“Ah, yes, the scenery,” he agreed. Who was this man?, Nellie wondered. His English was surprisingly fluent, better than Kitty’s certainly.
“Are you staying here?” she asked.
“The Goring? No, I’ve taken a house in Eaton Square. I thought I would return for old times’ sake. I once had an unfortunate experience here.”
“And yet you wanted to return?”
“To lay the ghosts to rest. And”—he chuckled to himself—“to see if anyone recognized me. I have changed a good deal since I lived in London.” His eyes moved to the back of his hand, where Nellie had already noticed an ugly star-shaped scar, a wound that didn’t look as if it had been stitched properly, if at all. She refrained from commenting. “It’s always amusing to reinvent oneself, don’t you think?” he said, looking pointedly at Nellie.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, raising an eyebrow over a second éclair.
Even Azzopardi found it necessary to answer the demands of a Coker eyebrow. “The law exists to be broken, you of all people must know that.”
Nellie frowned at the last bite of the éclair in her hand and placed it back on her plate.
“Something the matter, Nellie—may I call you Nellie?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t, if you don’t mind.” Was he trying to flirt with her? Better men than Azzopardi had tried and failed. The man was oily. She supposed he was after the clubs. Probably heard that Maddox was going to make a move on her and decided to pre-empt him. Why didn’t he just get down to business and make her an offer, instead of all this flimflam? She calmed herself down with a scone.
“I would like to offer you fifty thousand pounds,” he said, sensing her impatience.
“For what?” she said innocently, the butter knife her only weapon of defence.
“Your nightclubs. What do you say?” He blinked slowly, like a tortoise.
The clubs were worth twice that, at least. Another testudinal blink from Azzopardi. “More tea?” he said, signalling to a hovering waiter.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Nellie said.
* * *
—
Azzopardi asked for the bill. “May I offer you a lift somewhere?” he asked Nellie.
“No, thank you. I shall go to the powder room before I leave.”
“And you will consider my offer?”
“Of course.”
“And give me your answer next week?”
“Of course.”
They both rose from the tea table. Azzopardi proffered his hand, but when Nellie reached out to shake it he alarmed her by grabbing her hand and pulling her closer—close enough for her to smell his eau de cologne. Rather disconcertingly, it was the same one that Niven wore. He alarmed her further by kissing her on the cheek, one-two. Not usually xenophobic—she would have had no business if she had been—nonetheless Nellie couldn’t help thinking, Bloody foreigner.
* * *
—
In the Ladies’ （very pleasant）， Nellie frowned at herself in the mirror. She felt breathless, as if she’d been running （an unlikely occurrence）。 I am not for sale, she thought grimly. She had the strange feeling that Azzopardi was toying with her. A cat with a mouse. He didn’t want to pay money for the clubs. Did he even want them? She suspected he was after something else altogether, but she couldn’t imagine what. Whatever it was, she sensed he would be relentless and what he couldn’t acquire through persuasion he would take by piracy. First Maddox, now Azzopardi. The barbarians were at the gate. Nellie sighed. Deauville was clearly going to have to wait until after the dénouement of this affair. She fluffed up her feathers and left the powder room.
The doorman at the Goring helped Nellie into the Bentley. Hawker, the chauffeur, glanced at her in the rear-view mirror when she huffed onto the leather. He worried that there was a crack in her shell since prison. A strong Nellie was predictable, but a weak Nellie might do anything.
Hawker lived in a small flat above the garage in the mews behind the house in Hanover Terrace. He was keen to retire—he fancied an allotment—but had nowhere else to live. He’d be fit only for the knacker’s yard by the time he found somewhere, he said to his daughter. He’d been with Nellie for five years now. Sometimes he worried that he knew too many of her secrets for her ever to let him go. In a series of tortuous negotiations with Nellie, Hawker had managed to secure one day off every fortnight. “It’s like being a medieval serf,” he said to his daughter.