Chapter Text
Summer in Monte Carlo was hot, but not uncomfortably so. Despite his height, Martin found it easy to blend into the crowd. After all, he was a nobody. He was staff, and his entire purpose in Monte Carlo was to do whatever Mr Fairchild wanted him to do. In this case, collect an assortment of packages all wrapped up in brown paper.
He entered the hotel, rode the lift up to the right floor, and managed to get into Mr Fairchild’s suite without dropping anything.
(Martin didn’t know if anything in the packages was breakable, but he really didn’t want to chance it. Mr Fairchild was capricious at the best of times, and especially so when he was irritated.)
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, there was a queue at the post office.”
Simon Fairchild was tiny and ancient, but unusually spry for his age. He tore the wrapping off one of the boxes and made a small noise of derision under his breath. “Photographs from Harriet’s honeymoon.” Harriet was his niece. “God knows why she married the man, I don’t think she even likes him.”
Martin knew better than to reply.
“And get me a table for lunch.”
“The usual time?”
“No, now! I was in the foyer earlier and I saw Jonathan Sims – obviously still completely heartbroken.”
Martin had no idea who Jonathan Sims was or why his heart might be broken. “Is he a… friend?” It seemed like a safe enough guess.
With a glint of cruel amusement in his eyes, Simon explained it to him as if he were stupid. “Jonathan Sims. Owner of Magnus Hall, one of the finest estates in England. He’ll definitely want some company; his husband died last year. Now, when you book that table, have the maître d’ seat us next to each other.” He pulled a bank note out of his pocket and held it out. It was more than Martin made in a week as Mr Fairchild’s assistant. “You’ll need to tip.” Fairchild handed the money over.
As Martin headed for the door, he could hear Fairchild muttering something about how he was a ‘stupid boy’. He could have replied that he was twenty-nine and hadn’t been a boy for a while, but he needed this job – or to be accurate, the money this job paid – too much to risk displeasing his employer. His life was dictated by Simon Fairchild’s whims, and that was that.
*
Downstairs, he explained to the maître d’ about how Mr Fairchild needed a table for lunch and that he wanted to be seated next to Mr Sims.
The maître d’ said simply, “Where Mr Sims sits is Mr Sims’ choice.”
Martin offered the money, and the maître d’ looked at it as if it were something dirty. “Is that not enough? Sorry, sorry.” Martin fumbled in his wallet for more money, but the coins slipped through his fingers and then he was scrabbling on the floor to pick them up while the maître d’ looked down in disapproval.
A man knelt down to help him; brown-skinned and slim, older than Martin, the cut of his brown suit meant the quiet kind of wealth. As they were picking up the last of the coins, the man murmured to him: “Don’t worry about the seating arrangements. I’ve heard that Sims is a complete bore.”
Martin stammered out a thank-you and stood. The other man stood too – he was shorter than Martin – and walked past Martin to the maître d’, who addressed him as “Mr Sims.”
As Mr Sims walked off to be seated, he glanced back at Martin very briefly. Martin felt his cheeks flush.
*
As he sat at the table waiting for Mr Fairchild to arrive, Martin wrote down a few lines of poetry in his notebook. He was careful to never write anything with Mr Fairchild around, for fear of his poetry being discovered and mocked, so he always found himself writing in snatched and stolen moments like these.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr Fairchild enter the dining room and slipped his notebook and pencil into a pocket. Mr Fairchild did not walk straight over to Martin, however. He was intent on bothering Mr Sims.
“Jonathan Sims! I didn’t know you were in Monte Carlo. Come, you must come sit with me. Do you remember my niece Harriet, I think you met her in Great Yarmouth last autumn?”
Mr Sims could barely get a word in edgewise as he tried, politely, to end the conversation. But Mr Fairchild was determined to plough on. “She’s married now. I’ll show you the photographs.”
He beckoned Martin over as Mr Sims said, “No, thank you, but I prefer to eat lunch on my own.” He turned to Martin, clearly attempting to make his goodbyes. “Good afternoon, Mr Fairchild.”
Mr Fairchild’s lip curled slightly. “No, we’re not related. He’s my assistant.”
