them.’
‘Sure, Jack. But it’s quite clear they are not awaiting it .’
***
From: Mary Lou Denslow
To: Robert Amiss
Sent: Mon 15/05/2006 22.15
Subject: Be afraid. Be very afraid
She’s bored. She’s frustrated. For her to ring two nights in a row—ostensibly to ask about Plutarch, which is improbable enough—but really to moan about her troubles, is unprecedented. She’s had a horrid time on the food-and-drink front and the object of her lust has proved to be unworthy, but though she’s now showing off about her success in kicking ass rather than simply wailing and fulminating, I detect a whiff of bravado. What’s more, she must realise that going on and on about culinary deficiencies is going to win her no friends in her new town.
She’s missing us and she’s missing Myles and she knows she’s been a complete idiot to go where she’s gone, but of course she won’t admit it. She went so far as to ask about you—not, of course, in the sense of “Are they having a good time? Where are they going next?”—but so she could yet again pass on the info that you would be welcome in Indiana.
Of course you must feel free to sacrifice Austria for New Paddington, but I have faith that you’ll resist the temptation. I’m hoping this Indiana experience might teach Jack to value the people in her life more than she does now. I’m an American. I believe in redemption. But suffering has to come first.
Love,
ML
Chapter Five
The baroness was in a much sunnier mood the following morning after a ten-hour sleep and an edible breakfast consisting of a fresh orange (which on her insistence had been kept at room temperature), two boiled eggs (disparaged for blandness, but eaten), and rye bread. The hotel manager, just back from his long weekend, was summoned to her room, where she was cleaning out Horace’s cage and trying to teach him to sing ‘Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?’ As she answered the door, Horace had got bored listening and was complaining that he was only a bird in a gilded cage. To the baroness’s horror, he followed that up with an ear-splitting ‘Whoo! Whoo! Wah! Wah!’
‘He thinks he’s a freight-train,’ she explained to the thirty-something with dark curly hair and a tentative smile, who came into her room and bowed. ‘I am Stefano Ricciano, Lady Troutbeck. At your service.’
‘You mean you’re Italian? That augurs well.’
‘American-Italian. But still Italian.’ He beamed. ‘You like Italians?’
‘Well, you may not be people to go into the jungle with, but you are…’—she cleared her throat dramatically to herald that she was attempting to speak in a foreign language—‘…sym pat ico. In general you certainly add to the gaiety of nations. And from what I’ve seen so far, this is one nation that needs all the gaiety it can get.’
‘Beverages!’ roared Horace. ‘Beverages! Beverages!’
Ricciano jumped. ‘So your little bird talks as well as whistles.’
‘All sounds are grist to his mill, if you follow that convoluted metaphor.’ She went over to the cage, where Horace was swinging himself on the door, and picked him up. ‘Come and meet Mr. Ricciano, Horrie. Mr. Ricciano, this is Horace.’ Ricciano stretched out his finger and she grabbed it. ‘No, no. Don’t touch him. He bites pretty well everyone, I’m sorry to say. But otherwise he’s gregarious. Perhaps you might teach him a little Italian. He already knows “Bravo!”’.
‘Perhaps another time, Signora. You had some problems you wanted to tell me about?’
‘Call for some Prosecco, Mr. Ricciano, and we’ll discuss it.’
‘Alas, Signora, we have no Prosecco, but if you have finished tending to the little bird, please come downstairs and we will find what the bar has to offer.’
***
An hour later, they approached the end of room inspections and complex negotiations.
‘It is not as good as the bridal suite, Signora, but I am glad you are satisfied.’
‘Well,
‘Sure, Jack. But it’s quite clear they are not awaiting it .’
***
From: Mary Lou Denslow
To: Robert Amiss
Sent: Mon 15/05/2006 22.15
Subject: Be afraid. Be very afraid
She’s bored. She’s frustrated. For her to ring two nights in a row—ostensibly to ask about Plutarch, which is improbable enough—but really to moan about her troubles, is unprecedented. She’s had a horrid time on the food-and-drink front and the object of her lust has proved to be unworthy, but though she’s now showing off about her success in kicking ass rather than simply wailing and fulminating, I detect a whiff of bravado. What’s more, she must realise that going on and on about culinary deficiencies is going to win her no friends in her new town.
She’s missing us and she’s missing Myles and she knows she’s been a complete idiot to go where she’s gone, but of course she won’t admit it. She went so far as to ask about you—not, of course, in the sense of “Are they having a good time? Where are they going next?”—but so she could yet again pass on the info that you would be welcome in Indiana.
Of course you must feel free to sacrifice Austria for New Paddington, but I have faith that you’ll resist the temptation. I’m hoping this Indiana experience might teach Jack to value the people in her life more than she does now. I’m an American. I believe in redemption. But suffering has to come first.
Love,
ML
Chapter Five
The baroness was in a much sunnier mood the following morning after a ten-hour sleep and an edible breakfast consisting of a fresh orange (which on her insistence had been kept at room temperature), two boiled eggs (disparaged for blandness, but eaten), and rye bread. The hotel manager, just back from his long weekend, was summoned to her room, where she was cleaning out Horace’s cage and trying to teach him to sing ‘Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?’ As she answered the door, Horace had got bored listening and was complaining that he was only a bird in a gilded cage. To the baroness’s horror, he followed that up with an ear-splitting ‘Whoo! Whoo! Wah! Wah!’
‘He thinks he’s a freight-train,’ she explained to the thirty-something with dark curly hair and a tentative smile, who came into her room and bowed. ‘I am Stefano Ricciano, Lady Troutbeck. At your service.’
‘You mean you’re Italian? That augurs well.’
‘American-Italian. But still Italian.’ He beamed. ‘You like Italians?’
‘Well, you may not be people to go into the jungle with, but you are…’—she cleared her throat dramatically to herald that she was attempting to speak in a foreign language—‘…sym pat ico. In general you certainly add to the gaiety of nations. And from what I’ve seen so far, this is one nation that needs all the gaiety it can get.’
‘Beverages!’ roared Horace. ‘Beverages! Beverages!’
Ricciano jumped. ‘So your little bird talks as well as whistles.’
‘All sounds are grist to his mill, if you follow that convoluted metaphor.’ She went over to the cage, where Horace was swinging himself on the door, and picked him up. ‘Come and meet Mr. Ricciano, Horrie. Mr. Ricciano, this is Horace.’ Ricciano stretched out his finger and she grabbed it. ‘No, no. Don’t touch him. He bites pretty well everyone, I’m sorry to say. But otherwise he’s gregarious. Perhaps you might teach him a little Italian. He already knows “Bravo!”’.
‘Perhaps another time, Signora. You had some problems you wanted to tell me about?’
‘Call for some Prosecco, Mr. Ricciano, and we’ll discuss it.’
‘Alas, Signora, we have no Prosecco, but if you have finished tending to the little bird, please come downstairs and we will find what the bar has to offer.’
***
An hour later, they approached the end of room inspections and complex negotiations.
‘It is not as good as the bridal suite, Signora, but I am glad you are satisfied.’
‘Well,
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