The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger. David Nobbs
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a banker.’
The opportunity for rhyming slang cannot have escaped either of them, but they said nothing.
‘Who’s the hotpot?’ interrupted the waiter like a gunshot.
It had to be an act.
When the waiter had gone, Sir Gordon took a mouthful and discovered that the hotpot was a very hot hotpot indeed. He gasped, tried moving the meat around in his mouth so as not to burn any bit of skin too much. Few wives could have wasted such a moment.
‘And your afternoon?’
While he dealt with his explosive mouthful, Sir Gordon thought desperately about his desperate afternoon. What could he tell her? Jack wasn’t mentioned in the house, which was hardly surprising in view of the gift that he had left her all those years ago, the gift that she had once, briefly, welcomed. (I could explain this now, but I choose to string you along. These are not generous times.)
Besides, how could he admit to his wife that he had felt unable, after his lunch with Hugo, to face the Coppinger Tower? He could never confess such weakness to her. And how could he admit that his heart seemed to have opened up, and that he’d felt an overwhelming need to see his younger brother, who had not quite enough of the family brains, not quite enough of the family spunk, not quite enough of the combination of brains and spunk that had been given to Sir Gordon and to Hugo by the brutality of chance. How could he admit to Lady Coppinger that he had hunted for Jack with the intention of trying to help him, even though Jack had rejected all help for ever?
And hadn’t found him, not in Soho, not under the arches of Charing Cross, not in Waterloo, not under any of the bridges of London. And how the wind had blown.
‘I just went back to the office actually. Caught up on some paperwork. Didn’t see anybody.’
‘Except the grim Grimaldi, presumably.’
Did she know?
‘Except the grim Grimaldi, yes. She brought me her grim coffee, and a grim rock cake from the grim canteen.’
He felt a slight twinge of shame at his disloyalty in calling the canteen grim. The canteen and the adjoining restaurant on the eighth floor were fine. The only reason he didn’t use them was because his presence inhibited everyone else from saying anything meaningful to each other. The strength of his ears was legendary.
Talk faded, fluttered feebly, died. Sir Gordon grieved, searched for answering grief in his wife’s dark eyes, and found none.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Once again the total absence of any even minute morsels of food remaining on any of our plates or in any of the dishes would suggest that we are seriously deluded if we believe that we haven’t finished.’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
If only he had managed to see Jack.
Could Jack have died?
How would they find out if Jack had died?
He became aware that Christina had been speaking.
‘Sorry, I missed that. I was thinking,’ he said.
‘Gordon! How brave. Taking up a new activity at your age.’
He was so tired of her sarcasm – though not, curiously, of his own.
‘So, have I missed anything interesting?’
‘God, no. I just asked what you were doing tomorrow. I know my questions aren’t very imaginative but I am trying because you said you wanted me to talk. ’
‘So you’re trying new things as well. The obedient wife. Very nice.’
For a moment he thought he’d got away with it. He really didn’t want to talk about tomorrow. Two events dominated tomorrow’s agenda, and he didn’t want to talk to her about either of them. But then she repeated the question.
‘So what are you doing tomorrow?’
Tomorrow … lunching with the Earl of Flaxborough, who lives, not surprisingly, at Flaxborough Hall, which is, also not surprisingly, just outside Flaxborough, and in which ‘a proposition of some interest will be put to you’, according to the Curator of the Coppinger Collection, Peregrine Thoresby. What a feast of sarcasm about his glamorous life and his neglect of her that would inspire if he told her. And in the evening … well …!
‘Tomorrow? Nothing much. Can’t remember.’
‘Oh, come on, Gordon. You always remember. You don’t even need a diary.’
‘No, honestly, tomorrow, routine bits and bobs, that’s all. Tuesday’s never very stimulating. Oh, and I won’t be back for dinner. I have a meeting.’
‘With Mandy?’
‘Who’s the tiramisu?’
He was grateful for the interruption; he had never been so grateful to a waiter, but he didn’t show it.
‘Has it not dawned on you yet that I choose the British dishes, because I am British and proud of it, and my wife deliberately, in order to annoy me, chooses the most foreign dishes she can find on the menu?’
‘So you are the Eton Mess, sir?’
‘Oh, well deduced, Mr Einstein.’
Oh God, now those dark eyes were gleaming. In his eagerness to show the waiter how much he hated him he had revealed to Christina how deeply she had got under his skin. What a disaster, what an Eton mess.
‘You’re avoiding my question. Are you seeing the marvellous Mandy tomorrow night?’
‘I wasn’t avoiding your question. The waiter interrupted, with the genius of his ilk. I didn’t get a chance to reply.’
‘You’re avoiding it now. Are you seeing Mandy?’
‘What is this obsession with Mandy?’
‘That’s what I ask myself. Are you seeing her tomorrow night?’
Why was he so reluctant to lie? Was he losing his nerve? Did he think she would be able to tell that he was lying?
‘No, I am not seeing Mandy tomorrow night. I’m seeing two Croatian businessmen. Croatia’s an up-and-coming country. I need to get in there.’
After that, they ate their delicious desserts in silence.
Suddenly the door burst open and a woman in her early thirties, wearing a witch’s hat and a very short dress, lurched into the room, saw them, and shrieked with laughter.
‘Oops, sorry, I thought it was the Ladies,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Sir Gordon unnecessarily.
‘Oh gawd, I’m bursting,’ said the drunk young woman.
‘Too much information,’ said Sir Gordon.
‘Do you know where the Ladies is?’ the drunk young woman asked Christina.
‘I have no idea,’ said Christina frostily.
‘Blimey, you’re on your pud and you haven’t been yet. You must have a strong bladder. I’ve got a very weak bladder. I go all the time. Pee, pee, pee, that’s me.’
Oh, Christina, your face. Your fury. Your scorn. The lower orders, how common, how vulgar. Your denial of your birth, your childhood, your mum and dad, your moments of glory as Miss Lemon Drizzle. Oh, Christina.
He conveniently forgot, in his scorn of her scorn, that he also despised the lower orders. But, curiously, this evening he did not despise this intruder. Oh, silly drunk young woman in your witch’s hat, he thought, I will help you find the Ladies.
And he did. Without difficulty. With charm.
And that disturbed him. Maybe he had only done