‘I work at that too.’
They moved aside to make way for another group of guests arriving. ‘Shall we go in?’ she said. Bannerman nodded, taking her arm and leading her down the steps into the room. Immediately the sensation of being observers dissolved and gave way to the discomfort of being part of the crowd, the voices that rose and fell in half a dozen different languages, socially consolidating the uneasy political alliances. There were too many people who laughed too easily to be truly at ease. White-jacketed waiters moved among the dinner jackets and lounge suits and daring dresses, offering smoked salmon and whisky from silver platters. The manufactured bonhomie hung sourly in the air like the cigar smoke. Bannerman would have preferred to have remained in the hall.
‘Drink?’ She nodded and he lifted two glasses from a passing platter. ‘So this is how they live in the Euroghettos,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘Bonne Santé.’
She eyed him curiously over her glass. ‘You disapprove?’
‘How observant.’
‘You are a very facetious man, Mr. Bannerman.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ He bowed slightly. ‘What business is it Slater has here?’ He noticed the slightly glazed expression that crossed her face as she turned away to look across the room at nothing in particular.
‘I hate these affairs,’ she said. ‘They are so tedious. Politicians. I have no interest in politics. There is a certain lack of dignity about it all. Men hungry for power like children fighting for pennies thrown at a wedding.’ She turned again to face him, sipping her whisky, the faintest trace of a mocking smile in her eyes. ‘Did you say something, Mr. Bannerman?’
Bannerman shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I did.’ He paused to take a slug of whisky and then draw on his cigar. ‘You speak very good, clear English.’
‘I was educated in England, and latterly in Switzerland.’ She sighed and finished her drink and stared past Bannerman at the faces. He suddenly became aware of the closeness of her body, the light touch of her breast grazing his arm, the smell of perfume and her femininity. ‘I hope you shall not be so boring when we make love.’ Her voice was faintly husky, and still she was looking past him.
He grinned a little grin into his glass and then turned his face towards hers. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with you if you paid me,’ he said and drained his glass. ‘Another drink?’
Her gaze remained cool and steady. ‘I ought to slap your face.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. I have a habit of hitting back.’
‘Bannerman, isn’t it? Neil Bannerman?’ The voice destroyed the concentration of the fencing. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ Bannerman turned to see a small, rotund figure in a dinner suit that was too big for him, hired off the peg. The man was in his late fifties, bald with little tufts of dirty grey hair still clinging round the edges of his head, oiled down but curling slightly at the ends. His fat, unlined face smiled amiably, a faintly familiar smile, below bushy eyebrows. A soiled red handkerchief clutched in short stubby fingers mopped at his forehead and under his chins. His free hand was extended. ‘You remember me, don’t you? Platt. Richard Platt. We worked together on the Weekly Echo. Long time ago now.’
Bannerman experienced a moment of confusion and he heard Marie-Ange tut impatiently beside him. Of course, he remembered Platt, but there was a certain unwillingness to acknowledge it. It was not a time about which he cared to remember. ‘Yes,’ he said and shook the damp hand.
‘Of course, of course,’ Platt said. ‘I knew you’d remember. It must be, what, fifteen years. More. What a coincidence meeting you here in Brussels.’
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ Bannerman said without enthusiasm.
‘I’ve been following your career with great interest. Made quite a name for yourself.’ He paused and beamed at Marie-Ange who glanced at him with distaste and said to Bannerman.
‘I would like another drink.’
‘Oh, allow me,’ Platt broke in and he called a waiter and lifted three glasses. ‘I’m not, am I...? I mean, interrupting anything?’
‘Yes,’ Marie-Ange said.
Bannerman shook his head. ‘No.’
Platt shuffled uncomfortably, his smile becoming forced. ‘I... I’ve been in Belgium nearly ten years now. The evening paper here in Brussels. La Belge Soir. Perhaps we could meet sometime, for a drink. Talk about old times. Next week if you’ll still be here.’ He searched agitatedly through his pockets before producing a grubby business card. ‘You can get me at the office most days. And I’m home most evenings after about ten.’ He grinned. ‘Pubs here are open all hours, but old habits die hard.’ Bannerman took the card and slipped it in his pocket without looking at it. Platt bowed and backed off hesitantly.
‘I’ll call you,’ Bannerman said, knowing that he would not and wondering what a man like Platt was doing at a gathering like this. Platt smiled uncertainly at Marie-Ange and vanished among the dinner jackets.
Marie-Ange said, ‘What an unpleasant little man. I could almost smell him.’
If Bannerman had heard her he gave no indication of it. He was thinking about Platt and how little he seemed to have changed in all the years. The same drinker’s face and nicotine-stained fingers. The nervous tick over the right cheekbone, the bad teeth. His discomfort in the dinner suit had been plain. He would have been more at home, more familiar, in his shabby brown raincoat and felt hat. Still, all that had been a long time ago. He remembered Marie-Ange and felt a sudden surge of annoyance. He turned to her. ‘Do you never tire of playing the rich bitch?’ He brushed past her before she could reply, and pushed through the close bodies, scanning the room for Slater. He would leave and take a taxi back into the city. Find a quiet café someplace and have enough whiskies to take him painlessly into tomorrow. He, too, was out of place in this fish bowl.
Slater was seated at the far side of the room in close conversation with a man whose back was turned to Bannerman. A frown of annoyance crossed Slater’s face as he saw Bannerman approaching, and the other man turned round, running a tanned hand through his thick, dark hair. Slater stood, barely able to conceal his irritation at Bannerman’s intrusion. ‘I’m leaving’, Bannerman said. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’ The other man stood and turned to face Bannerman.
‘Neil Bannerman, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I thought I recognised you. You were at the Council of Ministers yesterday.’
‘This is Robert Gryffe, Under Secretary of State at the Foreign Office.’ Slater made the introduction grudgingly.
‘Yes, I know.’ Bannerman shook Gryffe’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Minister. I’m flattered that you should have recognised me.’
‘Ah,’ Gryffe smiled, a smile full of hollow confidence. ‘You have a certain reputation, Mr. Bannerman.’
‘So I’m told.’ Bannerman sensed the tension between the two men. In Slater it was obvious. In Gryffe it was more subtle. Gryffe was used to changing masks, as all good politicians are. The easy smile, the strong handshake. A salesman of false sincerity. But Bannerman was attuned to reading the signs, peeling back the masks. He was good at it, as he had to be, as all good newspaper men had to be. It is one reason why newspaper men are so cynical. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ he asked, using Platt’s line, but to greater effect.
‘Not at all,’ Gryffe said. ‘Mr. Slater and I were just chatting. Anyway, it’s time I did some mixing.’ He beamed at Slater whose agitation shone patently through his clumsy attempts to conceal it.
‘Nine thirty,’ Slater said pointedly, indiscreetly. And for a second Gryffe’s mask slipped and his face clouded.