Page 30 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

29

LISBON, 1941

I took another quick step to the side and put my glass down. ‘Why don’t you go and make yourself comfortable over there?’ I gestured at the bed. ‘And I’ll go and freshen up in the bathroom.’

He gave a smirk. ‘With pleasure.’

I watched him weave his way over to the bed, nearly upending a coffee table en route. I was hoping he was so drunk, he’d pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. If he didn’t, I’d have to feign a sudden illness and make my escape. As much as I wanted to help the Allies and Judith, there was no way that grotesque hiccupping creep was coming anywhere near me.

I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

‘Don’t be long,’ he called out between hiccups.

‘I won’t,’ I called back, perching on the side of the bath and glancing around. What if he stayed awake and got violent when I rejected his advances? I needed some kind of weapon, just in case.

I looked at the glass bottle of bath salts on the counter by the sink. It was hefty enough to do some serious damage, although I’m not sure Emilio would be impressed if I ended up clouting a Brit to death with a bottle of bath salts, even if he did die smelling of roses. And it would hardly help my reputation as we looked to build my singing career. No, I needed something else. Something more subtle.

I went over to the bathroom cabinet, hoping there might be some sleeping tablets in there that I could grind up and put in his drink. Just enough to make him have a long, deep nap.

I opened the cabinet to find a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush and a hairbrush with a few red hairs caught between the bristles. Perhaps I could give him a smack with the hairbrush if he got too handsy. I fought the urge to laugh and went and pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear drunken snores. To my dismay, I heard more hiccupping and then – I took a step back and shuddered – vomiting.

‘Help!’ Sinclair cried between retches.

Bracing myself, I hurried out of the bathroom to find him hunched over, vomiting into an ice bucket.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, although inside I was cheering. There would surely be no drunken advances made now. Although the sour smell now filling the room slightly dampened my euphoria.

He opened his mouth to speak and spewed up again. Thankfully, nursing my mother through the later stages of her cancer meant that I had a hardy constitution when it came to such things.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked sweetly, trying not to breathe in the smell.

‘Yes,’ he gasped and promptly vomited again. ‘My case,’ he rasped, pointing to the wardrobe. ‘Can you get my case?’

‘Of course.’ I made my way past him and opened the wardrobe. A brown leather suitcase sat at the bottom beneath a rail of neatly pressed suits.

‘There should be a tin of Andrews liver salts inside it.’

I put the case on the floor and kneeled in front of it, my pulse quickening. This might be a truly hideous situation, but he was giving me permission to look through his things. I was going to be able to snoop right in front of him!

I opened the case and started riffling around. I found the jar of liver salts straight away but ignored them.

‘Did you find them?’ he called before retching again.

‘Not yet.’ I reached inside an inner pocket and pulled out a matchbox. I was about to put it back when I felt whatever was inside make a dull thudding sound instead of the rattle of matches.

‘I’m sure I packed my liver salts. I take them everywhere with me,’ he called.

I stuffed the matchbox into my purse and grabbed the tin of liver salts. ‘Found them!’

‘Oh, be a doll and put some in a glass of water for me.’ He looked up at me imploringly. His pale face was covered in a sheen of sweat and the corners of his chin were covered with flecks of vomit. Another new low point in my encounters with men.

Eager to get out of there as quickly as possible, I did as instructed and passed him the drink. ‘I’m going to leave you to recover now,’ I said, edging over to the door.

Thankfully, even he wasn’t deluded enough to think that I ought to stay, and he nodded and turned away.

I closed the door behind me and raced along the corridor. Not wanting to wait for the lift, I made my way down the stairs. When I reached my room, I locked the door behind me and went over to the desk, turned on the lamp and took out the matchbox. Opening it slowly, I saw a dark object inside. I held it up to the light to examine it more closely and realised that it was a tiny camera. It was so small, I wondered for a moment if it was for a doll. But before I could think any more, I jumped out of my skin at a loud knock on the door.

I tiptoed over to the spyhole, saying a prayer of thanks for the genius who invented it. I was fully expecting to see Sinclair swaying there, hiccupping and with vomit around his mouth, demanding to know why I took his camera, but to my huge relief it was Emilio.

I opened the door and let him inside.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, looking concerned. ‘I saw you go up to his room with him and I got worried.’

‘As well you should have done,’ I retorted.

He gripped my arm. ‘Did he try anything on with you?’

‘Only vomit.’

He gave a confused frown.

‘You were right about him not being able to handle his drink. He puked up everywhere.’

‘Oh!’ Emilio began to grin.

‘It wasn’t a complete disaster though. He got me to look in his case for some liver salts and I found this.’ I went over to the desk and picked up the tiny camera. ‘It was hidden inside a matchbox.’

‘A spy camera,’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ I muttered, relieved I hadn’t told him that I thought it might have been for a doll.

‘This is excellent,’ he said, his smile growing. ‘This might contain proof that he is working for the Germans. Good work, Castello.’

‘Thank you, Almeida.’

He threw his arms round me and hugged me tight. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK. I was worried,’ he murmured into my hair.

He kept holding me, but I didn’t pull away. After the nerve-wracking events of the previous hour or so, it felt good to be held by someone I trusted. It felt good to be able to let go.

‘You’re clearly as talented a spy as you are a singer,’ he said softly, and just like before, when we caught each other’s gaze in the mirror, it was as if something in the atmosphere shifted. I still didn’t pull away though, and he held me tighter. ‘I think about you all the time,’ he whispered.

‘I should think so too – you’re my producer,’ I quipped, thinking of that wedding ring on his finger.

‘No, I don’t mean…’ He leaned back a little so he could look me in the eye. ‘I mean I think about you.’

‘Shouldn’t you be thinking about your wife back in Chicago?’

‘Yes, but…’

Finally, I broke away. If he had said, ‘Yes, but our marriage is over,’ or even the old chestnut, ‘Yes, but she doesn’t understand me,’ I think I might have wavered. I liked Emilio, and the creative spark between us could have easily ignited into something else. But the fact that he fell silent seemed to say so much. His marriage wasn’t over and his wife did understand him – he was just looking for a one-night thing, a chance to fool around while there was an ocean between them. It was a realisation that suddenly made me feel acutely empty.

‘I think you should go. I’m feeling pretty tired – what with having to sing and make my undercover debut all in one night,’ I added, wanting to show him that there were no hard feelings. I didn’t want any awkwardness affecting our working relationship.

‘Yes of course.’ He took a step back, looking really embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Sofia. I hope I didn’t overstep the mark.’

‘Of course not. It’s been an eventful night. We weren’t thinking straight.’

He gave a grin of relief. ‘Excellent. Sleep well.’

I walked him to the door and locked it behind him, my feeling of emptiness increasing as I looked around the room. I wasn’t the kind of woman who needed a man in order to feel whole or any of that kind of nonsense, but still. It would have been nice if for once I could have met a man who was both kind and single – and sober. Downstairs, I heard people laughing and chatting as they made their way to their cars, and my feeling of loneliness grew.