‘But,’ I ventured, ‘how can you be so sure it was him?’
Ben gave a short, sharp stab of laughter.
‘He’s buggered off. Flown to his house in France, I heard. That’sabout as close to an admission of guilt as you can get. And he’s the one who’s got off scot-free, isn’t he? While I’m the one with an ankle tag, probably going to prison. He was in cahoots with Dick Take from the beginning. Don’t get me wrong, Dick Take is a stupid bastard, but Jarvis? Well, he’s the worst kind. He’s an evil bastard. I hate him.’
I hung my head to hide my smile. Oh, me too, Ben, I whispered to myself silently, me too.
‘You tried to tell me, LS. You tried to warn me literally decades ago. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen then. But I’ve understood it now. Finally. Much too late, but finally. I understand.’
He gripped my arm.
‘Thank you,’ he said. His sincerity moved an unknown part of me, dislodging it like a stone pushed from the entrance of a tomb.
‘You don’t need to thank me,’ I replied. ‘It’s what friends do.’
I meant it, too.
Now, at dinner, I am riding a wave of unexpected sentimentality. Perhaps it’s the wine – I’ve had at least four glasses – or perhaps it’s the pressure of Alexander’s thigh against mine, the way he’s addressing me with great solicitousness and an undercurrent of flirtation, or perhaps it’s the warmth of Ben and Serena’s gratitude settling around my shoulders like a coat to be drawn close against the coolness of the outside world. For whatever reason, I find myself experiencing heightened jags of unfamiliar emotion. When Ben starts tapping a butter knife against his wine glass and then pushes back his chair and stands to give a speech, I remember the first time I saw him: a schoolboy with curly brown hair who defended me when I was being teased. All that has happened in the intervening years folds in on itself and it’s just the two of us again; me and Ben, Ben and Martin. Little Shadow and his best friend. The real one, the one who has been there all along.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence,’ Ben says, ‘but I’d like to say a few words.’ On the wall behind him hangs another oil painting of a pale-faced ancestor in full regimental uniform, standing in the grounds of Denby Hall, hand lightly resting on the scabbard of his sword.
‘The last few weeks and months have shown me the value of true friendship,’ Ben says. ‘I appreciate your presence around this table more than I can possibly say. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know one thing for sure: your loyalty will never be forgotten.’ He looks at Serena. ‘By either of us.’
Serena squeezes my hand tightly. When she removes it, there is a studded mark left by her jewelled ring.
‘The older I get, the more I realise the thing that matters – the only thing, really – is the quality of our relationships.’
At the other end of the room, someone says ‘hear, hear’ and bangs the table.
‘And although I’ve lost many things …’ There’s an uncomfortable shuffle of throats being cleared and cutlery being fiddled with. ‘Many, many things.’ An uneasy laugh. ‘The one blessing I have been left with is this’ – he gestures grandly around the dining room – ‘the company of loved ones. Especially you, Serena.’ His words are quavering. ‘Thank you for continuing to love me, even when I make it so difficult.’
Serena smiles and blows him a kiss, bracelets jangling.
‘I believe it was Joseph Conrad who said, “You shall judge a man by his foes as well as his friends.”’
Knowing laughter.
‘Well,’ Ben says, ruefully. ‘Bit of an understatement for me to say I think that holds true.’
The laughter gets louder and less apologetic.
‘In all seriousness,’ he continues, gravitas flooding back, ‘I believe the only meaningful success is the one we find in fellowship with others, and if I am judged by the friends I have around this table then, Christ …’ He gestures to us all. ‘I really have succeeded, haven’t I?’
God, he’s a good speaker. Always has been. So charming, so sincere. Does he really believe what he’s saying? Well, I don’t think it matters, does it? It’s the performance that’s the thing. I think he even convinces himself.
Next to me, Alexander starts clapping and the ripple of it spreads and soon all of us are applauding, taking to our feet and cheering as ifwe’ve just witnessed an extraordinary theatrical performance or the act of history being written. We are high on the adrenalised buzz of being the chosen ones, the ones whose loyalty has been proven in a sacred oath we didn’t know we were taking. And then Ben raises his glass, thrusts it into the centre of the table and shouts, ‘To friendship!’ and we all do the same, with such gusto that wine sloshes over the crystal rims and onto the white tablecloth and droplets of Château Lafite leak across the linen like blood.
XXIII.
Eighteen Months Later
STRETCHED OUT BY THE POOL,my hand dangling off the lounger, I feel the brush of Alexander’s fingers on mine. I curl my thumb around his. He’s reading a carefully folded square of theFinancial Times. It’s an article about Prime Minister Richard Take’s plan to introduce VAT on public school fees. Serena is up in arms about the policy, declaring boldly the last time we spoke that it was a form of discrimination.
‘They should be thanking us, Martin,’ she told me over an oat-milk cappuccino at her countryside private members’ retreat. ‘By taking our children out of the state system, we’re placing less pressure on it. They should be grateful. Instead they’re punishing us!’
‘Well,’ I said mildly. ‘I suppose that is a point of view.’
Alexander moves the newspaper closer to his face. I must remind him to make an optician’s appointment. He’s been squinting more than usual lately. While he reads the paper, I am halfway through a Patricia Highsmith novel. I’ve read it before and the book is spine-cracked and dog-eared in all my favourite places.
