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you. I … um … I have no wish to be in any way offensive, and I … I have no idea of how one is supposed to address a Greek Orthodox priest.’

      ‘A Greek Orthodox archbishop.’

      ‘Oh my goodness. Then perhaps I ought to call you “Your Beatitude”.’

      ‘That will do splendidly.’

      ‘Good. I have to ask you, Your Beatitude, who invited you?’

      ‘You did.’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘Well, not personally, but the invitation was from you.’

      ‘You received an invitation?’

      ‘I received an invitation and both as a Greek citizen and as a senior representative of Our Lord here on earth I find your attitude to me somewhat offensive.’

      ‘I have to say that I am not thrilled by your attitude, Your Beatitude.’

      ‘I will show you the invitation but I do so under protest.’

      ‘There’s really no need. I accept your word.’

      ‘I insist.’

      ‘Very well.’

      The invitation looked exactly like the design that Siobhan and he had devised, and the words too were as they had agreed. If it was a forgery, it was a good one. He would need to phone Siobhan.

      But could he? The image returned, Ryan’s breathing now faint, Liam holding Siobhan’s hand, a doctor and two nurses staring at the graph of the wee mite’s heart; it was terrible, compassion flooded into Sir Gordon, and he had no defence against it, having hardly felt any for as long as he could remember.

      He took his mind off it by wondering what it would be like to have sex with a nun, in her cell, right next to the Mother Superior’s. It didn’t work very well.

      And then he realized that he had the perfect antidote to compassion right there standing in front of the east fire. His daughter Joanna.

      It was the sagging of the shoulders that did it, he decided. The whole body might look better if she stood up straight. Even the clothes, which looked as if they’d been bought in a charity shop the day it closed down, might look better if she stood up straight. And the hair. He’d a good mind to send her a voucher for six free visits to Hair Hunters of Hackney.

      Oh, Joanna, the day you were born … our hopes.

      ‘So, darling, how are you?’

      ‘Oh, you know, Dad. So-so.’

      Never ill. Never well.

      ‘Well, it’s the time of year.’

      Gordon, you can do better than that.

      ‘Yes, I hate this time of year.’

      You hate every time of year. Too hot. Too cold. Too wet. Too dry. Too average.

      ‘Looking forward to Christmas?’

      Oh, come on, Gordon, sparkle. It’s Guy Fawkes Night.

      ‘Not really, Dad. I don’t much like Christmas actually.’

      Not even positive enough to hate it.

      ‘And it all starts ridiculously early these days.’

      I entirely agree, in fact I’d go further, it’s ludicrous, it’s greedy, it’s self-destructive, but can’t we try to be positive tonight? It is a party. Abandon Christmas. Change the subject.

      ‘How’s the job?’

      ‘Oh, you know.’

      ‘Well, you could have worked for me.’

      ‘Oh, Dad, don’t. You know I don’t want favours. You know I want to make my own way in the world.’

      But you haven’t.

      ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I haven’t made much of a way, but it’s my way.’

      And you can’t sing like Frank Sinatra either.

      Suddenly, the banging of a gong broke through the rising chatter. More bangs, cries of ‘Shh’, and silence fell in the great triple-glazed, triple-gabled house specially designed for a soap magnate who needed two swimming pools and so amusingly called his mansion a cottage, ha, ha.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ intoned Farringdon. ‘Your host, Sir Gordon Coppinger, wishes to say a few words. If you would make your way, as many of you as can squeeze in, to the drawing room.’

      Sir Gordon hurried through to get to the front while he still could. Farringdon passed the microphone over to him. He tried not to look at the throng. He didn’t want to see the sheikh, the nun or the archbishop. They sounded like a bad joke, but in fact their presence alarmed him. He didn’t want to see his frightened dad, his listless daughter, his inept son, his insincere wife. He wanted to forget his unhappy life. What?? Unhappy?? No!!

      He’d paused too long. He must begin. But to have had these thoughts at this very moment … how could he cope?

      Of course he could cope. He was a great man, wasn’t he?

      Wasn’t he?

      He coped.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen …’ he began. ‘Ladies and gentlemen … I’m not going to make a speech. Too many people make too many speeches. I’m going to say just a few words. As you may know, my brother Hugo and I host a Guy Fawkes party in alternate years, and this year it’s my turn, so … welcome. Welcome, each and every one of you. Guy Fawkes Night. We celebrate a failure. How very British. Well, I don’t much like failure. In fact, I think I can say that I’m a stranger to it. So, my simple message is this. Don’t talk Britain down. Don’t even contemplate failure. Cut the word “crisis” from your vocabulary. Let’s start tonight. Let’s make this night a huge success. Ladies and gentlemen, you will find tables laden with food in the dining room, in both the conservatories, and in the far kitchen. Don’t rush, there’s plenty for everybody. Enjoy.’

      The minute he had finished speaking he felt as if his words had been utterly hollow. He stood there in his crowded home, and felt utterly alone.

      People began to queue for food. Many rushed. Others didn’t rush because they were genuinely too polite. Some didn’t rush because they didn’t want to be seen to rush. A few didn’t rush because they were cool. Luke didn’t rush because he had to be seen to be cool. Christina didn’t rush because she was the hostess. Joanna didn’t rush because she didn’t much like food. His dad didn’t rush because the nun had abandoned him and he was utterly confused.

      Sir Gordon walked up the side staircase, unseen, upstaged by hunger. His purpose was to telephone Siobhan from the phone in the master bedroom. He had to know whether she had invited the sheikh, the archbishop and the nun. If she hadn’t, why were they there? Was there a plot to kill him? On Guy Fawkes Night? He wasn’t a wimp, but he was frightened. Of course he was frightened. Very few people want to die.

      And yet … didn’t he court danger? Didn’t he need it to spice up his unvarying diet of success? Yes, but danger was one thing, death another. He wasn’t ready to die.

      Danger. He longed for a sudden little bit of it. Perhaps he was a danger addict, not a sex addict. Perhaps he was a danger addict and a sex addict.

      And here was the perfect way of having danger and sex.

      He would make love to the nun in the bed he shared with his wife in the middle of his Bonfire Night party.

      Gordon, this is madness. You are not a rapist. You are not an evil man. How will you persuade a nun into your bed?

      With your famous charm.

      But, Gordon, you are beginning to wonder about your charm.

      It

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