it and announces with debonnaire assurance:
‘That’s it, thanks, Nat. We’re both winners today. And thanks for something else while we’re about it.’
For something else? Such as accidentally exposing him as a bloody Russian spy? Ducking under the net he claps a hand on my shoulder – a first – and marches me through the bar to our Stammtisch where he commands me to sit. He returns with two frosted pints of Carlsberg lager, olives, cashews and crisps. He sits down opposite me, passes me my glass, raises his own and delivers a prepared speech in a voice resonant with his northern roots:
‘Nat, I have something to tell you of major importance to me and I hope to you. I’m about to get married to a wonderful woman and without you I’d never have met her. So I’m really truly grateful to you, not only for some highly diverting badminton over the past months, but for introducing me to the woman of my dreams. So really, really grateful. Yeah.’
Long before the ‘yeah’, I had heard it all. There was only one wonderful woman I had introduced him to, and according to the ramshackle cover story that Florence in her fury had resisted sharing, I had met her on precisely two occasions: the first being when I walked into the office of my fictional friend the commodities trader and she was his high-class temporary secretary, and the second when she informed me that she didn’t feel like fucking lying any more. Has she in the meantime told her fiancé that his cherished badminton partner is a veteran professional spy? If the uncluttered sweetness of his smile as we raise our glasses to each other is any guide, she hasn’t.
‘Ed, this is indeed absolutely splendid news,’ I protest, ‘but who is this wonderful woman?’
Will he tell me I’m a liar and a fraud because he knows bloody well that Florence and I worked cheek by jowl for the better part of six months? Or will he do what he now does, which is bestow a conjuror’s artful grin on me, pull her name out of his hat and dazzle me with it?
‘Do you happen to remember Florence by any chance?’
I try. Florence? Florence? Give me a moment. Must be age. Shake of the head. Can’t get there, I’m afraid.
‘The girl we played badminton with, for Christ’s sake, Nat,’ he bursts out. ‘Right here. With Laura. Court three. You remember! She was temping for your business pal and you brought her along to make a fourth.’
Allow memory to dawn.
‘Of course! That Florence. A really super girl. My hearty congratulations. How could I be so stupid? My dear man—’
As we grasp hands, I grapple with two more irreconcilable pieces of intelligence. Florence has stuck to her Office vows, at least so far as I’m concerned. And Ed, an identified Russian spy, proposes to marry a recently employed member of my Service, thereby multiplying to infinity the opportunity for national scandal. But these are just scattered thoughts wafting through my head as he lays out his plans for ‘a quick Register Office job, no bullshit’.
‘I called Mum and she was magic,’ he confides, leaning forward over his beer and grabbing my forearm in his enthusiasm. ‘She’s into Jesus in a pretty big way, Mum is, same as Laura, always has been. And I thought she’d say, you know, if Jesus isn’t going to be at the wedding it’s a washout.’
I’m hearing Bryn Jordan: sat in a church for twenty minutes … low … no silver.
‘Only Mum can’t travel, not easily,’ he is explaining. ‘Not at short notice. Not with her leg and Laura. So what she said was: do it the way you both like. Then when you’re ready, not before, we’ll do it the proper way in church and have a big spread and everyone can come round. She thinks Florence is the cat’s whiskers – who wouldn’t? – same as Laura does. So we’re all fixed for this Friday, as ever is, twelve o’clock prompt at the Register Office in Holborn because there’s a queue, specially with the weekend coming up. They reckon fifteen minutes maximum to do you, then it’s next couple in and round to the pub, if that’s all right with you and Prue at short notice, her being a busy hotshot lawyer.’
I am smiling the benign paternal smile that drives Steff round the bend. I have not withdrawn my forearm from his grasp. I give myself time to catch up