Keen ordered — he would have the pumpkin bisque and the cannon of lamb — adding petit pois and roast parsnips as vegetables for both of them. He then turned his attention to the wine list.
‘Do you prefer red or white?’ he asked.
Ben knew enough by now to express a preference and said ‘Red’ very firmly. So Keen passed the list across the table.
‘Have a look,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m no expert,’ Ben told him, scanning the selection. The list must have run to ten or twelve pages, bound in a cumbersome leather case so heavy he had to rest it in his lap. ‘What about the Beaune Clos des Marconnets?’
He had simply skipped the cheapest four bottles and opted for the first red Burgundy on the page.
‘Very good,’ Keen said. ‘Very good.’ He adjusted his tie and nodded. ‘What year is it?’
Ben had to look again.
‘Nineteen ninety-five.’
‘Perfect. A bottle of Clos des Marconnets it is.’
‘And then I should head off and maybe wash my hands. Where would I find the gents?’
The act of splashing cold water on his face felt oddly self-conscious. Ben stared at his reflection in the mirror and exhaled heavily. He was alone in a gleaming bathroom with only an ageing attendant for company. The man, as old as the Savoy itself, came forward to offer a small white towel.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked.
‘Oh, everything’s fine,’ Ben replied, drying water on the back of his neck. He pummelled his face with the towel as if it would somehow rub the anxiety out from under his skin. ‘Just a bit tried.’
This is what it feels like to be drunk, he thought. Just can’t seem to get it together at all.
The attendant proffered a small bottle of cologne which Ben declined. At waist level he caught sight of a small copper plate scattered with pound coins and reached into his pocket for a tip.
‘You work here all night?’ he asked, palming the man a clutch of twenty-pence pieces.
‘Oh no, sir.’ The attendant sounded surprised, as if no guest had bothered to talk to him in over forty years. ‘Just a few hours at a time.’
‘I see.’
‘And are you dining with us this evening, sir?’
‘I am, yes,’ Ben said, moving towards the door.
‘Well do enjoy yourself, won’t you?’ he said, wiping a towel across the sinks. The man moved with an arthritic slowness, the skin on his hands mottled by age.
‘Deference’ was the word in Ben’s head as he headed back across the lobby. He was beginning to realize why Keen had wanted to meet in such a place. The hot, formal atmosphere of the Savoy, the buzz and fuss of waiters, the businessmen whispering confidences at nearby tables; there was little chance of having a frank and revealing discussion in such an atmosphere. He felt that he had been tricked, and experienced a renewed determination not to be finessed by Keen.
‘Bit formal here, isn’t it?’ he said as he sat back down. He immediately took his jacket off and felt looser, more at ease.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Very old school.’ Ben looked back towards the foyer. ‘I just met Neville Chamberlain in the gents.’
Keen smiled encouragingly and rotated his glass through the air, advising Ben to try the wine.
‘You chose very well,’ he said. ‘It was a bottle I might have ordered myself. I actually prefer Burgundies to Bordeaux. Find they have more character.’
Ben did not reply. He was learning how to cultivate the silences.
‘A friend of mine from Russian days says much the same thing. Mark may have mentioned him to you. Jock McCreery. The three of us had dinner one evening in London…’
Again Ben said nothing. Let him make the running.
‘So tell me about your work.’ Keen seemed anxious to keep the conversation ticking over.
‘No. Let’s talk about you first.’
‘Fine.’
‘You worked in the Foreign Office for a long time.’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Which was why you left us, of course. In the first place.’
His father’s expression tightened.
‘I…’
‘Brother says you were in MI6.’
Keen had not expected this. Any rapport that might have built up between them was quickly dissipating. He glanced at a nearby table and muttered, ‘Well, of course, that’s a side of things one is encouraged to keep quiet about. You never know who may be listening.’
‘But you’ve retired now?’
‘Of course.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is quite straight forward.’ Keen was still smiling, though with less conviction. ‘One is not supposed to talk about the Office. I’m sure you understand.’
‘So why did you tell Mark about it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why did you tell Mark? To impress him?’
‘You’ve suddenly become rather confrontational, Benjamin. Did something happen while you were away? Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine. And it’s “Ben”. I’m simply looking for an answer to my question. Did you think he’d be impressed by what you’ve done with your life?’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘I mean, is that the vanity of the spy? Not enough adulation on the job? Nobody saying “Well done Christopher and keep up the good work”?’
And suddenly they were on the edge of an argument. Keen was desperate to preserve the dignity of the occasion and astonished by how quickly the evening had disintegrated into spite and ill-feeling. Unconsciously chewing his upper lip, he began looking around for a waiter. A two-deck sweet trolley was wheeled past and he followed it with his eyes, eventually settling them somewhere around Ben’s midriff.
‘Why don’t I ask you a question instead?’ he suggested. ‘Far more interesting, I would have thought. Mark’s been rather vague about your painting.’
‘My painting,’ Ben replied flatly, as if Keen thought of it as no more than a hobby. He was now enjoyably committed to making the meal as difficult as possible.
‘Yes. Your painting.’
‘Vague?’
‘Vague.’
He feigned disinterest.
‘Well, brother can be a bit philistine when it comes to art. Might take a girl to the Turner Prize, but that’s about it.’
Keen laughed self-consciously, as if they had shared a private joke, but he felt increasingly undermined, his plan unravelling. Why had they arranged to meet in the Savoy? What had he been thinking? That a surfeit of Italian marble and silver service would somehow paper over the cracks of his past mistakes? Ben had been nervous at first, of course, but he was settled now, and itching for the fight. His temperament was exactly as Mark had described it: wounded, blunt, argumentative.
‘What sort of stuff do you paint?’ he asked, and felt that the question might be his last opportunity to maintain a civilized air of polite enquiry.
‘Do you really care?’ Ben replied. ‘Or are we just making small talk?’
For the first time he managed to hold his father’s gaze. One beat, two. Keen, now visibly unsettled, put his glass down and frowned.
