‘But it wasn’t rape or anything?’
‘No. Mel was willing. At least at the time.’
‘Do you think she regrets it?’ Throughout the day I had seen no sign of Mel showing any interest in her lover of the night before.
‘Oh, yes. She definitely regrets it.’
‘What’s she going to do?’
‘Brave it out, I think. What else can she do?’
‘Go home?’
‘Maybe.’
‘She doesn’t look too happy now.’
‘Neither do you,’ said Ingrid.
I didn’t answer.
‘Hey, what are you two doing here? Won’t you come and join us?’ It was Dominique, now dressed in tight white jeans and black top under a white jacket. She smiled broadly. ‘Come on, David. Come talk to me.’
‘I think I’ll stay here for a bit, thanks. It’s a beautiful spot.’
‘As you like,’ Dominique replied, touching her lip with her tongue.
‘What was that?’ said Ingrid, watching Dominique swing her hips back to the terrace.
‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘Please.’
Ingrid gave me a look. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
The evening was flat. I avoided talking to anyone much, especially Dominique. No one was having a good time and Tony still looked angry. At about ten the gathering broke up, and I went back to the guest cottage with Guy, who was still bemused by everyone’s lack of sparkle.
I lay in bed for a long time in a kind of crazed semiconsciousness. Images of Dominique naked spun around my brain in a tumult of excitement and shame, until my eyes burned and my loins ached. There was a strange sickness in my stomach and a tightening in my throat. My heart beat fast. I would open my eyes and try to calm myself down. Then it would all begin again. I had no idea what to expect of sex for the first time, but it certainly wasn’t this. Eventually, somewhere in the middle of the night, the images left me and I fell into a deep sleep.
I was woken by a loud rap at our bedroom door. A moment later the ceiling light was turned on. I sat up to see Tony standing in the doorway, his face haggard in the artificial light.
‘What time is it?’ croaked Guy.
‘Four o’clock.’
Guy and I just blinked. What the hell was Tony doing waking us up at four o’clock in the morning?
‘I have some bad news,’ Tony said. ‘Very bad news. It’s Dominique. She’s dead.’
11
April 1999, The City, London
You have to get to Sweetings early to get a table. It is a crowded little fish restaurant near the Mansion House presided over by an Italian with a full moustache who harries his customers mercilessly. Quickly in, quickly out, and a huge bill to settle at the till as you leave. The place has a kind of institutional feel to it, like a school dining room with alcohol. And excellent fish. But I think it is the jam roly-poly and the spotted dick with custard that keep pulling in the punters. My father loved it.
Every few months since I had started work at Gurney Kroheim he would meet me there for lunch while on one of his trips up to London for business. He was never specific and I never quite understood quite what business the manager of a small building-society branch had to do in London, but I never questioned him. I suspected he just wanted to get out of our little town, see an old crony or two, wander around the metropolis for a couple of hours and have lunch with me. I enjoyed those lunches and so did he.
I was five minutes late, but he had grabbed a couple of stools by one of the bars set for lunch, behind which hovered a spotty teenage waiter. He was nursing a half-pint of Guinness in a pewter tankard, and had one ready for me. His face lit up when he saw me, and he pumped my hand enthusiastically.
He was a large, kind man with a balding head and glasses perched half way down his nose. It was a minor miracle that he had managed to survive into his sixties as the manager of the branch. The reason was his shrewdness, which he always kept well hidden, and his refusal to accept promotion to the political minefield of the higher regional offices. He was very good at his job. He was well known throughout the small market town where we lived, and trusted. Competitors might try new marketing campaigns, higher deposit rates and thrusting customer-service managers, but none of that made a dent in his following. The building society he worked for had not yet been shaken up by demutualization, and his bosses realized that there was nothing to be gained from moving him and a lot to be lost. There had been a rocky moment during the recession of the early nineties when he had been criticized by head office for not taking a tougher line with some of his clients who were in arrears on their mortgage payments, but he had weathered it. Two more years and he would make it through to retirement.
‘Sit down, David. I got you a Guinness. Thanks for coming here. I suppose I could have gone to Wapping...’
‘Oh no, Dad. Don’t worry. This is fine.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to my pudding all week. Your mother doesn’t cook that kind of thing any more.’ He rubbed his comfortable stomach. ‘It’s not as though she’d notice another pound.’
We ordered potted shrimps and sole and a bottle of Sancerre.
‘I like the haircut,’ said my father. ‘Reminds me of my National Service days. It certainly makes you look different.’
I smiled. ‘I feel different, I suppose.’
‘What? Colder?’
‘No. This thing I’m doing with Guy Jourdan. It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever done before.’
I was slightly nervous as I said this. I knew that my father had been pleased when I had become a chartered accountant and very proud that I had joined a prestigious merchant bank. I had made my decision to join Guy without referring to him, but I found I wanted his approval none the less.
‘It was a big step to leave Gurney Kroheim,’ he said.
‘It was. But it’s changed so much since Leipziger took over.’
‘Don’t like working for the krauts, eh? I can understand that.’
‘No, it’s not that. There aren’t many Germans around in any case, and those that I dealt with are perfectly fine. It’s just the whole industry. The hire-and-fire culture, mergers, reorganizations, politics, it just doesn’t seem any fun any more.’
‘And this thing with Guy Jourdan is fun?’
‘Oh, yes. At least so far. In fact, I’ve never had so much fun in my career before. I mean, there are just the three of us working out of Guy’s flat. We have nothing but a blank sheet of paper. We’re building something from the ground up entirely ourselves. It feels totally different from working for a huge organization.’
‘How’s it going to work?’
I told him. Through the first course, the fish and most of the bottle of wine. He listened. He was a good listener.
The waiter whipped away our plates and thrust menus into our hands. My father agonized over his decision before going for the jam roly-poly with custard. I had the bread and butter pudding.
‘What about Guy?’ he asked.
‘He’s fine. He’s very good, actually.’
‘Do you trust him?’
I hesitated. ‘Yes,’ I said.
My father raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes,’ I repeated, more firmly this time.
‘I thought you and he fell out a few years ago. Something to do with a girl?’
‘That and other things.’ I hadn’t told my father much about that.
‘And there was that business in France.’
‘Yes.’ I hadn’t told him much about that either.
‘Tony Jourdan was a bit of a sharp operator, I seem to remember. Successful, but a sharp operator.’