I looked across the table at him, desperately wanting him to look back, that Serena was there to stay. Ben turned to her and, with the pad of his thumb, stroked the stray strand of hair away from her mouth, then kissed her with excruciating tenderness. And I knew things were going to change.
It wasn’t a perfect marriage. They had the requisite children, each one precocious and adorable in a slightly different way from the one that had come before, and as Ben broke away from the company he had worked for since graduation to build up his own business, they spent more and more time apart. Serena, ever vague, never understood the pressures of his work. Ben, increasingly preoccupied, had no time left over to devote to the emotional maintenance of his wife. She grew harder. The naivety I had once noticed became polluted by a certain world-weary assessment of things and people – of their value; their cost. Ben loved her still, of that I was sure. He just wasn’t in love with her.
I don’t think either of them really cared. They put on a good show. Serena had aged well, thanks to the judicious use of fillers administered by a discreet plastic surgeon and the unparalleled youth-preserving tactic of having very little to do. She became one of those glamorous, wealthy women who don’t have enough to occupy their time and who attempt to fill it with charity luncheons and a nebulous search for meaning. She went on Ayurvedic retreats and meditation weekends, leaving the children in the care of two full-time nannies and a dedicated housekeeper who wore a dark uniform designed to look not too like a uniform. She spoke a lot about ‘connections’ and ‘auras’. Ben was kind to her. In public, they made a good pair.
But she still had her ‘ideas’. And one of these, Ben told me as we stood in the chapel, was to do with the ghost at Tipworth. He said she had arranged for a local exorcist to come and perform some charade that would ‘release the negative energy’.
‘How does one find a local exorcist?’ I asked. ‘Do they advertise in the Yellow Pages?’
Ben laughed. ‘Fuck knows. I mean, does the Yellow Pages even still exist?’
‘Trust Serena …’ I let the thought dwindle, unanswered.
We stood side by side for a few seconds, as the light outside slid into paleness. The coloured panels in the windows sent rhombuses of pink, green and blue across the worn stone floor.
‘You’re not drinking,’ Ben said, accusingly.
I looked at my champagne flute. It was true. I hadn’t taken a single sip. My fingertips were clammy from the accumulated moisture on the side of the glass.
‘Sorry.’ I smiled, then raised the glass. ‘Here’s to you, Ben. Your new home. And, happy birthday.’
‘Thanks LS.’
We clinked. But I felt again, looking at the studied vacancy of his face, that something was amiss.
‘My oldest friend,’ I said, trying once more to elicit some sort of spark of recognition. But he shuffled uncomfortably and still couldn’t look at me.
‘Listen, LS. We need to talk.’ His voice was dry and reedy. ‘About …’ He gesticulated broadly with his free hand, as if painting treble clefs in imaginary sand.
I waited. One beat. Two. Blood pumping. Muscles clenched.
‘I’ve got a business opportunity I want to discuss with you.’
Relief. The flush of it almost physical.
‘Oh,’ I said, trying not to think of all the things he might have said. ‘Interesting. Tell me more.’
I made an effort to keep the pleasure out of my voice. Ben had never asked me to join him in any kind of business venture before. I’d always been a little offended at his failure to do so. Of course, in the early days, I didn’t have the necessary funds. But since the publication of Art: Who Gives a F**k?, my bank balance had been conspicuously healthier. Published in twenty-one languages. In the Sunday Times bestseller list for twelve solid weeks. The royalties kept rolling in.
Now that he was offering me an in, I was delighted. It meant he trusted me. It meant I was just as good as any of his trustafarian friends.
‘It’s a little investment idea I have. A new casino-style resort in Montenegro.’
‘Ah. Montenegro: the new Monte Carlo.’
‘Ha!’ he said again. ‘Very good, LS. Yes. Should use that as a slogan, really.’
I took a sip of champagne. The bubbles pricked my tongue.
‘Of course. When do you want to have this chat? Not now, surely?’
He shook his head, the curls in spasm.
‘No, mate, no. We’ll find a quiet time after the party. With the wives.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘I mean … it will involve them too.’
‘How intriguing.’
‘We can do it once the guests have gone.’
‘I suppose it would have made even more sense for us to stay the night then. I mean, the Premier Inn has its charms, but …’ As soon as I spoke, I realised I sounded defensive.
Ben groaned. ‘I knew you’d be pissed off. I said as much to Serena.’
‘I’m not pissed off.’
‘You are, LS. I can tell. Listen, it’s a family thing. We’ve got all these aunts and uncles and in-laws. You know what it’s like.’
I walked up the aisle of the chapel, trailing my hand along the edge of the hymn-book rails. When I got to the altar, I noticed dust on one fingernail. You know what it’s like. One of his phrases.
‘No, Ben,’ I said, turning back to him, my voice reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. ‘No, I don’t. You seem to forget I have no family.’
In the failing light, I could no longer see his expression. His glass, empty now, hung lazily from his hand.
‘You’re it,’ I said, but too quietly for him to hear.
Notebook of Lucy Gilmour
WHAT WAS IT ABOUT HIM I LIKED?
When I first saw him he just stood apart. It was the way he was dressed. Martin always wore impeccable clothes. He was in well-tailored suits when everyone else at the newspaper was in jeans and loafers. Even when he tried to be casual, he couldn’t quite manage it. Corduroy and cashmere was about as relaxed as he got.
I remember seeing him in the staff canteen, sitting by himself, a copy of the Financial Times folded with precision into a rectangle, comfortably sized so that it could be held easily in one hand. I noticed his fingers: elegant, long, the nails freshly cut and clean. He was eating a salad from one of those clear plastic containers. I watched as he forked limp rocket leaves to his mouth and ate them in small, delicate bites.
He looked up occasionally, as if he wanted to be noticed and, at the same time, his demeanour suggested he didn’t care what anyone else thought. I admired this. I was twenty-two, just out of university,