Jonathan Sims looked between Mr Fairchild and Martin, and Martin knew that Mr Sims was seeing the total lack of resemblance between short, bony Mr Fairchild and Martin, who was neither of those things. He nodded slightly. “Yes. Well, if you’ll excuse me…”
But Mr Fairchild was having none of it. “Go get those photographs from my room,” he ordered, and Martin moved to obey even as Mr Sims assured him that he needn’t trouble himself, and Mr Fairchild insisted on Mr Sims seeing the photographs and that it wouldn’t be any trouble to Martin at all.
By the time Martin had returned to the dining room, Mr Sims had successfully made his escape.
*
Later that evening, Mr Fairchild decided to entertain a few friends late into the night. Luckily, Martin was excused early, which gave him more time for his poetry. Unluckily, Mr Fairchild and his friends were making such a racket that he couldn’t think straight. It was made even worse by the fact that the racket they were making was about him.
Mr Fairchild laughed. “And this is the best part: I asked him to go get the wedding photos, and he was off like a shot! Then he came back down just as fast, stinking of cheap cologne. You should have seen his face when he realised that the oh-so-eligible bachelor was gone!”
Laughter all around.
Martin felt heat rush into his face. He had indeed put on a few sprays of the only cologne he could afford. And yes, maybe he had overdone it a bit.
On the way back to the dining room, he’d passed Mr Sims in the corridor. They hadn’t spoken.
He wondered if Mr Sims had smelled the cologne. If he’d thought it was too much. If he’d thought Martin was as naïve as Mr Fairchild clearly did.
Martin rolled over in bed and tried to sleep, but Mr Fairchild’s voice wasn’t even slightly blocked out by the door.
“I loved the annual balls up at Magnus Hall, but I suppose that’s all stopped since – it was such a shock when I got the news! Such a tragedy! Such a thing to happen!”
“Jon adored him,” said one of the guests.
“His darling Elias,” Mr Fairchild agreed.
*
The next day, Martin awoke to discover that Mr Fairchild had fallen ill. A nurse was called, and so that morning, Martin went to have breakfast alone.
“Just me, today,” he told the waiter.
“I’m afraid you cannot do that,” was the reply. “The terrace is for paying guests.”
“But – but you see, I’m Mr Fairchild’s assistant.”
“Exactly. You are staff.”
Martin didn’t know how to reply. He was still searching for the words when someone at a nearby table called out, “He can join me for breakfast. Please set a place for him at my table.”
The waiter turned. “Of course, Mr Sims.”
Martin turned to find himself face to face with Jonathan Sims, sunlight catching in his grey-streaked black hair.
He made his way over. “Oh, no, it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Mr Sims got up and pulled his chair out for him. “It’s no trouble. And we needn’t talk if you don’t want to.”
“I – thank you.”
Mr Sims shrugged it off. “I won’t pretend that my motives were entirely altruistic.” He held up the newspaper he’d been reading. “This is yesterday’s paper. I read it all yesterday, and re-reading it isn’t exactly a thrilling form of entertainment.”
“It’s still very kind of you. Thank you.”
A pause. “So what do you do as Mr Fairchild’s assistant?”
“I just – help out mostly. He likes to travel with company.”
Mr Sims raised one eyebrow. “If a man needs to pay for a travelling companion, then I think that says something about the man.”
Martin laughed, then wondered if his laugh had sounded weird. He hoped not.
The waiter came over and took Martin’s order, and Mr Sims looked out across the terrace. “If it’s not too invasive, why work for Fairchild? Surely you have enough skills to be an assistant to anyone who wants one?”
“Growing up I always wanted to travel, and, well, it does pay ninety pounds a year.” He swallowed. “I know that’s probably not much to someone like you, but it’s a lot for someone like me.”
“Ninety pounds a year so that Mr Fairchild can have a travelling companion,” said Mr Sims. “Do you think that counts as the price of loneliness?”
“It is strange, how some people can be perfectly fine on their own, but others need other people around them.”
“And which are you?”
“My – neither of my parents are around anymore. So I suppose I’m used to being on my own.”