‘That was the case.’ Mark paused briefly. He was reluctant to betray Ben’s confidence, but the wine had got the better of him. ‘But there’s more to it than that,’ he said.
‘Expand.’
A waiter placed two steaming napkins on a plate in front of them. Mark turned his hands heavily through the cloth and then wiped his mouth.
‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘They’ve been together a long time. Brother helped to get her career started and Alice supported him when he wanted to get into painting. Far as I can tell they have great sex, you know, so that helps when things turn nasty. And besides, a part of me reckons they love all the arguments, that they feed off the aggro and tension.’
Keen leaned back in his chair.
‘Interesting,’ he said, with apparent empathy. ‘So you don’t suppose he’s any closer to the idea of meeting up?’ He was aware that the question was cack-handed, yet determined to make an approach. ‘You don’t thinkhe’d be amenable to, say, a drinkor perhaps dinner?’
Mark laughed and stared at the ceiling.
‘Is that what this is about?’ he said. ‘You want to have this conversation every time we meet up?’
‘Until he’s prepared to forgive and forget, yes.’
Keen had not intended to sound angry, but his words had a remarkable effect. Mark, ever the conciliator, resolved to calm his father down.
‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘You just have to understand that Ben is stubborn, that he’s very set in his ways. For him to agree even to talk to you would mean a betrayal of Mum. That’s how he feels about things. We’ve spoken about this. In his mind, it’s either you or her.’
Keen managed to look appropriately dismayed, but he had been taken with a sharp, persuasive idea. Earlier in the day he had collected a signet ring from a jeweller in Paddington who had reset the bloodstone. The box was in his briefcase. He could use this as a lever, something to play on Mark’s sense of decency.
‘I had your photograph framed,’ he said.
‘My photograph?’
‘Of Ben’s wedding. It’s hanging in the flat.’ Two weeks earlier, Mark had given him a photograph of Ben’s wedding day, taken moments after he had first emerged from the church with Alice at his side. Keen had had the picture enlarged and framed and it now hung in the sitting room of his London flat. ‘I thought that I might give you something in return.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Keen was quickly into the briefcase, leaning down beside his chair. The box was covered in a thin mock-velvet cover and he handed it to Mark.
‘Are we getting married?’
‘Just open it. Have a look.’
‘What is this?’
Keen was improvising.
‘Call it a present. Of a family nature. More accurately described as an heirloom.’
Inside, Mark found the gold-banded signet ring, set with an engraved bloodstone.
‘This is for me?’
‘I’ve wanted you to have it for some time. It was your grandfather’s.’
Mark was oblivious to any deception. Prising the ring from its box he began turning it in his fingers. A small smudge of grease formed on the gold and he wiped it away with his napkin.
‘This is really kind of you,’ he said, finding that he was actually blushing. ‘You sure about this, Dad?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Why don’t you put it on?’ Mark looked briefly around the restaurant, as if conscious of being watched. Then he placed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand and held it up for inspection.
‘That’s where it’s supposed to go, right? The “pinky”? Is that what it’s called?’
‘I believe so.’ Keen cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose they’re really the fashion these days among the nightclub classes, but you can always give it a go.’
‘I’m really touched. Thank you.’
And now he played the ace.
‘I wonder how Ben would feel if I were to do the same for him.’
From the direction of the kitchen there was the sound of a plate smashing on stone. Silence briefly engulfed the restaurant before conversations resumed.
‘I’m not following you.’ Mark looked slightly worried.
‘There are two signet rings in the family,’ Keen explained. ‘One belonged to your grandfather, the other to his brother. As you may know, Bobby died without producing any children. I’ve always thought his ring should be passed on…’
‘So you thought you’d wait twenty-five years and get me to do it for you?’
Keen acknowledged the slight with just a tilt of his head. He was determined that the plan should succeed.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘But would you be prepared to have a word with your brother, to perhaps sound him out?’
Mark ground his chair a foot back from the table.
‘Haven’t we just had this discussion?’
‘It’s just that I feel we’ve never really given Benjamin a chance to come forward, to give his side of the story.’
‘To come forward?’
Keen pushed his glass to one side, as if making a clear channel through which any request could not realistically be turned down.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I’m obviously not making myself clear. Call it a symptom of my frustration. You have always presented Ben’s reluctance to talk to me as a fait accompli. The idea that he might change his mind has simply never been tabled. Well, I propose that we should give it a shot, ask him straight out what exactly it is that he’s afraid of.’
‘Brother’s not afraid of anything. I’ve told you that…’
‘Then let’s at least clear the air. I would rather have the opportunity of being castigated face-to-face than endure this rather childish stand-off.’
‘Well, you see, that’s just the problem. Ben doesn’t really care what you think.’
Mark’s candour had the effect of silencing his father. Like a man who has suffered a losing hand at poker, he fell back in his chair, as if conscious of the hopelessness of his position. It was the first time that Mark had ever observed any trace of defeat in his father’s face. And it worked.
‘Look, I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
‘Would you really?’ Keen’s eyes lit up with hope. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interests. Imagine if we could all just get along, make a fresh start. You, me, Benjamin, Alice. I’d like to get to know her, too.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ Mark muttered.
‘I mean, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could get this thing knocked on the head by Christmas?’
Mark was simply amazed by his attitude. It was as if his father had an assumed right of access, an inherent belief that the past should be ignored in the interests of his own peace of mind. Nevertheless, he felt a duty at least to make an effort.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to him and see what I can do.’
And that was enough to satisfy Keen. His work done, he closed the briefcase, cleaned his hands with the napkin and within moments had asked for the bill.
9
Stephen Taploe moved gradually along the aisles, filling his trolley with foods. It was a nothing moment. Once a week he ventured to the Clapham Junction branch of Asda and bought enough provisions to last him for exactly seven days. Taploe was frugal, although, as a single man earning 41,500 a year, he did not have to be. Armed with reward points and a fistful of vouchers, he would attempt to checkout for less than twenty-five pounds, but it was difficult with London prices and sometimes he would treat himself to an extra bottle of medium-dry white wine, or a tub of ice cream in his favourite flavour, vanilla. Taploe lived alone and had, on average, eight meals to cater for each week: two lunches (Saturday and Sunday), as well as six evenings at home. On Thursdays he was always sure to join his colleagues at a tapas bar in Victoria that was popular with D-Branch personneclass="underline" promotion, he assumed, would come quicker if he could develop and sustain relationships with senior management outside of office hours.
The supermarket was noticeably less salubrious than the branch of Marks and Spencer’s in nearby St John’s Road, and lacked the international range and flair of products available at Sainsbury’s. Nevertheless Taploe preferred Asda, largely because it was cheaper and closer to home. He eschewed fancy microwave meals, preferring to cookfrom scratch; indeed, he would derive a certain satisfaction from making a single item last for several days. He could, for example, let a medium-sized battery chicken suffice for three meals: roasted first, then curried, and finally cold. Every week he bought a packet of six Porkinson’s sausages (two meals), three fillets of salmon (one of which he would habitually freeze) and a rib eye steak with oven chips for Sunday lunch. He ignored the aisles given over to juices and did not buy food in tins. For something sweet, Taploe allowed himself ice cream, a single packet of Penguins and a punnet of Elsanta strawberries.