When You Are Mine(30)

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Constance organised this. It makes her happy.’

I want to ask him why he didn’t try harder to keep my mother happy, but that’s a rabbit hole I don’t want to disappear down.

‘Did you bribe the local councillors?’ I ask.

‘What do you want from me – a confession?’

‘An answer.’

I get a look of reproach, followed by a sad smile. ‘Maybe you should stay out of this one, Phil. The police will sort it out.’

‘I am the police.’

He grunts and glances out the window where the noise has grown louder.

‘Do you wish I hadn’t joined the Met?’ I ask.

‘I couldn’t be prouder.’

I make a scoffing sound.

‘Cross my dodgy heart. I watched you graduate.’

‘What?’

‘A mate snuck me into Hendon.’

‘When you say a mate … ?’

‘I do have friends among the police.’

‘On your payroll?’

‘Not all of your colleagues are bent.’

‘Only some of them.’

He smiles, clearly enjoying the banter.

‘I saw you marching. You were in the front row. They gave you a special commendation for topping your class.’

‘I was equal top.’

‘Same, same.’ He waves his hand airily.

‘Why didn’t you make yourself known?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t want to embarrass you.’

I’m trying to work out how I feel. Conflicted. Annoyed. Gratified. Why should I care what he thinks? I haven’t needed him for the last third of my life.

‘Have the surgery,’ I say.

‘I will.’

‘No, promise me. Don’t delay. I’m getting married in September and you being dead would upset my seating plans.’

His face lights up. ‘Married! Is he here?’

Suddenly, I remember Henry. I left him outside. Alone. He probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped or that my family has staged an intervention. Daddy is marching towards the door.

‘I want to meet him. Where are you hiding him?’

It’s all an act, of course, but I make him wait while I knot his tie and smooth down his jacket.

‘What do you think of this suit?’ he asks.

‘It makes me want to eat fried chicken.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I told Constance.’

I find Henry standing in the shrubbery, cupping his hands against a window as he peers inside. He has mud on his shoes and a leaf stuck in his hair.

‘Are you trying to break in, or escape?’

My voice startles him, but he looks relieved and a little flushed.

‘Don’t disappear like that,’ he says. ‘I thought your aunts were going to eat me.’

‘Did you get between them and the buffet?’ I stand on tiptoes to kiss him. ‘Daddy wants to meet you.’

‘Why? What did you tell him? Is he angry?’

‘Relax. He’s not going to bite.’

‘It’s not his bite I’m worried about.’

Taking his hand, I pull him through the crowd, smiling and saying hello to people whose faces are familiar, but I have no idea of their names. There is something stilted and artificial about all this warmth and bonhomie. Eventually, we’re standing alongside Daddy, who is chatting to someone who looks like a soap actor.

I tap him on the shoulder. He turns. Beams.

Henry holds out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr McCarthy.’

Daddy ignores the outstretched palm and puts his arm around Henry’s shoulder, pulling him closer. It looks like a wrestling hold.

‘This is my future son-in-law,’ he announces to those within earshot. ‘He didn’t ask my permission, of course, but I’ll forgive him that.’

A bottle of champagne is grabbed from a passing tray. Glasses are filled.

‘Another toast,’ says Daddy. ‘To youth and beauty and love.’

The words are repeated. Glasses are raised. Daddy still has his hand on Henry’s shoulder, stopping him leaving. He leans closer and mouths, ‘A quiet word,’ into his ear. And then to everybody, ‘I need a few moments alone with Henry.’

I follow them. Daddy turns. ‘Not you.’

‘But he’s …’

‘A big lad. He can speak for himself.’

They fight their way to the edges of the crowd. I keep them in sight, watching from a distance as they circle to the far side of the pond and take a seat on a painted wooden bench, away from the music and the squeals of children on the funfair rides. Their lips are moving. I wish I knew what they were saying. Henry laughs. A good sign. He nods. Tilts his head. Gestures to the sky. Nods again. This is torture.

Later, when I ask Henry about the conversation, he is remarkably reticent and dismissive. We’re in bed. We’ve made love. I roll on top of him, pin his arms and demand that he tell me what was discussed.

‘He talked about you.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said that you expected too much of people and you were destined to be disappointed, because nobody could live up to your ideals.’