So that by the time everyone was assembled in the drawing room for Dom, Jed and Roper glowing and relaxed, Jonathan was the very model of a modern young executive.
"What do we think of him, loves?" Corkoran demanded with a creator's pride.
"Bloody good," said Roper, not much caring.
"Super," said Jed.
After Dom, they went to Enzo's restaurant on Paradise Island, which was where Jed ordered lobster salad.
* * *
And that was all it was. One lobster salad. Jed had her arm round Roper's neck while she ordered it. And kept her arm there while Roper passed her order to the proprietor. They were side by side because it was their last night together, and as everybody knew, they were these terrific lovers.
"Darlings," said Corkoran, raising his wine to them. "Perfect pairing. So incredibly beautiful. Let no man put asunder."
And he swallowed a glassful at a gulp, while the proprietor, who was Italian and mortified, regretted there was no more lobster salad.
"Veal, Jeds?" Roper suggested. "Penned good. Polio? Have a polio. No, you won't. Full of garlic. Put you out of bounds. Fish. Bring her a fish. Like a fish, Jeds? Sole? What fish you got?"
"Any fish," said Corkoran, "should appreciate the sacrifice."
Jed had fish instead of lobster.
Jonathan also had fish and pronounced it sublime. Jed said hers was gorgeous. So did the MacDanbies, commandeered at no notice to make up Roper's kind of numbers.
"Doesn't look gorgeous to me," said Corkoran.
"Oh, but Corks, it's far better than lobster. My absolute favourite."
"Lobster on the menu, whole island stiff with lobster, why the hell haven't they got it?" Corkoran insisted.
"They just goofed, Corks. We can't all be geniuses like you."
Roper was preoccupied. Not in a hostile way. He just had things on his mind, and his hand in Jed's lap. But Daniel, soon to go back to England, chose to challenge his father's detachment.
"Roper's got the black monkey on his back," he announced to an unfortunate silence. "He's got this mega-megadeal coming off. It's going to put him beyond reach."
"Dans, put a sock in it," said Jed smartly.
"What's brown and sticky?" Daniel asked. No one knew.
"A stick." he said.
"Dans, old chap, shut up," said Roper.
But Corkoran was their destiny that night, and Corkoran had launched himself on a story about this investment consultant chum of his called Short-war Wilkins, who at the outbreak of the Iran-Iraq thing had advised his clients that it would all be over in six weeks.
"What happened to him?" Daniel demanded.
"Gentleman of leisure, I'm afraid. Dan. Pooped, most of the time. Bums money from his chums. Bit like me in a couple of years' time. Remember me, Thomas, when you drive by in your Roller and chance to see a familiar face sweeping out the gutters. Toss us a sovereign, for old times' sake, will you. heart? Good health, Thomas. Long life, sir. May all your lives be long. Cheers."
"And to you too. Corky," said Jonathan.
A MacDanby tried to tell his story about something or other, but Daniel again interrupted: "How do you save the world?"
"You tell me, old heart," said Corkoran. "Dying to know."
"Kill mankind."
"Dans, shut up." said Jed. "You're being horrid."
"I only said kill mankind! That's a joke! Can't you even understand a joke?" Raising both arms, he fired an imaginary machine gun at everybody round the table. "Bah-bah-bah-bah-bah! There! Now the world's safe. No one in it."
"Thomas, take Dans for a walk," Roper ordered down the table. "Bring him back when he's sorted out his manners."
But while Roper was saying this ― without too much conviction, since Daniel on this evening of departure was deserving of indulgence ― a lobster salad went by. Corkoran saw it. And Corkoran grabbed the wrist of the black waiter who was carrying it and wrenched him to his side.
"Hey, man" the startled waiter cried, then grinned sheepishly round the room in the hope that he was part of some weird happening.
The proprietor was hastening across the room. Frisky and Tabby, seated at the gunmen's table in the corner, had risen to their feet, unbuttoning their blazers. Everybody froze.
Corkoran was standing. And Corkoran with unexpected power was bearing down on the waiter's arm and making the poor man twist against his inclination so that the tray tipped alarmingly. Corkoran's face was brick red, his chin was up and he was shouting at the proprietor.
"Do you speak English, sir?" he demanded, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. "I do. Our lady here ordered lobster, sir. You said there was no more lobster. You are a liar, sir. And you have offended our lady and her consort, sir. There was more lobster!"
"Was ordered in advance!" the proprietor protested, with more spirit than Jonathan had credited him with. "Was special order. Ten o'clock this morning. You want be sure of lobster? You order special. Let go this man!"
Nobody at the table had moved. Grand opera has its own authority. Even Roper seemed momentarily unsure whether to intervene.
"What is your name?" Corkoran asked the proprietor.
"Enzo Fabrizzi."
"Leave it out, Corks," Roper ordered, "Don't be a bore. You're being a bore."
"Corks, stop it," said Jed.
"If there is a dish our lady wants, Mr. Fabrizzi, whether it's lobster, or liver, or fish, or something very ordinary like steak, or a piece of veal ― you always give it to our lady. Because if you don't, Mr. Fabrizzi, I shall buy this restaurant. I am vastly rich, sir. And you will sweep the street, sir, while Mr. Thomas here purrs past in his Rolls-Royce."
Jonathan, resplendent in his new suit at the further end of the table, has risen to his feet and is smiling his Meister's smile.
"Time to break the party up, don't you think, Chief?" he says, awfully pleasantly, strolling to Roper's end of the table. "Everyone a bit travel weary. Mr. Fabrizzi, I don't remember when I had a better meal. All we really need now is a bill, if your people could kindly run one up."
Jed stands to go, looking nowhere. Roper lays her wrap over her shoulders. Jonathan pulls back her chair, and she smiles her distant gratitude. A MacDanby pays. There is a muffled cry as Corkoran lunges at Fabrizzi with serious intent ― but Frisky and Tabby are there to restrain him, which is fortunate because by now several of the restaurant staff are spoiling to avenge their comrade. Somehow everybody makes it to the pavement as the Rolls pulls alongside.
I'm not going anywhere, she had said vehemently, as she held Jonathan's face and stared into his solitary eyes. I've faked it before, I can fake it again. I can fake it for as long as it takes.
He'll kill you, Jonathan had said. He'll find out. He's certain to. Everybody's talking about us behind his back.
But, like Sophie, she seemed to think she was immortal.
TWENTY
Quiet autumn rain is falling in the Whitehall streets as Rex Goodhew goes to war. Quietly. In the autumn of his career. In the mature certainty of his cause. Without drama or trumpets or large statements. A quiet outing of his fighting self. A personal but also an altruistic war against what he has come inevitably to refer to as the Forces of Darker.
A war to the death, he tells his wife, without alarms. My head or theirs. A Whitehall knife fight, let's stay close. If you're sure, darling, she says. I am. His every move carefully considered. Nothing hasty, nothing too young, too furtive. He is sending clear signals to his hidden enemies in Pure Intelligence. Let them hear me, let them see me, he says. Let them tremble. Goodhew plays with open cards. More or less.