I’d have quite happily considered myself rich, living in a fancy flat far above the water, with my well-stocked cocktail cabinet, my big bath and my living-room space modest but asserted with a simple giant television. But Bastian lived in an honest-to-God mansion, complete with topiary animals, half-mile dining tables, and other absurd trappings, and it was literally just outside the city, cut off from vulgarity by a high hedge concealing an electric fence; the driveway curling around a fountain before leading to the grand front door. It was the mansion from Cluedo.
Bastian kept house like his aristocratic predecessors, smug and witty and delightful, keeping the booze flowing, and the expensive food; and sometimes he’d bring out one of his ancient handcrafted pipes and insist we all smok
