Drinking again, he stroked his chin in a doubtful sort of manner. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t counted them.’
‘Fine.’ I drank some more too, despite by then being well aware the wine on top of the extra-strong vodka was seriously going to my head. ‘Well, how about you tell me who you’ve invited and then we can.’
‘Then we can what?’
‘Count them,’ I said patiently.
Despite equality, levelling out of the genders, you could still argue that the average male is fundamentally not designed to be good at anything remotely resembling domestic organisation. My father, for instance, couldcommand a battalion standing on his head but when it came to planning a drinks or dinner party for his own work colleagues, he would go into an immediate decline. Of course, my father is at least three generations behind Luc Mandeville, and we are supposed to be in an emancipated age. Neither of these facts made any difference when it came to the situation in which I found myself.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘There will be your mother and you for starters.’
‘I suppose so.’ He looked as if this was far from certain.
‘How about the elderly couple who came to dinner yesterday evening – have you invited them?’
‘God forbid!’ This seemed to wake him up. ‘They’re so boring!’ Then he looked guilty. ‘Look, I feel sorry for the poor devils, but I don’t want them here on Christmas Day. Anyway, they’re not friends of mine, nor really of my mother, come to that. They’re one of her charitable exercises,’ he said gloomily.
‘Okay. How about Jess, then? Have you invited her?’
The reaction was even stronger. He actually flopped backwards in his chair. ‘Jesus, whatever are you suggesting? My mother would spontaneously combust!’
Might be worth watching, I thought, but kept my counsel. Then suddenly he sprang into life.
‘Of course, there will be my daughter, Emma.’ He beamed with satisfaction. ‘She’s lovely. Everybody loves her.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said lightly. ‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
Oh, great. Now I could look forward to a teenager stomping and sulking about the place.
‘But if you knew her you wouldn’t think so. Emma’s actually very mature for her age. She’s wise beyond her years. In fact, she’s just brilliant in every way.’ Then he looked shamefaced. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve done it again.’
‘Done what again?’
‘Fallen foul of the Proud Parent Syndrome. I’m always doing it and it’s so tedious for others.’
Relenting slightly, I smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry. We all do it.’
‘It’s just that Emma, is—’ Breaking off mid-sentence, he stared at me. ‘What did you say? What did you just say?’
‘I said we all do it – the proud parent stuff. It’s perfectly natural when you love your child.’
He stared at me, looking completely astonished. ‘Are you sayingyouare a parent – a mother – you have a child?’
I almost laughed. ‘Why are you looking at me as if I’ve just confessed to being a serial killer? But yes, I have a son. He’s eleven,’ I added helpfully.
‘But where… where is he?’ Mandeville looked frantically round the room as if he expected Carl to suddenly leap out of a cupboard.
I chuckled. ‘Not here, obviously. He’s in Italy, spending Christmas and New Year skiing with his father.’
‘You’re married?’
‘No, I’m not married.’
This produced a little pause while Mandeville seemed to be trying to absorb what I’d said and I fiddled with my notebook to avoid his disconcertingly penetrating gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, filling our glasses with yet more wine and then sitting back. As if at a loss, he waved a mystified hand in the air before letting it fall with a thud onto the table. ‘It’s just I know so little about you.’
