LITMIR.BIZ

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As the applause died down she hugged him, kissing his cheek and ear and mouth.

      ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That was beautiful. I love you.’

      ‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

      After the song, Mick, Claire’s dad spoke. He gave a tearful tribute to her and talked about how proud Penny, his wife and Claire’s mum, would have been of her daughter. He didn’t mention Alfie – or his song – which was par for the course. When he had finished and the guests had returned to their increasingly drunk and loud conversation about politics or sport or something else they knew nothing about, Alfie slipped out to the kitchen.

      He put on his jacket. He had a packet of Chesterfields and a book of matches and he was planning to sneak off and find a secluded spot – there was a bench in a corner of Mick’s vast back garden that would do – where he could light up and have a quiet smoke. He had a packet of mints, too; on one occasion before they got married he’d said he’d do anything for her and Claire had asked him to give up – for his sake, she said, because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear the thought of him poisoning himself, the soppy bitch – and he didn’t want her finding out he’d lied.

      He walked through the kitchen and opened the back door to the terrace. There was a footstep behind him.

      He turned around. It was Mick. He was holding a large tumbler of whisky, his face red with a combination of high blood pressure and too many drinks.

      ‘Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks for hosting. It’s a great party.’

      ‘No problem. Anything for my little girl.’ Mick nodded at the terrace. ‘Going out?’

      ‘Could do with a bit of fresh air.’

      ‘Too warm in here?’ Mick glanced at the window. The moon was visible, still low in the sky. ‘It’s dark out.’

      ‘It’s fine in here.’ Alfie smiled. ‘I was just thinking of taking a walk. But I don’t have to.’

      Mick held up a hand. ‘No. You do whatever you want. I was only asking. I did want to talk to you, though.’

      ‘Oh?’ Alfie said. Mick and he had never been close. They had probably had no more than two or three one-on-one conversations since he and Claire had met. Mick was not the kind of father who warmed to the men who were sleeping with his daughter. No doubt he had fantasies of taking Alfie shooting and accidentally unloading both barrels on him. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d had the same thoughts himself. He couldn’t stand the old bastard.

      He liked his money, though.

      And the money he’d given to Claire. There was at least a couple of million in various investments, moved into some kind of trust in her name to avoid inheritance tax. Claire didn’t like to talk about it, but Alfie knew it was there, because Mick had tried to make him sign a pre-nup.

      Well, he’d tried to make Claire make Alfie sign one. When she mentioned that her dad thought it might be a good idea, Alfie had agreed.

       If you think it’s necessary, darling. I wouldn’t want it to come between us. I trust you totally.

      She was visibly uncomfortable. I trust you too. But Dad’s insisting.

       Then you should do it. Your dad obviously doesn’t think we’re going to last, and maybe you share his opinion.

      She didn’t do it. She told Alfie a few weeks later there wouldn’t be a pre-nup, and she never mentioned it again. It was at least two months before Mick spoke to him again, and when he did Alfie loved it. Mick didn’t like losing; Alfie liked winning.

      Mick coughed. ‘I wanted to say that I was touched by your song. It’s not the kind of thing I would ever have done – or anyone I know, for that matter – and I have to say I found it a bit bloody much, but Claire liked it. And that’s all that counts.’

      It was clear the words were hard for him to say. He would have preferred to have been congratulating Alfie for scoring a hat-trick of tries or his first test century or landing a particularly hard left hook, but a romantic – soppy – song would have to do.

      ‘Thank you, Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘That means a lot.’

      ‘You probably guessed this,’ Mick said. ‘But I didn’t think much of you when I first met you. I thought you were a bit of a chancer, if I’m honest. I thought you lacked drive, and ambition, which is why I wanted the pre-nup. And maybe I should have insisted, but you make Claire happy. I’ve realized it doesn’t matter whether you’re the kind of man that I think is right for her. All that matters is whether she thinks you are. I’m glad she’s found somebody she can have the life she wants with.’

      He was, Alfie realized, quite drunk. Perhaps it was deliberate. After all, it was the only way he would ever be able to force the words he’d just said out of his mouth.

      ‘She makes me very happy too,’ Alfie said.

      ‘Good.’ Mick was clearly not interested in how Alfie felt. ‘And now you need to give her what she really wants.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘I never thought I’d say this to any man about my little girl, but it’s time to get busy! She wants a baby, and there’s no point in wasting time.’

      His little girl, Alfie thought, who liked, on occasion, to be handcuffed to their bed and blindfolded. She was an annoying bitch, but in the right mood, she was good in bed. He wondered what Mick would think if he knew. Perhaps some photos could find their way into his possession so he could see what his little girl got up to.

      ‘We’re working on it,’ Alfie said. ‘Hope to have news soon.’

      Mick’s eyes narrowed. Alfie realized he had said too much. Claire, evidently, had not mentioned they were trying.

      ‘Is everything OK?’ Mick said. ‘Are you having problems?’

      ‘No,’ Alfie said. ‘No problems. It’s early. That’s all.’

      ‘OK. Good luck.’ He reached forward and patted Alfie on the shoulder. ‘And take care of my girl.’

      ‘I will,’ Alfie said. ‘You can count on it.’

       Claire

      Claire finished her glass of champagne. She looked around the room for Alfie; after his song and her dad’s speech he’d disappeared. It had been a while – maybe twenty minutes – and she wondered where he’d gone.

      She was glad he’d gone, as it happened. She’d kissed him and whispered a Thank you, that was beautiful in his ear when he had finished singing, but in truth she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it. She veered between thinking it was a beautiful and touching gesture, and thinking it was a bit – well, a bit embarrassing. She knew he was soft and romantic and she loved that about him, but the song had been a little too soft and romantic – not to mention too public – for her.

      She sometimes wondered whether Alfie misunderstood her. She loved his kindness and generosity but she got the impression he thought she was fragile and needed to be handled with kid gloves. She wasn’t; she might have lived a life of material privilege, but she’d lost her mum as a teenager and no amount of holidays and clothes and cars could take away the hard edge that had left her with. It rarely came out in her private life, and almost never in her marriage, but Claire was known at work as a tough-minded and serious professional. Alfie never really talked to her about work. She got the impression he thought it was just something she did for fun, but it was far from it. She would explain it to him one day.

      She walked towards one of the waiters for a refill. She’d already had three – or maybe four – glasses, but more champagne was the only way she would get through the party. As she reached him, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

      She

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