can cover every nook and corner of a crowded bar, hence the maître d’s next question of me, couched in the prophetic tense beloved of his trade:
‘And will we be thinking come straight to our table and enjoy our aperitif in peace and quiet, or will we be taking our chances at the bar, which can get a bit too lively for some?’
Lively being precisely what I need and Percy’s microphones don’t, I opt for taking our chances at the bar. I choose a plush sofa for two and order a large glass of red burgundy in addition to my twelve-pound flute of champagne. A group of diners enters, as like as not supplied by Percy. Florence must have attached herself to them because the first thing I know she is sitting beside me with scarcely an acknowledgement. I indicate her glass of red burgundy. She shakes her head. I order water with ice and lemon. In place of Office fatigues, she wears her smart trouser suit. In place of the scruffy silver ring on her wedding finger, nothing.
For my part, I am sporting a navy-blue blazer and grey flannels. In the right pocket of my blazer I am carrying a lipstick in a cylindrical brass holder. It is of Japanese manufacture and Prue’s one indulgence. Cut away the bottom half of the lipstick and you have a cavity deep and wide enough to accommodate a generous strip of microfilm or, in my case, a handwritten message on pared-down typing paper.
Florence’s demeanour is faux-casual, precisely as it should be. I have invited her to lunch, but my tone was cryptic and in the legend she has yet to learn why: am I inviting her in my capacity as her future husband’s best man, or as her former superior? We trade banalities. She is polite, but on her guard. Keeping my voice below the hubbub, I advance to the matter in hand:
‘Question one,’ I say.
She takes a breath and tilts her head so close to mine that I feel the prickle of her hair.
‘Yes, I still want to marry him.’
‘Next question?’
‘Yes, I told him to do it, but I didn’t know what it was.’
‘But you encouraged him,’ I suggest.
‘He said there was something he’d got to do to stop an anti-European conspiracy but it was against regulations.’
‘And you?’
‘If he felt it, do it and fuck regulations.’
Ignoring my questions, she plunges straight on.
‘After he’d done it – that was Friday – he came home and wept and wouldn’t say why. I told him that whatever he’d done was all right if he believed in it. He said he believed in it. I said, well you’re all right then, aren’t you?’
Forgetting her earlier resolve, she takes a pull of her burgundy.
‘And if he found out who he’s been dealing with?’ I prompt.
‘He’d turn himself in or kill himself. Is that what you want to hear?’
‘It’s information.’
Her voice starts to rise. She brings it down.
‘He can’t lie, Nat. The truth is all he knows. He’d be useless as a double even if he agreed to do it, which he never would.’
‘And your wedding plans?’ I prompt her again.
‘I’ve invited the whole world and its brother to join us in the pub afterwards, as per your instructions. Ed thinks I’m insane.’
‘Where are you going for your honeymoon?’
‘We’re not.’
‘Book a hotel in Torquay as soon as you get home. The Imperial or equivalent. The bridal suite. Two nights. If they want a deposit, pay it. Now find a reason to open your handbag and put it between us.’
She opens her handbag, extracts a tissue, dabs her eye, carelessly leaves the handbag open between us. I take a sip of my champagne and, with my left arm across my body, drop in Prue’s lipstick.
‘The moment we’re in the dining room we’re on air,’ I tell her. ‘The table’s wired and the restaurant is crammed with Percy’s people. Be as bloody difficult as you always were, then some. Understood?’
Distant nod.
‘Say it.’
‘Understood, for fuck’s sake,’ she hisses back at me.
The maître d’ is waiting for us. We settle to our nice corner table opposite each other. The maître d’ assures me I have the best view in the room. Percy must have sent him to charm school. The same enormous menus. I insist we have hors d’oeuvres. Florence demurs. I urge smoked salmon on her and she says all right. We agree on turbot for our main course.
‘So it’s both the same for us today, sir,’ the maître d’