climbed the stairs with the energy of a young man, and made a final security check round the eight bedrooms, the three dressing rooms and the eight bathrooms, six of which were en suite. Everything was as it should be. He’d known that it would be but he was glad of the excuse to look round and admire his cottage without seeming smug about it.
He switched off the lights on the landing that would have seemed long enough and wide enough to be called a gallery if he hadn’t been to Flaxborough Hall so recently, and peered out of one of the windows into the impenetrable dark. The rain hadn’t amounted to much, the bonfire would burn well. In a couple of hours this dark sky would be alive with bright colours and sensational patterns.
He could just see, through the gently swaying trees, the lights in Top Field, where a marquee had been set up to serve beer and wine and pork pies and sausages (not venison) to the good people of Borthwick End, Borthwick Magna and Borthwick Juxta Poynton. How generous I am, he thought, to allow them to marvel at the sensational waste of money which is at the heart of this evening at this critical economic moment in our island’s story.
Yes, this was the bit he liked best. Soon they would be here, headlights frightening the owls in the trees that lined the drive, tyres churning up the grass in the Front Meadow and the Back Meadow, exclamations of astonishment as if they’d never seen tables laid with food before, the wild salmon and the unhappy trout skeletonized before his eyes, and the chatter, the roar of the trite remarks of 250 people, what did they find to talk about? The showy coats piled on the beds in the guest bedrooms, the crumbs and wine stains on the carpet, the soiled bowls in the many lavatories, it would be downhill from now on.
He braced himself against the invasion. He consulted the database in his head. He must be prepared.
People invited included his elder brother Hugo; his doctor Hamish Ferguson and Mrs Ferguson; his centre forward Raduslav Bogoff and his not so svelte wife Svetoslava Bogoff; his creative left-side midfielder Danny Templeton and Mrs Templeton; his goalkeeper Carl Willis and Mrs Willis; Keith Gostelow, Dan Perkins, and Adam Eaglestone from GI (Keith Gostelow and Adam Eaglestone accompanied by their better halves, Dan Perkins accompanied by his worse half); his daughter Joanna, accompanied by nobody; Siobhan and Liam McEnery; Field Marshal Sir Colin Grimsby-Watershed (retired) and Lady Grimsby-Watershed (retired); Admiral Lord Feltham of Banbury (retired) and Lady Feltham; Gloria Whatmough, Head of Charitable Giving, and her friend June Wellington; Peregrine Thoresby, Curator of the Coppinger Collection and his partner David Emsley; and, last but least, his son Luke and his latest girlfriend, Emma Slate.
People not invited included his younger brother Jack; his deceased mother Margaret; Fred Upson; Martin Fortescue; Helen Grimaldi; Kirkstall; Alice Penfold with her stud and ring; Fiona Bruce; A.A. Gill; Giles Coren; the Mayor of Dudley; Mandy of Hair Hunters of Hackney; Francesca Saltmarsh of the Perseus Gallery with the sweetest little bedroom upstairs; and Jenny Boothroyd, Sandy Lane, Isla Swanley, Kerry Oldstead, Gill Goldthorpe, and Ellie Streeter, all of whom he had taken to his secret seduction suite on the twenty-second floor during the last six months.
The phone rang, loud and shocking in this last moment of silence.
A few moments later, Farringdon called out to him.
‘A Mr Liam McEnery on the telephone for you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Farringdon.’
He approached the phone as if it was an unexploded bomb.
‘Coppinger.’
‘I’m so sorry to bother you when you must be so busy, Sir Gordon.’
Yes, so get on with it.
‘I’m afraid we aren’t going to be able to come, sir.’
No Siobhan! What do I do if things go wrong? How selfish is this, to let me down at this late hour?
‘It’s the wee mite, sir.’
Oh, bloody Ryan. Might have guessed it. Children! Bastards!
‘I’m afraid he’s not well, sir.’
‘Oh dear. Nothing serious, I hope, Liam.’
‘I’m afraid it may be, sir. We’ve had to rush him to Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
This really is very inconvenient, though. Why are kids always so inconvenient? And who will orchestrate the evening now?
‘Please give Siobhan my very best wishes, and tell her not to worry at all about the party, I’m sure her planning is absolutely foolproof.’
‘Thank you, sir. She’ll appreciate that.’
First arrivals. Suddenly Lady Coppinger sailed out from the harbour of her bedroom, exuding welcome, dripping with real pearls and false charms.
‘Hello! Oh, you look gorgeous.’
‘Well, so do you.’
‘And that new rose you bred last year. Divine. What was it called again?’
‘The Crimson Rambler.’
‘Marvellous.’
‘Thank you.’
They were off. It had begun. Siobhan was forgotten.
Who the hell are this couple? Quick, access the database of the brain, search. Ah, yes. Stanley Welton, the big cheese at Stilton (ha, ha) and Mrs Welton. ‘How are Olivia and Toby?’ ‘Oh, how clever of you to remember.’ We’re off, we’re at the races, who needs Siobhan? I can do this.
Chat, chat, chat. Sip, sip, sip.
The chosen footballers of Climthorpe United were among the first to arrive, awkward in their suits, none more awkward than Raduslav Bogoff. They had a Derby match against Charlton next day, and to invite so many of them tonight had been to indulge that love of risk that is an essential ingredient of the make-up of all great men.
‘Good luck against Charlton tomorrow, Raduslav,’ said Sir Gordon, ‘and don’t rush it in front of goal.’
‘Oh no, Sir Gordon. Tomorrow I am cool. Tomorrow I am ice.’
‘Excellent. And Raduslav? Don’t drink too much tonight.’
‘Oh no, I not, sir. I am Bulgarian. I no have this culture of booze.’
‘Great stuff. Good man.’
The manager, Vernon Thickness, and his absurdly blonde wife Claudia walked in on either side of the little gaggle of footballers as if they were two sheepdogs directing them towards the pen.
‘Hello, Vernon. Hello, Claudia. Going to stuff Charlton tomorrow, are we, Vernon?’ asked Sir Gordon.
‘Absolutely. Close down their wingers and they’ve no Plan B.’ Vernon Thickness narrowed his eyes, which was difficult as they were narrow already. ‘And don’t worry about them drinking too much tonight. I’ll be watching like a hawk.’ He did his hawk impression. ‘Anyone who drinks too much tonight is out. O U T. Out.’
Your spelling’s improved, thought Sir Gordon. Let’s hope your tactical awareness has too. But he didn’t say this. There were some things even Sir Gordon didn’t say.
They were pouring in now, and there was such a business of handing over coats and getting drinks that he had the unpleasant feeling of being surplus to requirements in his own entrance hall. He decided that it was better to return to the drawing room, which was filling up already.
Lady Coppinger approached him, gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek and said, ‘Darling, you look gorgeous tonight.’ She turned to the people who were drifting in the wake of her perfume. ‘I’m so proud of my man.’
Sir Gordon almost showed his shock before he realized that this was a public performance, overdone in order to hurt him. And, briefly, it did hurt him. A shaft of pain went through him as he recalled the times when such things might have been said and meant.
The