as it happens.’
‘What sort of sandwich was it?’
Suddenly there was too much talking – far too much.
‘What is this – the Spanish Inquisition?’
‘I’m interested. You always say you hate sandwiches, and now I learn you had them today and naturally I’m fascinated to know what kind of sandwich was so delicious that you overcame your habitual repugnance.’
‘Tuna and cucumber.’
‘Tuna and cucumber! Gordon, that is so Pret A Manger. That is so Network Rail. That is so Welcome Break. You cannot expect me to believe it.’
‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t believe it.’
‘Because Hugo told me you lunched with him.’
‘Oh, was that today? Oh God, yes. Yes, it was. The tuna sandwich must have been Friday.’
Oh God. If my millions of admirers could see me squirming like this.
Christina smiled. It struck him how her smile had also changed over the years, hardened into a reaction not to the world but to her own thoughts about the world. It had become as spiky as some of her roses. Yet it still had a faint, disturbing echo of what it had once been.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘I was thinking, what if your millions of admirers could see you squirming like this?’
‘Have you finished?’
They hadn’t heard the waiter come in.
‘I see not a speck of food left on our plates. I think we may safely deduce that we have finished,’ said Sir Gordon, clothing his sarcasm in a smooth smile.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The waiter slid noiselessly out on shoes that must have been oiled with WD40, or perhaps with ‘S’ssh! The Ultimate in Squeak Removal’, made in Sir Gordon’s factory on the outskirts of Droitwich and destined, he hoped and believed, to consign WD40 to the pages of history. Or was he being over-ambitious again, as he had been with Germophile? Germophile! He didn’t even want to think about that episode.
In his effort not to think about Germophile, something Christina had said suddenly struck him.
‘You’ve spoken to Hugo then?’
‘I wondered how long it would take for that fact to sink in. Yes. He phoned, asked if he could bring anything for Saturday. I told him there was no need to bring anything except himself. I told him he was gift enough. The poor sap lapped it up.’
‘Hugo isn’t a poor sap, darling.’ He regretted that ‘darling’. ‘Poor saps don’t have houses in Eaton Square, Cap Ferrat, Venice, Rhode Island, and Bermuda.’
‘He’s a poor sap emotionally.’
‘He’s a banker.’
The opportunity for rhyming slang cannot have escaped either of them, but they said nothing.
‘Who’s the hotpot?’ interrupted the waiter like a gunshot.
It had to be an act.
When the waiter had gone, Sir Gordon took a mouthful and discovered that the hotpot was a very hot hotpot indeed. He gasped, tried moving the meat around in his mouth so as not to burn any bit of skin too much. Few wives could have wasted such a moment.
‘And your afternoon?’
While he dealt with his explosive mouthful, Sir Gordon thought desperately about his desperate afternoon. What could he tell her? Jack wasn’t mentioned in the house, which was hardly surprising in view of the gift that he had left her all those years ago, the gift that she had once, briefly, welcomed. (I could explain this now, but I choose to string you along. These are not generous times.)
Besides, how could he admit to his wife that he had felt unable, after his lunch with Hugo, to face the Coppinger Tower? He could never confess such weakness to her. And how could he admit that his heart seemed to have opened up, and that he’d felt an overwhelming need to see his younger brother, who had not quite enough of the family brains, not quite enough of the family spunk, not quite enough of the combination of brains and spunk that had been given to Sir Gordon and to Hugo by the brutality of chance. How could he admit to Lady Coppinger that he had hunted for Jack with the intention of trying to help him, even though Jack had rejected all help for ever?
And hadn’t found him, not in Soho, not under the arches of Charing Cross, not in Waterloo, not under any of the bridges of London. And how the wind had blown.
‘I just went back to the office actually. Caught up on some paperwork. Didn’t see anybody.’
‘Except the grim Grimaldi, presumably.’
Did she know?
‘Except the grim Grimaldi, yes. She brought me her grim coffee, and a grim rock cake from the grim canteen.’
He felt a slight twinge of shame at his disloyalty in calling the canteen grim. The canteen and the adjoining restaurant on the eighth floor were fine. The only reason he didn’t use them was because his presence inhibited everyone else from saying anything meaningful to each other. The strength of his ears was legendary.
Talk faded, fluttered feebly, died. Sir Gordon grieved, searched for answering grief in his wife’s dark eyes, and found none.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Once again the total absence of any even minute morsels of food remaining on any of our plates or in any of the dishes would suggest that we are seriously deluded if we believe that we haven’t finished.’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
If only he had managed to see Jack.
Could Jack have died?
How would they find out if Jack had died?
He became aware that Christina had been speaking.
‘Sorry, I missed that. I was thinking,’ he said.
‘Gordon! How brave. Taking up a new activity at your age.’
He was so tired of her sarcasm – though not, curiously, of his own.
‘So, have I missed anything interesting?’
‘God, no. I just asked what you were doing tomorrow. I know my questions aren’t very imaginative but I am trying because you said you wanted me to talk. ’
‘So you’re trying new things as well. The obedient wife. Very nice.’
For a moment he thought he’d got away with it. He really didn’t want to talk about tomorrow. Two events dominated tomorrow’s agenda, and he didn’t want to talk to her about either of them. But then she repeated the question.
‘So
