Armadillo - By William Boyd Page 0,56

a small chamber orchestra. I thought he might be trying to recruit you.’

‘No, I don’t play, it’s –’ he gestured across the table at his supposed girlfriend, his prospective fiancée, and realized he had completely forgotten her name. ‘It’s her, she, ah, she’s the musician. I work in insurance.’

‘No shop!’ Torquil yelled at him. ‘Fine that man. Who’s for some brandy?’

Lorimer’s untouched crème brûlée was whisked from his place by a looming Philippa.

‘Now you’re talking, Helvoir-Jayne,’ Oliver Rollo said, punching the air.

‘Loch Kenbarry,’ Binnie frowned, still trying to place it. ‘Is that near Fort Augustus?’

‘Nearish.’

Potts offered him one of her cigarettes for the seventh or eighth time that evening. He declined again and fetched her a candle. She leaned forward to the flame and lowered her voice, holding her cigarette poised, and said, hardly moving her lips.

‘I must say I’ve found it very exciting with you sitting beside me, Lorimer, naked under your kilt.’

‘Binnie,’ Torquil said impatiently.

‘Sorry, darling.’ Binnie stood up. ‘Shall we, ladies?’

Lorimer could imagine Ivan Algomir’s snorting bray of derision. The women left the room? Potts shot to her feet and was away, Liza Pawson moved more uncertainly. Only the Russian girl did not budge.

‘Irina?’ Binnie said, gesturing towards the door. Irina. That was her name.

‘What is? Where are we –’ For the first time that evening she looked to Lorimer for help.

‘It’s a custom,’ he explained. ‘A British custom. The women leave the men at the end of the meal?’

‘For why?’

‘Because we tell disgusting jokes,’ Oliver Rollo said. ‘You got any port in this pub, Torquil?’

Lorimer was pleased with himself. When the ladies had left the room, and as Torquil and Oliver fussed pedantically over the lighting of their cigars, he asked Neil Pawson about his chamber orchestra and the man talked happily about his passion for music, of the difficulties and rewards of running an amateur orchestra and, moreover, spoke at a pedagogic, headmasterly pitch of conversation that brooked no interruption for a full ten minutes. It was only Oliver Rollo’s insistent throat-clearings that alerted Torquil to the fact that terminal boredom was setting in and he suggested they withdrew and joined the ladies for coffee in front of the fire.

The evening wound down swiftly: the Pawsons left almost immediately, Lorimer warmly wishing them goodbye, even pecking Liza Pawson on the cheek, confident he would never see them again in his life. Irina said she was tired and Binnie sprang to her feet and fussily showed her to her room. Then Oliver and Potts went upstairs to bed, to much prurient speculation from Torquil. For a strange moment Lorimer and Torquil were alone in the room, Torquil sitting back in his armchair, legs splayed, puffing at the soggy butt of his cigar and swilling an inch of brandy around in his goblet.

‘Great evening,’ Lorimer said, feeling he had to break the gathering intimacy of the silence.

‘That’s what it’s all about,’ Torquil said. ‘Old friends. Good food and drink. Bit of a chat. Bit of fun. That’s what’s life’s, you know, makes it go round.’

‘I think I’ll shoot off,’ Lorimer said, trying to ignore the dull headache that was tightening above his eyes.

‘Kick that Potts out of your bed if she tries to crawl in,’ Torquil said, with an unpleasant smile. ‘Cat on a hot tin roof, that one. Real goer.’

‘So she and Oliver aren’t –’

‘Oh yes. They’re getting married in a month.’

‘Ah.’

Binnie returned. ‘You’re not going to bed, are you, Lorimer? Good lord, it’s ten to two. We are late.’

‘Super evening, Binnie,’ Lorimer said. ‘Thank you so much. Delicious meal. Very much enjoyed meeting everyone.’

‘Potts is a scream, isn’t she? And the Pawsons are so nice. Do you think Irina enjoyed herself?’

‘I’m sure she did.’

‘She’s a quiet one, isn’t she?’

‘Thought we’d go for a walk on the common tomorrow,’ Torquil interrupted. ‘Before lunch. Fresh air. Late breakfast, come down when you like.’

‘Do you know Peter and Kika Millbrook?’ Binnie asked.

‘No,’ Lorimer said.

‘Friends from Northamptonshire, coming for lunch. With their little boy Alisdair. Company for Sholto.’

‘Is he the dyslexic one?’ Torquil asked. ‘Alisdair?’

‘Yes,’ Binnie said. ‘It’s very bad, awful shame.’

‘A dyslexic and a bedwetter. Bloody marvellous. They’ll make great chums.’

‘That’s cruel, Torquil,’ Binnie said, her voice hard, suddenly, emotion making it quaver. ‘That’s a horrid thing to say.’

‘I’m off,’ Lorimer said. ‘Night everyone.’

From his window Lorimer could see the beaded stream of headlights on the Great North Road. Why so many cars, he thought, leaving the city on a Saturday night, heading for the north? What journeys