‘Do you have a focus?’
‘Wel ,’ Margaret said, ‘I have a structure—’
‘We al have that.’
‘I have my work and my home and my son—’
‘Yes?’
‘But to be honest with you, Bernie,’ Margaret said, putting her own glass down firmly, ‘I’ve felt a bit adrift since Richie went, I’ve felt that I’ve lost a dimension somehow, that some kind of power supply’s been shut off.’
‘Ah,’ Bernie said.
‘What’s “Ah”?’
‘Wel , I wondered.’
Margaret folded her hands in the space between the paral el lines of the cutlery.
‘And what did you wonder?’
‘I wondered,’ Bernie said, leaning forward and laying one heavy hand on the cloth not very far away from Margaret’s folded ones, ‘I wondered how his death had affected you.’
‘What did you feel after Renee?’
He smiled down at the tablecloth.
‘Devastated and liberated.’
‘Wel , there you are,’ Margaret said, ‘and add to that the sense that you’ve got nothing to prove any more, so the savour goes out of a lot of it. I’m not a bravely achieving abandoned woman any more, I’m just a working widow, and I don’t, if I’m honest, feel the same energy. I’m
‘I don’t want to talk about Scott,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to talk about us.’
Margaret drew herself up.
‘No sentimental nonsense, please, Bernie.’
He winked.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Margaret gave a mild snort.
‘You were a pest when you were nine and you have every potential to be a bigger pest now. You and Eric Garnside and Ray Venterman—’ She paused. Better not to bring up Richie’s name.
‘Both dead,’ Bernie said.
‘We were different ends of the school,’ Margaret said, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Boys and girls. And you boys lay in wait for us after school, you and Doug Bainbridge—’
‘I want to talk business,’ Bernie said.
Two huge white plates bearing scal op shel s topped with potato puree piped in intricate squiggles were put simultaneously in front of them.
‘Business?’ Margaret said.
‘Yes,’ Bernie said.
He indicated that a waiter should pour the wine, and picked up his immense napkin prior to tucking it in over his expensive silk tie. Then, unbidden, an image of Renee rose in his mind. She was wearing black and diamonds and her hair was newly done. She said sharply, ‘Don’t behave like a lout, Bernard.’ Bernie lowered his napkin again to his knees.
‘You can wear it on your head, for al I care,’ Margaret said.
He smiled at her. There was an element in her that was entirely unchanged from the lippy nine-year-old in Miss Grey’s class in King Edward School.
‘Margaret,’ he said, ‘listen careful y. I have a very attractive proposition for you.’
They were al sitting, at Chrissie’s request, round the kitchen table. She had opened a bottle of wine but nobody except her was drinking it. Dil y and Tamsin had bottles of mineral water with sports caps in front of them and Amy was drinking Diet Coke out of the can in a way Chrissie deplored.
‘Please get a glass, Amy.’
‘I’ve nearly finished it—’
Chrissie said again, very slowly, ‘Please get a glass when I ask you to.’
Amy got up and lounged across the kitchen towards the relevant cupboard. Chrissie watched her, and her sisters regarded their water bottles.
Amy drifted back with a glass in her hand and set it on the table. She upended the can and a few drops of dark brown liquid fel into the tumbler.
‘Sit down, please,’ Chrissie said. Her voice was not quite steady.
Tamsin glanced at her.
