Eleanor’s estate on a Sunday smells like roasting meat and
expensive candles and something that might be satisfaction.
That last one might just be Eleanor herself.
She meets us at the door in a cream cashmere wrap, looking
approximately as frail as a freight train, and pulls me into
a hug that lasts three full seconds longer than last time.
Like she’s measuring something. Like she’s pleased with
whatever result she gets.
“You came,” she says. Like there was any possibility we
wouldn’t.
“You said not optional,” Adrian says.
“I say that every time.” She waves a hand. “This time I
meant it more.” She takes my arm and steers me inside,
leaving Adrian to follow, which he does with the expression
of a man who has attended enough of these dinners to know
resistance is entirely poin
