We park at the side of a property away from the village, an imposing, old renovated farmhouse. My Cortina is ridiculous next to the Porsche.
Figg closes his car door and goes to the front door without inviting me to follow him. Figg here has a very disdainful attitude... so he does. We enter a kind of hallway. My first impression is mixed. I’m in a big country house, a chic and glitzy place, borderline garish, flashy, but dirty and badly maintained. As if a redneck who won the lottery had invested in the house without paying a cleaning lady to maintain it. It’s refined and it stinks.
We climb a staircase whose steps are covered with a vulgar carpet. There was no doormat at the entrance and my soles leave a mahogany imprint on the fabric. Upstairs, we find ourselves facing a closed door.
