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too. Dinner with my wife.’

      ‘Ah! The domestic bliss that has escaped me. Or have I escaped it?’

      Sir Gordon ordered a bottle of Margaux that was almost as old as the waiter and cost £210.

      ‘Wait!’ commanded Hugo as the waiter started to move off. He lowered his voice, even though every word was clearly audible to the waiter. ‘Do you really want to spend that much?’ He lowered his voice even more, but was still audible. ‘The food isn’t going to be worth it. And you don’t need to impress me.’

      ‘I hope you aren’t hinting that I can’t afford it?’ said Sir Gordon.

      ‘Of course not, Gordon. It’s just … not necessary.’

      ‘It is to me. I like fine wine.’

      ‘Well, all right, then. Good. I’ll enjoy it. Thank you.’

      The waiter returned surprisingly quickly, opened the bottle with exaggerated reverence, and poured a small amount into Hugo’s glass with ill-concealed hostility. Hugo handed the glass to Sir Gordon without comment. Sir Gordon rolled the wine round the glass, sniffed it, and nodded. He couldn’t help feeling, in Hugo’s presence, that he didn’t quite know what he was nodding at, that he wouldn’t even know if it was corked.

      When the waiter had gone they clinked glasses in their usual manner.

      ‘To “Our Escape from Dudley”,’ said Hugo.

      ‘“Our Escape from Dudley”,’ echoed Sir Gordon.

      ‘I haven’t said this before,’ said Hugo, ‘but, you know, it’s a bit of a miracle, you and I, from a secondary modern in Dudley, both so eminent in our different fields. I should think ninety per cent of the people I deal with in my work went to public school, and half of them to Eton. We owe a lot to our parents.’

      ‘Well, of course. I hope I always acknowledge that.’

      ‘Stop looking for evil subtexts in what I’m saying, Gordon.’

      ‘Sorry. Bad habit.’

      ‘No, but there they were, two good people, intelligent people, but … not special. Here we are – let’s not beat about the bush – thoroughly special.’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘Dad was clever. Mum wasn’t clever exactly, but she had common sense in spades, and she had spunk. The last thing I want to do is be rude to Dad but he did lack spunk. But the combination of brains and spunk, in you and me, it just gelled. It’s not perfect, I could definitely do with a bit more spunk and you could probably do with a bit more brains, but it isn’t bad. Is it?’

      ‘I never said it was.’

      ‘You’re looking for subtexts again.’

      The wine was delicious and as they sipped and chatted Sir Gordon almost forgot his concern over whether there was a secret agenda for the meeting. He couldn’t recall quite such a relaxed conversation with his brother as the reminiscences of old Dudley flowed. But all good things come to an end, and eventually their food arrived.

      They ate for a few minutes in silent disbelief. Eventually Hugo plucked up the courage to speak.

      ‘How’s your veal?’

      ‘It tastes like face flannel that has been marinated in Montenegrin traffic warden’s phlegm.’

      ‘So A.A. Gill was right.’

      They both left half their food, and the waiter took their plates away with no comment and no surprise. They scorned the pleasure of looking at the dessert menu, and shuddered at the thought of coffee.

      ‘We’ll just enjoy the rest of the wine.’

      ‘Very good, gentlemen.’

      ‘Yes, it is,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘Pity nothing else was.’

      His brother raised his eyebrows in surprise. The waiter made no comment and showed no reaction.

      Hugo leant forward and dread entered Sir Gordon’s heart.

      ‘I suggested lunch for a reason, Gordon. I keep my ear to the ground. I’m picking up … rumours. Only rumours. And please don’t believe that I believe them. There’s usually no smoke without a fire, but no cliché is true all the time. Rumours about Gordon Investments. Rumours that … all is not well.’

      ‘When you say “all is not well” do you mean … we’re running into financial trouble?’

      ‘Not exactly. Gordon, you can talk to me. We’re family. I’m here for you. We haven’t always been close, not as close as we should, we haven’t always got on as well as we should, but … damn it, man, I’m not good at being affectionate …’ He paused, then lowered his voice still further, though now they were the only two people in the room. The other customers had left and the waiter was probably having forty winks after his exertions. ‘People are suggesting – hinting – that the set-up of Gordon Investments is not altogether straight.’

      ‘Not honest?’

      ‘Yes. So people are saying.’

      ‘And what do you think?’

      ‘Gordon, I’ve studied the figures, and … I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they don’t add up. The returns you’re giving people are … possible but perhaps not probable. Either you and your team are very good … very very good, or … well, I don’t need to spell it out, I don’t actually think I could spell it out. So really, I’m asking you, Gordon, I suppose, for reassurance.’

      Suddenly Sir Gordon knew how desperately lonely he was. His mother was dead. His father was lost in the mists of senility. Circumstance prevented his getting any filial feeling from his son. His daughter was cowed by life. And his wife – oh, how he dreaded this evening – his wife would be merciless if the truth emerged. It was a moment of revelation that dwarfed everything else that had happened on this difficult day. It even seemed to explain to him the nature and cause of his disturbing awakening that morning … was it really only eight and a half hours ago? It had been psychic, a portent. Suddenly he longed to be close to his dear elder brother whom he had never really appreciated. Suddenly he longed to confess. Suddenly he realized just how heavy his burden had become, that burden that he had never even acknowledged to himself, that burden that had grown and grown while he had slept his guiltless sleeps.

      Hugo, help me. Hugo, I’ve been the most frightful fool. Hugo, you do love me, don’t you?

      There were so many sentences that he found impossible to utter.

      ‘Hugo, I’m telling you, I’m telling you honestly …’

      The waiter, skilled at interruption like so many of his kind, came over with their bill, showing a surprising turn of speed.

      Sir Gordon entered his card details.

      ‘If I add a tip, does it get to you?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh yes, sir.’

      ‘Good. Good. The question was purely hypothetical, of course.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

      ‘You will be. I’m not giving you a tip. You don’t deserve it.’

      ‘We closing in two minutes, sir.’

      ‘Excellent news. The outside world is so much more appealing.’

      Sir Gordon noticed that Hugo had noticed that he had abandoned his habitual charm. He really must abandon it more. The gratification you could feel from being rude was brief, briefer even than the gratification of sex, but it was enjoyable both in anticipation and reflection. And he did particularly dislike waiters. He would smile at the memory of his remark as he ascended towards his office that afternoon. Besides, what was the point of being powerful if you were always polite? Where was the fun? No, he had

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