'I've forgotten what I said.'

'Well, he hasn't forgotten. You said he went up the steps at Checkpoint Charlie and looked over the Wall. He didn't like that, Bernard.'

'But that's what he did do. He lined up behind a busload of tourists and went up the steps to look over the God-damned Wall.'

'Of course he did. That's why he didn't join in the laughter. If Dicky had said it, or anyone else in the office without field experience, it wouldn't have mattered. But coming from you it caused Bret a loss of dignity; and dignity means a lot to Bret.' All the time Frank was smiling to show me what a good joke it all was.

'But?'

'But one at a tune, Bernard, old friend. Don't antagonize a whole roomful of people all at once. It's a dangerous sport, old lad. They get together when they have something in common. Just one at a time in future. Right?'

'Right, Frank.'

'Your father would have enjoyed that shindig you put on for us. He wouldn't have approved, of course. Not your father's style; we both know that. But he would have enjoyed it, Bernard.'

Why did that last remark of Frank's please me so much? Do we never shed the tyranny of our father's love?

22

By the time I had finished my day at the office I was not in the right mood to face an aggrieved husband, even a mistakenly aggrieved one. But I'd suggested to George that we had a drink together and it was better to get it over soon. He suggested that we meet at the new apartment he'd bought in May fair, so I went there directly from the office.

It was a huge place on two floors of a house in Mount Street towards the Hyde Park end. Although I knew that it was still unoccupied. I was unprepared for the bare floorboards and the smell of the newly plastered walls.

George was there already. He was only thirty-six years old but he seemed to do everything he could to make himself appear at least ten years older than that. Born in Poplar, where the River Thames made a mighty loop that was the heart of London's dockland, he'd left school at fifteen to help support his crippled father. By the time he was twenty-one he was driving a Rolls Royce, albeit an old one he was trying to sell.

George's small stature contributed to the impression of restless energy as he moved from room to room in short paces, stooping, tapping, measuring and checking everything in sight. He had heavy spectacles that constantly slipped down his nose, wavy hair that was silver grey at the temples, and a large moustache. From his appearance it was easy to believe that his parents were Polish immigrants, but the flattened vowels of his East London accent, and his frequently dropped aitches, always came as a surprise. Sometimes I wondered if he cultivated this cockney voice as some sort of asset for his car deals.

'Well, there you are, Bernard,' he said. 'Good to see you. Very nice.' He greeted me more like a prospect than like someone he suspected of dalliance with his wife.

'It's quite a place you have here, George,' I said.

'We'll go for a drink in a moment. I must get the measuring done before the daylight goes. There's no juice here yet, see.' He clicked the electricity switch to prove it.

He was dressed in a flashy dark-blue suit with a pattern of chalk stripes that made him look even shorter than he really was. It was all obviously expensive – the silk shirt and floral Cardin tie, and the black brogue shoes – for George liked everyone to see immediately that he was the poor boy who'd made good. 'I want to talk to you about Tessa,' I said.

'Uh-huh.' George could make that sound mean anything; 'yes', 'no' or 'maybe'. He was measuring the length of the room. 'Hold that,' he said, giving me the end of the tape measure to hold against one side of the fireplace. 'Pale-gold carpet in here,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'Very elegant,' I said. I crouched to help him measure the hearth. Tm grateful that you've let her help take care of the children while I was away,' I said in what I thought was a diplomatic approach.

'She didn't ask me,' said George. 'She never asks me anything. She just does what she wants.' He wound up the tape suddenly so that it slipped from my fingers.

I stood up. 'The nanny doesn't like being alone at night,' I explained.

George stood up suddenly and stared into my eyes with a pained expression on his face. 'Five foot six inches,' he said. He rolled up the last few inches of tape, using the little handle, and then tucked it under his arm while he wrote the measurement on his hand in bright-blue ball-point pen. 'Do you mind?' he said. He gave me the end of the tape and was already backing across the room to measure the width of it.

'I thought I should have a word with you,' I said.

'What about?'

'About Tessa.' I reached down to hold the end of the tape against the wall. He pulled it taut and peered closely at the tape in the fast-disappearing daylight.

'What about Tessa?' said George, writing on his hand again.

'She's been sleeping round at my place. I thought I should say thank you.'

He looked at me and gave a wry smile.

'I like Tessa,' I said. 'But I wouldn't like you to get the wrong idea.'

'What idea would be the wrong one?'

'About me and Tessa,' I said.

'Your intentions are strictly honourable, are they?' said George, pronouncing the aitch as if determined to get it wrong. He walked to the other end of the room and tested a floorboard with his heel. It creaked as he put his weight on it. He pulled a face and then went to the window and looked down into the street. 'I just like to make sure the car is all right,' he explained.

'I don't have any intentions,' I said. I was getting irritated with him and I allowed it into my voice.

'Just talk, is it?' His voice was only a shade louder, but from the other end of the room it seemed to pick up some echo and was resonant in the large empty room. 'You and Tessa: you just chat together. Companionship, is it?'

'Of course we talk,' I said.

'Talk about me, I suppose. You give her advice about me, I imagine. How to make our marriage work. That sort of thing.'

'Sometimes,' I admitted.

'Well, that's worse,' he said without raising his voice. 'How would you like it if it was your wife talking to other men about how to handle you? How would you like it, eh?¹

'I don't know,' I admitted. Put like that it made me feel bad.

'I'd rather you jumped into bed with her. A quick impersonal frolic like that can be overlooked.' He came nearer and stroked the marble fireplace. 'I put that fireplace in,' he said. 'Marble. It came out of a beautiful old house in Bristol.' Carefully he tested the newly plastered patch on the wall where the antique fireplace had been installed. And then he stepped close to say, 'But she has the gall to tell me how much she likes talking with you. It's a bloody cheek, Bernard.'

It was almost as if he was having two conversations with two different people. He turned to stroke the newly prepared wall. In a quieter voice he said, 'Pale-grey stripes this wallpaper will be, Regency pattern. It will go well with our furniture. Remember that lovely Georgian commode – the serpentine-fronted piece? It's hidden in the hall now; you can't get a proper look at. Well, that's going in a place of honour, on that far wall. And over it there'll be an oval mirror – Georgian rococo, a great wreath of gilded leaves – a beautiful piece that I bought at Sotheby's last week. Original mirror; the frame has been restored, but really well done. I paid a damned sight too much for it but I was bidding against a dealer. I never mind taking anything one bid beyond a dealer. After all, he's going to mark it up fifty per cent, isn't he?'

'I suppose so,' I said.

'Of course he is.'