What crisis?’ Who cares about the Greeks anyway? They can whistle for those marbles.’ ‘No wonder they want them, they’ve completely lost theirs.’ ‘Very good! Quite right! Bastards!’ ‘Nobody pays tax in the whole of Southern Europe, they’ll go to the wall and take us with them. Bastards.’
There was a sheikh in the room. He hadn’t invited a sheikh. Hadn’t got anything in particular against sheikhs, take them or leave them really, that was his attitude to sheikhs, but what was he doing here? Have to ask Siobhan. Oh, damn, couldn’t. Better ask the fellow himself. How do you address them? Excuse me, Your Sheikhship, and I hope this doesn’t sound rude, but who exactly invited you?
He started to part the crowds, feeling slightly like Moses, to get to the sheikh, but then he saw his dad, standing by the door looking utterly and totally lost. What was he doing here? Who’d invited him? He made his way over to Christina, who was holding court.
‘Sorry to break in, sweetest –’ God, that was difficult to say – ‘but did you invite Dad?’
‘Yes, all the happy family together, Gordon, on this very public occasion.’
‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’
‘He’ll be fine.’
Women! That was women all over. Make a gesture, create havoc. Better say nothing, though.
He hurried over towards his dad, feeling, though he was too anxious to realize it, a genuine shaft of emotion for the first time in the evening.
His father’s cheeks were shrunken and his eyes were hiding in panic at the backs of their sockets.
‘Dad!’
Say ‘Dad’ at regular intervals, and he just might put off that moment he dreaded, the moment when he had to face for the first time the fact that his father didn’t know who he was.
‘How are you, Dad?’
‘I’ve lived too long.’
Quite right.
‘No! Never!’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re at my house.’
‘But it’s huge.’
‘I’m very rich, Dad.’
‘Are you? Good Lord. I never was. Was I?’
‘No, Dad, you weren’t, but you did all right.’
‘Did I? Oh, good. Where’s Margaret?’
Margaret’s dead, Dad. No point. Wouldn’t remember, why hurt him?
‘Probably checking her make-up.’
‘That’ll be it. Who’s that boy over there who’s in love with his hair and isn’t in love with that woman who looks as if she doesn’t wash?’
Good God. So few corners of the brain left active, and still such perception.
‘That’s your grandson, Dad. Luke.’
‘Ah! Thought I recognized him. You must introduce me some time.’
He found a seat for his dad and looked round for someone to go and talk to him. His eyes lit upon a nun. A nun! What was she doing here? He hadn’t invited a nun. What did Siobhan think she was doing inviting a sheikh and a nun? He must talk to Siobhan. Oh, blast. He couldn’t. Perhaps he could ring the hospital. No. Insensitive. A picture flashed across his mind, anxious parents at a bedside. A wee mite struggling to breathe. Oxygen.
He managed to reach the nun. No time to ask her why she was here.
‘Excuse me. I don’t know you, but obviously as a nun you have compassion.’
Strangely attractive. He’d never had a nun. No! Gordon, get a grip.
‘My dad … that’s him in that chair … he’s eighty-six … he’s got dementia … he’s frightened … will you talk to him, calm him down? … Please.’
‘Of course. Don’t worry.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
He was disappointed to find that even nuns said ‘No problem’.
He tried to make his way over to Luke, but his path was blocked by Hugo, immaculate to excess and as supercilious as a cat.
‘Posh do, Gordon.’
‘Well, you know.’
‘Yes. Keeping up appearances.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Stop looking for hidden meanings. Anyway, I can see I’ll have to pull my socks up next year.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hugo. You top me every time. Last year was fantastic.’
‘It was good, wasn’t it? Still, this looks lovely. Where’s Christina?’
‘Oh, here, there, everywhere. Being charming.’
‘Not being charming, Gordon. She is charming.’
‘You don’t live with her.’
Hugo gave the very faintest twitch.
‘True. Very true.’
Sir Gordon edged closer to Luke. A quick look showed his father chatting happily with the nun. Maybe Siobhan had known what she was doing inviting her.
At last he was with Luke. They shook hands. The formality seemed odd, but a kiss was out of the question.
‘Dad, this is Emma Slate.’
The worst yet.
‘Delighted to meet you, Emma.’
‘Really? Luke said you’d hate me.’
‘Well, give me a chance. I haven’t had time yet.’
Uneasy laughter. Good.
‘I may as well tell, you, Sir Gordon –’ there was a look of defiance on her face, plus an element of fear that if she wasn’t careful she might look attractive to men she despised – ‘that I came here under duress.’
‘Not the quickest way. I recommend coming through Esher and Epsom. Any more vandalism, Luke?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a pessimist, Luke, why should there be any more?’
‘I just have a feeling, Dad.’
‘Luke gets these feelings, Sir Gordon.’
‘Oh, does he? I wouldn’t know, Emma. I don’t know him as well as you.’
‘Dad!’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Whose fault is that?’
‘Oh look, Luke, not today.’
‘OK. Right. No, I think I must have – or we must have because you were mentioned as well – offended the Welsh in some way.’
‘Well, that isn’t difficult. So, Emma, are there a Mr and Mrs Slate?’
‘No, I was produced by artificial insemination.’
‘Emma!’
‘I’m sorry, Luke, but I just hate telling people. It’s such a conversation stopper. No, there isn’t a Mr Slate or a Mrs Slate. Both my parents are dead, Sir Gordon. They drowned in Tenerife.’
Emma was right. It was a conversation stopper.
Now, as the buzz grew louder, the crowd thicker, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, two people, the sight of whom demanded instant attention – his daughter Joanna, and a Greek Orthodox priest. It was