Cal took off his shoes in the lobby.
June looked down.
“Not there.”
He put them back on.
“One of them has been hurting since seven.”
“Then it has done its work.”
Estelle came out of the cloakroom wearing a coat which made her look younger than Ada. She had put the scarf in her suitcase and was eating a little piece of bread Nina had brought from the kitchen.
“Paid?”
“Yes,” Nina said. “As agreed.”
“Good.”
Cal sat on the edge of a chair to change his shoes properly.
Frankie stood beside the reception desk with her dessert plate in her hand. The room looked abandoned with Gideon gone. Not empty—there were still people working, glasses to carry, furniture to return—but the private glow had ceased to belong to anyone.
She wanted to gather everyone round the table again and ask what they'd felt.
Nina was checking a departure time with Estelle.
“Train?”
“Lift. Cal.”
“I thought you weren't going together.”
“We changed our minds.”
Cal held up the shoe which had hurt him.
“I'm charging her for conversation.”
“You're getting bread,” Estelle said.
Duncan came through from the Morning Room.
“Peter says his wife wants the recipe.”
“For?”
“The pudding.”
Frankie smiled.
“We'll ask.”
“He also says sorry for interrupting.”
“He didn't spoil it.”
“I told him.”
“Did he believe you?”
“He wanted to. That's usually enough.”
The sentence seemed to include more than Peter.
Frankie looked at Duncan. He was carrying his jacket over his arm, the new shirt sleeves rolled back. He looked pleasantly tired.
She hadn't seen him like that in years.
Vivian emerged from the Ballroom holding the leaf holder.
“Somebody put it in the wrong box.”
“What box?” Nina asked.
“The box for the candles.”
“It was on the tray.”
“It was with the candles.”
Nina glanced at Frankie.
Frankie took the dessert plate to the kitchen before she could be offered the dispute.
The kitchen was hotter than either dining room. Someone had opened the rear door onto the yard. A member of staff was sitting on a stool with one shoe off, rubbing her heel. The chef wiped the edge of a counter which had already been wiped once.
“Good?”
“Very.”
“The fish?”
“Yes.”
“The fish was good,” he said, as though he'd been forced to check a rumour about himself.
Frankie put down her plate.
“Peter Hales's wife wants the pudding recipe.”
“Does she.”
“She liked it.”
“Then tell her to come back and eat it.”
Frankie laughed.
He took the plate.
She had spent hours deciding how to make Gideon feel welcome. These people had made food hot enough to be enjoyed by someone she hadn't planned to entertain.
“What can I carry?”
He pointed.
She carried the clean glasses out.
In the Ballroom Sol was kneeling beside a case, coiling cable. Nina crouched opposite him. They were discussing a moment Frankie hadn't noticed: the new introduction, the cue Sol had held, the small change in light when Peter reached his wife.
“Did you do that?”
Sol looked up.
“What?”
“The light.”
“A little.”
“It's not in the plan.”
“No.”
Nina continued putting things away.
Frankie put the glasses down.
“It worked.”
“I know,” Sol said.
There was no accusation in it. She heard one anyway.
She sat on the dais.
Her shoes had begun to hurt as well. She took them off where June couldn't see.
Duncan appeared with a dish covered in foil.
“What is that?”
“Something they said I could take.”
“Who?”
“The kitchen.”
“You asked?”
“Yes.”
“For food?”
“It seemed the right place.”
He sat beside her.
There were potatoes in the dish, and a little fish. Two forks stuck through the foil at the edge.
Frankie took one.
“You're hungry?”
“I ate slowly.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to stay.”
She looked at him.
He took a potato.
“In the evening,” he said.
“Yes.”
He had corrected nothing. She'd been the one about to make it a different answer.
They ate.
Vivian brought three glasses and a bottle with enough wine left to make the portion look deliberate. She sat on a chair below the dais.
“This is not how people should eat.”
“Then don't,” Duncan said.
She drank the wine.
Nina stood up and stretched her back. Her phone vibrated on the edge of the table.
Frankie could see the name before Nina picked it up.
Gideon.
Nina looked at the screen.
“Now?” Frankie asked too quickly.
Nina met her eyes.
“He asked me to call.”
“We could all—”
“I'm going outside.”
She took her coat.
The door shut behind her.
Frankie watched it.
Duncan moved the dish between them.
“Fish?”
“Thank you.”
Vivian tilted her glass.
“He liked her.”
“She did good work.”
“Yes.”
The agreement didn't help.
Through the window Frankie could see Nina in the yard, one hand holding the phone, the other in her coat pocket. She was listening. Then she laughed.
Not the laugh she'd used for Gideon in the room. A quick, pleased laugh, her face changing before she had time to decide how much to show.
Frankie looked away.
Cal came back through carrying his shoes.
“Going.”
“Thank you,” Frankie said.
He looked at her.
“For?”
“Tonight.”
“Oh. Well. Yes.”
Estelle followed.
“Tell Nina we said good night.”
“I will.”
“And that was a lovely room.”
Vivian looked pleased enough to forgive the absence of praise for her curtains.
They went.
Sol closed the last case.
“I need someone to hold that door.”
Frankie got up.
Barefoot, she stood by the ordinary rear corridor while he wheeled the equipment through. The floor was cold. Her dress, bought to make Celia look effortlessly available to expensive company, had a little mark near the hem.
Sol noticed her shoes in the other hand.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Nina returned after he'd loaded the car.
Frankie waited beside the doorway.
“What did he want?”
“To talk.”
“About the next one?”
“Among other things.”
She looked tired and happy.
Frankie wanted the happiness to come from something she could still claim.
“Anything we need to know?”
Nina took the last glass from Vivian.
“I'll tell you tomorrow.”
She drank.
Frankie could have pressed. Made the question an act of care, asked what Gideon had promised, reminded her of how much he'd been made to believe.
Nina set down the glass.
“I need to go.”
“Of course.”
Duncan stood.
Vivian began gathering the little holders into the proper box.
For a moment they had all been there, eating food nobody had plated for effect.
Then each of them had somewhere else to be.
Frankie put her shoes back on. One foot resisted, swollen against the narrow leather.
She hoped the next evening would be as good.
She was no longer sure who was making it.