‘Harry, I paid that bill last week.’
‘Now that’s what I told them, you see. Louisa paid last week. She never forgets, I said. They wouldn’t listen.’
‘Harry, we have bank statements, we have cheque stubs, we have receipts, we have a bank that we can call and we have cash in the house. I do not understand why you have to ransack my briefcase in my den in search of a bill we have already paid.’
‘Yes, well as long as we have, I won’t bother, will I? Thank you for the information.’
And acting injured, or whatever he thought he was acting, he walked past her to his own den. And as he crossed the courtyard she saw him slip something into his trousers pocket and realised it was the revolting cigarette lighter that he had taken to carrying around with him these days – a present from a customer, he had said, waving it in her face, flicking it off and on for her, proud as a child with his new toy.
Then she panicked. Vision slipping, ears jangling, knees no good. Smell of burning, the children’s sweat running down her own body, the whole scene. She saw El Chorrillo in flames, and Harry’s face as he came back into the house from the balcony, and the oily red light still glowing in his eyes. She saw him coming over to where she was cringing in the broom cupboard. And embracing her. Embracing Mark as well because she wouldn’t let Mark go. Then stammering something to her that she had never understood or contemplated rationally until this minute, preferring to dismiss it as part of the demented exchange between traumatised witnesses to disaster:
‘If I’d started one that size, they’d have put me away for ever,’ he said.
Then he bowed his head and stared at his feet like a man praying standing up, the same gesture he had made just now but worse.
‘I couldn’t move my legs, you see,’ he had explained. ‘They were stuck. It was like a cramp. I should have run down there but I couldn’t.’
Then worrying about what had happened to Marta.
Harry was about to torch the fucking house! she screamed at herself as she shivered and sipped her vodka and listened to his classy music from across the courtyard. He’s bought a lighter and he’s going to incinerate his family! He came to bed, she raped him and he seemed grateful. Next morning none of it had ever happened. In the mornings it never had. Not for Harry, not for Louisa. That was how they survived together. The four-track broke down and Harry had to borrow the Peugeot to drive the kids to school. Louisa went to work by taxi. The tile-cleaning maid found a snake in the larder and had hysterics. Hannah had a tooth out. It rained. Harry was not put away for ever, neither did he burn down the house with his new cigarette lighter. But he stayed out late, pleading yet another late customer.
‘Osnard?’ Louisa repeated, not believing her ears. ‘Andrew Osnard? Who in Heaven’s name is Mr Osnard and why has he been invited to join us on our Sunday picnic on the island?’
‘He’s British, Lou, I told you. Joined the Embassy a couple of months ago. He’s the ten-suit one, remember? He’s all alone here. He was living in a hotel for weeks until he got his flat.’
‘Which hotel?’ she asked, thinking please God, let it be the Paraiso.
‘The El Panama. He wants to meet a real family. You can understand that, can’t you?’ – the whipped hound, ever faithful, never understood.
And when she could think of nothing to say:
‘He’s fun, Lou. You’ll see. Bouncy. Go down like a house on fire with the kids, I’ll bet you.’ His unhappy choice of phrase was followed by the new false laugh he had. ‘It’s my English roots raising their nasty little heads, I expect. Patriotism. Comes to us all, they say. You, too.’
‘Harry, I do not understand what your love of country or mine has to do with inviting Mr Osnard to join us for an intimate family outing on Hannah’s birthday when as we have all noticed you have little enough time for your children as it is.’