‘And once you’re done, why don’t you come and join me in the study? I’ve just broken the seal on a terrific Japanese malt.’
I hate whisky. Meths for people with money.
‘Alright,’ I murmur.
I take my time in the toilet – sorry, loo – and check my reflection carefully. I straighten my tie and then I practise saying a few things out loud in the mirror, to check that I sound normal.
‘Oh, the South of France? How lovely. Yes, very nice this time of year.’
‘Come now, Martin.’
‘You’re not going to tell me you don’t remember.’
‘Looking forward to strategising.’
‘Yes, I’m very well, thank you. No, I don’t miss you at all. Not at all, in fact.’
My voice stutters. I try it again.
‘No, I don’t miss you at all.’
Better.
‘No,’ I say, as I turn the handle and walk back into the gloom of the main house. ‘I don’t miss you at all.’
In the study, Ben sits in a wingback leather armchair in front of the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other in a figure of four. He isholding a tumbler of whisky. A bookcase behind him carries all four volumes of Robert Caro’s biography of Lyndon Johnson, Marcus Aurelius’sMeditations, naturally (truly the Instagram influencer of his day), and Sun Tzu’sThe Art of War– exactly the same edition I picked up once at a second-hand bookshop while at school.
Ben’s jacket is slung over the fireguard. The fire remains unlit. He points to the armchair opposite him, his signet ring catching the light.
‘Please.’
I sit, like an obedient child. A glass has already been poured for me on the side table.
‘So, Martin.’ He takes a swig, staring at me. ‘How have you been?’
As if he really wants to know. As if we have enough time even to start to find the words.
‘Fine.’
‘I don’t mind admitting it was rather a shock to see you here again, mate.’
I am not your mate, is what I think. Instead what comes out is:
‘I received an invitation. I thought it was the honourable thing to do.’
Ben smirks.
‘Honourable?’
‘I always liked Fliss very much.’
He stands, walks towards the window. Outside, I can just about make out the tinkling sounds of champagne being replenished on the far lawn. Ben stretches. I notice the flex of shoulder muscle underneath his shirt.
‘You did,’ Ben says, turning back to me and I can see immediately that he’s decided warmth is going to be more productive. ‘And she very much liked you too. Dear, darling Fliss.’
‘What happened to her?’
He waves a hand in front of his face.
