It seemed a low bar, but Serena let it go. It was nice to hear Hector proffer a positive opinion. Most of the time, he rattled around in adolescent fury about any number of unrelated issues: how unfairly maligned Jordan Peterson was; how the North should be annexed from the rest of England; how unrealistic the new Netflix drugs drama was; why women were no longer the real victims of inequality and why the Oblivion Oil protesters belonged in jail. He was terrifyingly right wing – much more so than Ben says he was at that age and much more than she was becoming in her forties. The other day, she’d read an opinion piece in theGuardianand agreed with every word. Admittedly it had been about the benefits of a plant-based diet rather than nationalising the railways or anything but still, the point stood.
‘Yes, just about,’ Richard Take is saying. ‘It was a pretty life-changing experience, actually. Good for me to remind myself what challenges the normal men and women of this country face.’
‘Getting sprayed with poo?’
‘Ha! No, no. Eking out a living on the breadline. Thinking that those privileged posh blokes in Westminster don’t understand people’s real lives. It really made me stop and reflect. And you know, Serena, when you get out on the street, the average man or woman is much more understanding than the tabloid press would have us believe. They get it.’
Serena wishes the other guests on their table would arrive.
‘Y’know, they understand. Because what red-blooded male hasn’t found himself in a situation where his urges – entirely natural urges, mind you – occasionally get the better of him?’
He looks at her with an expression that is both earnest and patronising, his hands steepled like an inspirational Silicon Valley tech boss. She realises, a fraction too late, that he is expecting an answer.
‘I—’
And then – blessed relief – a gong sounds, there is a flurry of activity and everyone takes their seats.
It’s always been an impressive location, Serena thinks, as she accepts a glass of Sauvignon from a bow-tied waiter. The tables have been laid out along a broad hallway dotted with statutes from classical antiquity. To her right, just beyond Richard Take’s small but shinily perceptible bald patch, is a marble of Judith and Holofernes. She remembers the story from school: Holofernes was a general sent to subdue the Jews. Judith, a widow, went to the Assyrian military camp, captivated Holofernes with her beauty, got him drunk and then cut off his head, returning to her city bearing it aloft as a trophy. Humility triumphing over pride. But also, Serena thinks, a woman perceived as powerless overturning preconceptions through the sheer force of her rage. She drinks her wine and wonders how much effort it must have taken to cut through the neck tendons and spine.
‘Darling, you’re here.’
Ben’s touch on her shoulder. She turns to face him. He kisses her cheek. In that moment, she forgets to be furious and is grateful for the fact she isn’t scared of him.
‘Of course.’ She smiles. ‘I’m sorry I missed your calls, I—’
‘It’s fine – we’ll speak later. Have you seen Martin?’
‘Martin?’
She looks up, follows the length of Ben’s arm and sees Martin Gilmour on a table close to the front of the stage. He is raising a glass in her direction. She raises hers in return.
‘I didn’t know you’d invited him.’
‘You were right to ask him to the funeral. Clever of you. It was time to kiss and make up.’
‘I’m sure Martin loved the kissing part.’
Ben laughs and squeezes her shoulder.
‘So what did you want to talk—’
‘Hold that thought,’ Ben says. She looks at his face. He seems wired, his eyes bloodshot.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says, brushing aside her concerns. ‘They’re calling me up to do my thing. Just – trust me, OK?’
‘Trust you with what?’
Before he can answer, Ben is whisked away by a pretty girl in a silver jumpsuit who walks Ben to the stage as the lights dim to a soft pinkish white. Sentimental music plays and a large screen beams out pictures of smiling soldiers playing wheelchair basketball and then the girl in the silver jumpsuit is saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, the Energy Secretary and our long-time supporter, Ben Fitzmaurice.’
Ben is greeted by rousing applause as he bounds up the stairs. He once told her you should always rush onto a stage in order to look youthful and dynamic. Next to her, Richard is feverishly clapping his hands, a placid grin on his face. He looks drugged, she thinks, as if he doesn’t know what’s going on around him.
‘Thank you, thank you.’
Ben’s voice comes booming through the speakers. Behind the Perspex lectern, he gestures to the crowd to simmer down. He is handsome up there in his black tie. The bright lighting has given angles to his face and lustre to his hair. He has always belonged in the centre of other people’s attention.
‘It’s a pleasure to be here with you all, in this stunning location, supporting an organisation that many of you will know is extremely close to my heart. How apt that we should find ourselves in a roomfilled with such beauty – these historic, ancient statues, many of which have limbs missing …’
