said Daniel as he placed the tray of soufflés on the table.
Cherry immediately got a whiff of an unmistakable fishy scent. Crab. She balked. She’d had a bad experience with one of her mum’s discounted purchases at the outer limit of its sell-by date and had spent most of the night throwing up in the bathroom. The smell was making her feel nauseous, but she resolved to get through it. A dish was placed in front of her, a fluffy pillow of soufflé just waiting for her to break through its peaked surface. She waited as long as she could, until everyone had been served and had taken their first bite. Then she picked up the small fork, thinking it might load less on it than the spoon, and tentatively tried it. It was all she could do not to gag. Cherry wondered miserably how she was going to get through the course without being sick or offending her hostess. She stopped for a sip of wine, then slowly forked up another mouthful, but Laura noticed she was struggling.
“Is everything okay?”
Cherry considered bluffing, but caved in. “I’m sorry. I don’t like crab.”
“Oh, my goodness, don’t eat it.”
