William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

He strode up the platform, heading for the exit, feeling stronger, more emboldened, as he always did after a Phyllis-session. Stop whingeing, man, he said to himself, let Keegan and Rilke run the show, do the leg work, the lobbying, the complicated dance with the licensing authorities. Don’t make a fuss, just pick up the cheque at the end of the day.

Thinking about Keegan turned his mind to their last unsatisfactory meeting. He was pretty sure he knew, broadly, what had happened when Philip Wang went to see Keegan that afternoon. Philip must have discovered something about the Zembla-4 clinical trials that had enraged him and he had confronted Keegan about the matter, that final afternoon. Keegan had lied, not at all convincingly, and the opposite of the lie—“Philip was delighted”—contained the truth: Philip was disturbed, Philip was suspicious, Philip was furious, possibly. He thought further: Philip was about to go public? Could that be what was mooted?…And how extraordinary that he had been murdered that very evening by this Kindred fellow, this sinister climatologist…No, no, no, Ingram upbraided himself — don’t go there. It was just one of these hideous, terrifying, dark coincidences. Impossible…

Still, he didn’t yet know what Philip had discovered, what had made him confront Keegan. That was the key issue. Perhaps he might call Keegan in again and bluff it out, make it seem as if he knew what Wang had come up with, what had disturbed him. He thought further: Keegan had taken that meeting, therefore it was one hundred per cent sure that Alfredo Rilke knew as well what Wang had unearthed. So Keegan and Alfredo knew what had gone wrong with Zembla-4, what had so troubled Philip Wang…He shook his head as if a bothersome fly were buzzing around him. But it couldn’t be that serious because Alfredo himself had authorised the submission process. No, just a terrible, terrible tragedy.

Luigi was waiting for him in Eccleston Square, walking around the car with a chamois rag removing the odd smear of city grease or dusty water-spot from the Bentley’s gleaming body-work. Ingram slid into the back and Luigi paused before closing the door on him.

“You have one call from your son, signore. He is going to be a few minutes late.”

♦

“What about some pudding, Forty? — Nate?” he added quickly. Ingram offered the menu for him to see.

“I’d better be going, Dad, we’ve a job at—”

“Some coffee, then. You’ve only been here half an hour.”

“All right.”

Ingram signalled over a waiter and they gave their orders, Ingram sensing Fortunatus’s discomfort coming off him like a force-field. He had given the choice of restaurant a lot of thought — nothing too grand, expensive or formal — but still something of a treat. This was their first lunch together since…He couldn’t think when. Since Forty was at school? Surely not? Anyway, he had decided it was to be the inauguration of a regular series: he and his son were going to see a lot more of each other.

This restaurant was famous: customers, ordinary common folk, had to book six months in advance and yet — on his previous visits — Ingram had noticed many young people, extremely casually dressed, not to say scruffy, some of them reputedly with famous names. Even today, at lunchtime, he could spot the TV presenter, the knighted ballet dancer, the flamboyant actress with her irritating laugh. Ingram quietly pointed them out but Forty knew none of them. And the restaurant, despite its fashionably elite renown, still provided the consolations and comforts of solid tradition. Its multicoloured stained-glass windows would have been familiar to theatrical stars of the 19308. Its napery was thick and impeccably starched, its silverware heavy and un-modish in design, its menu a comforting blend of English nursery food and the latest fusion cuisine. Yet for all this, Forty was so ill at ease that Ingram could feel his own shoulder muscles beginning to contract and spasm in sympathy.

“Look, isn’t that the chap from that TV quiz show?”

“We don’t have a television, Dad.”

“How is Ronaldinho?”

“Rodinaldo.”

“Of course.”

He looked at his unshaven, bald son, hot in his heavy combat jacket, his fingernails black with leaf mulch or compost and he felt a sob well up in his throat. He wanted to reach out and hug him, he wanted to bathe him, make him clean and pink and dry him in thick white towels.

“Forty — Nate — I’d like you to call me Ingram. Do you think you could?”

“I can’t do that, Dad, sorry.”

“Could you try?”

“It won’t work, Dad. I just can’t.”

“I respect that. No, no, I do.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee. Ingram had to accept this though he had thought that if they moved on to first-name terms there would be a concomitant loosening, a chance for a real friendship developing, without the tired old father — son relationship intervening.

“How’s business? You know I want to invest.”

“We’re fine. We’ve more work than we can handle.”

“Then take on more people. Expand. I can be useful with all this stuff, Forty. Capitalisation, new plant—”

“We don’t want to expand, don’t you understand that?”

Something about the jut of Forty’s jaw and the stubborn way he looked at him in the eye stirred Ingram in ways he had forgotten he could be stirred. He felt his throat thicken with pure emotion and he said softly to his youngest son, “I love you, Forty. I want to spend more time with you. Let’s meet every week or so, get to know each other properly.”

“Dad, please don’t cry. People are looking.”

Ingram touched his cheek with a knuckle and found it wet. What was happening to him? He must be having some kind of nervous break—

“Hey. Family! Who let you riff-raff in?”

Ingram looked up to see Ivo Redcastle standing there, looming over the table. Ivo was wearing a snakeskin jacket and tight jeans, sunglasses were pushed up into his dense blue-black hair.

“You all right, mate?” Ivo said, peering at Ingram.

“Bit of a coughing fit.”

“Forty, good to see you, man. Flat.” Ivo tried to give Forty a soul handshake, but Forty didn’t know what to do. Ivo settled for a high-five.

“Hello, Uncle Ivo. I’ve got to go, Dad. Thanks for lunch, bye.”

And he was gone that quickly, almost running out of the restaurant, and Ingram could have happily eviscerated Ivo for denying him his farewell embrace. He stood up, face set, left three fifty-pound notes on the table and walked to the door, Ivo striding beside him.

“Where were you?” Ingram said. “Didn’t see you when we came in.”

“Down the far end with the grockles,” Ivo said. “More discreet.” He glanced again at Ingram. “If I didn’t know you better, you heartless bastard, I’d say you’d been crying.”

“It’s an allergy thing. Can I drop you somewhere?”

They stepped outside the restaurant: the usual small gaggle of paparazzi were unimpressed.

“No thanks,” Ivo said. “I’ve got a meeting in Soho. Film producer.”

“How did the T — shirts go?”

“Well…Funny you should ask, but things are looking up. I just had a really interesting phone call.”

“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date, Ivo.”

“What?”

“Time marches on.”

“Actually,” Ivo began, and Ingram recognised the change in tone — his wheedling, begging voice—“I might possibly need to speak to you about that. Bit of a cash-flow problem. If this bloke doesn’t come through. Which he will, I’m sure.”

There was the buzzing sound of a scooter starting up and its insect-noise increased as it sped up to the restaurant, slowing almost to a halt as it drew opposite them.