“How’s the wine?”
“It’s good.” I could give him an analysis of the different flavours, but I’d save that for if conversation really disintegrated. “You chose well.”
My mother’s words repeat in my head. Go along with it; take the knowledge.
“Thank you. I enjoy learning about wine. And drinking it. How’ve you spent your day?”
We’re in London. I’ve spent the day as a tourist, hiding in plain sight with two security guards, one female, both my age, looking like friends out for a day. The trip was for one reason only and it’s unsettled me, like the loch on a stormy day.
“We went to St Paul’s and London Zoo. I haven’t been to either before.”
He smiles. “I’m glad you got to see something new. You had no engagements?”
“Today was a personal visit. A free day.”
He gives me a slight nod. “What did you think of the two?”
“Both excellent in different ways.”
We’re both silent, a hard, stony silence.
“This wine is exceptional.” It was, no lie.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s a personal favourite. I spent part of one summer wine tasting in Bordeaux and had a few cases of this particular label brought back. I enjoy French wine.” The sommelier tops up his glass and then mine.
I’ve already asked them to keep it full, so it makes it look as if I’m drinking plenty, which I think is William’s aim. Loosen my tongue, maybe my morals.
Both are still tied around Ben.
And Isaac.
“Spent a couple of weeks in South Africa two years ago. Part of it was spent at a vineyard there with Michael Newiss. Have you come across him?” I swirl the wine around in my glass, noting the legs it leaves.
Goldsmith shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe I have. Is he the owner?”
“He’s a wine critic, although he writes under three pseudonyms. We were both staying at this particular vineyard but we ended up touring several others together. I learned a lot about what I was drinking.”
“Oh.” His expression ispleasant. It’s the same look I’ve seen in photographs in the media when he’s met small children or the elderly and is trying to look highly interested in what they’re doing. “I haven’t spent much time in South Africa. I did go on safari there.”
I sense he’s hunted there too and I don’t want to know about that. Please don’t tell me.
“I donate to the breeding programs and wildlife rescues over there.”
“You don’t hunt?”
“No. Not for me.”
“How about your brother?”
I shake my head. “Lennox is vegetarian. The next time you see him at a meal, you’ll notice. If it’s at the castle his food is always served differently to keep it away from meat. If he could, he’d have the whole place on a plant-based diet.”
Goldsmith laughs as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“I would never have thought that the future King of Scotland didn’t enjoy a bit of wild boar! Tell me what else there is to know about your brother? How did you get on as children?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked many times, the standard answer well practiced. But I’m not sure why Goldsmith is asking me this. If he – or his team – have done their research, they’ll know the answer. He could be an unprepared, unoriginal idiot, but you can’t take the highest level of power in the land and be that, unless you’re a puppet.
“Like an ordinary brother and sister. Our parents sheltered us from as much as they could so we could pretend to be ‘normal’, but things changed when Lennox was about thirteen and we realised he was going to be king one day.” It’s more than I’d usually give. Tales of us play fighting and him hiding my collection of toy horses were the usual anecdotes.
