her second or maybe third glass of red. ‘We’re home and dry. Citizen Kane, your day has finally come.’
‘Not till the fat lady sings,’ I warn her.
‘Who the fuck’s she?’
‘A Treasury sub-committee has to give its blessing.’
‘Consisting of?’
‘One mandarin apiece from Treasury, Foreign Office, Home Office and Defence. Plus a couple of co-opted parliamentarians who can be trusted to do what they’re told.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Rubber-stamp the op and pass it back to Head Office for action.’
‘Bloody waste of time, if you ask me.’
We return by tube to the Haven to discover that Ilya has raced ahead of us to report a great victory with Florence as heroine of the hour. Even grumpy Igor, the sixty-five-year-old Lithuanian, emerges from his den to shake her hand and – though he secretly suspects that any replacement of Giles must be a Russian plot – mine also. I escape to my office, sling my tie and jacket over a chair and am in the act of closing down my computer when the family mobile phone croaks at me. Assuming it’s Prue and hoping it’s Steff at long last, I delve in my jacket pocket. It’s Ed, sounding dire.
‘That you, Nat?’
‘Amazingly, it is. And you must be Ed,’ I reply frivolously.
‘Yeah, well.’ Long pause. ‘Only it’s about Laura, you see. On Monday.’
Laura, the sister who has learning difficulties.
‘That’s all right, Ed. If you’re tied up with Laura, forget it. We’ll play another time. Just say the word and I’ll see when I’m free.’
This is not the reason he called, however. There’s something else going on. With Ed there always is. Wait long enough, he’ll tell you.
‘Only she wants a four, you see.’
‘Laura does?’
‘At badminton. Yeah.’
‘Ah. At badminton.’
‘She’s a demon for it when she’s in the mood. No good, mind. I mean, sort of really no good. But, you know. Enthusiastic.’
‘Of course. That sounds fine. So what kind of four?’
‘Well, mixed, you know. With a woman. Maybe your wife.’ He knows Prue’s name but seems unable to speak it. I say Prue for him and he says, ‘Yeah, Prue.’
‘Prue can’t, Ed, I’m afraid. I don’t even have to ask her. Mondays are surgery night for hard-luck clients, remember? Haven’t you got somebody in your shop?’
‘Not really. Not that I can ask. Laura’s really bad. Yeah.’
By this time my eye has travelled to the stippled-glass door that separates me from Florence’s cubbyhole. She’s at her desk with her back to me, also closing down her computer. But something gets to her. I’ve stopped talking but I haven’t rung off. She turns, peers at me, then stands, opens the glass door and shoves her head round.
‘You needing me?’ she asks.
‘Yes. Do you play really bad badminton?’
8
It’s the Sunday evening before the planned Monday foursome with Ed, Laura and Florence. Prue and I are enjoying one of our absolute best weekends since my return from Tallinn. The reality of having me around the house as a permanency is still new to us, and we are both aware that it needs careful work. Prue loves her garden. I am up for the mowing and heavy lifting, but otherwise my finest moment is when I take the gin and tonic out to her on the stroke of six. Her law firm’s engagement in a class action against Big Pharma is shaping well and we are both happy about that. I am slightly less happy to find our Sunday mornings given over to ‘working brunches’ of her dedicated legal team who, from the little I hear of their deliberations, sound more like anarchist plotters than seasoned lawyers. When I say this to Prue, she gives a hoot of laughter and says, ‘But that’s exactly what we are, darling!’
In the afternoon, we went to a movie – I forget what we saw except that we enjoyed it. When we got home Prue decreed that we should make a cheese soufflé together, which Steff assures us is the gastronomic equivalent of old-time dancing, but we love it. So I grate the cheese and she whizzes the eggs while we listen to Fischer-Dieskau at full volume, which is why neither of us hears the peep-peep of my Office mobile until Prue takes her thumb off the mixer.
‘Dom,’ I tell her, and she pulls a face.
I remove myself to the living room and close the door because we have an understanding that, if it’s Office stuff, Prue prefers not to know about it.
‘Nat. Forgive my outrageous Sunday intrusion.’
I forgive him, if tersely. I’m assuming from his