Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“Lost any masts recently, Fanny? Gone drifting in the night again, have you?”

“Not since we left you, Sandman.”

I rowed past him, watched all the way by his knowing and cun-ning gaze. But I was thinking of other things, of a girl with a strong face and a name just like the ballet. My boat was in the water, and I was ready for love.

Over two hundred people arrived for the party. Cars blocked the driveway and two helicopters drooped their rotors on the upper lawn. It stayed blessedly fine so drinks were served on the wide terrace that looked down on the river. A rock band played loudly enough to inflict a physical punch on the belly with their sound waves. Chefs carved at joints of beef and ham, the bar was frantic, and the party an evident success from its very beginning. A lot of the faces were famous: actresses, actors, television people, politicians—all enjoying being recognised. Behind the band was a giant chart of the North Atlantic on which a notional route for Wildtrack ’s assault on the St Pierre was marked. Matthew’s film crew had lit the podium ready for Bannister’s announcement. Wildtrack herself was dressed overall with flags and coloured lights, and guests were invited to cross a rickety gangplank to inspect the boat.

Melissa, in a dress of silk that swirled and floated like gossamer, glimpsed me across the terrace. She greeted me with an affectionate kiss. “Tony wants me to look at his ghastly boat, but I told him I suffered quite enough of boats when I was married to you. How are you?” She did not wait for an answer. “We’re staying in some frightfully twee hotel up on the moor. A hundred and fifty pounds a night, and with spiders in the bath. Can you believe it? Did you know I was coming?”

“Yes. It’s nice to see you. Are you with the Honourable John?”

“Of course I am. He’s found a socialist MP so they’re agreeing on just how ghastly the miners are. Is that your boat?” She peered down at Sycorax , which huddled a hundred yards away against my wharf.

“It looks very dinky. Where are its thingummybobs?”

“Masts?”

“Don’t tell me, I’d only be bored.” She stepped back and looked me up and down. “Haven’t you got anything better to wear?” I was dressed in flannel trousers, a washed but un-ironed white shirt, and was using an Old Etonian tie as a belt. I was wearing my only pair of proper shoes, valuable brogues, and thought I looked fine. “I think I look fine.”

“A trifle louche, darling.”

“I don’t have any money for clothes. I’m paying it all in child support.”

“You’d better go on paying it, Nicholas. I told my lawyer you were planning to sail round the world and he says we might have to nail a writ to your mast. Are you going to do a scarper?”

“Not immediately.”

“You’d better get the mast ready, anyway. And that reminds me, your cheque hasn’t arrived for the children’s summer outfits.”

“I can’t think why. It was sent by native runner.”

“It had better arrive soon. Oh, look! Isn’t that the bishop who wants us all to be bigamists? It’s going to be such a lovely party. Just like old times. Doesn’t it seem odd to be back in the house? I keep expecting your father to pinch my bum. Would you be a treasure and get me some more champagne?”

I was dutifully a treasure. There was no sign of Jill-Beth Kirov coming, and every time I glanced down at the anchorage I saw her dinghy still moored to Mystique ’s transom. I saw the Honourable John deep in conversation with a bearded MP who seemed to be nodding fervent agreement. Anthony Bannister was having an animated conversation with a young and pretty actress whom I recognized but could not name. As Melissa had said, it was just like one of my father’s old parties; nothing had changed, and I felt just as out of place as ever. I knew very few of the guests and liked even less of them. Matthew was present, but was tied up with his prepar-ations for filming Bannister’s announcement.

Dusk came. The last guest had evidently inspected Wildtrack , and the gangplank, which had precariously rested on two inflatable dinghies, was dismantled. A pretty girl accosted me, but when she discovered I was not in television she abandoned me for a more hopeful prey. The bishop was introduced to me, but we had nothing in common and he too drifted away. Jill-Beth Kirov had still not arrived. I saw Melissa teasing Bannister.

Angela Westmacott, seeing the familiarity with which Melissa treated her man, waylaid me. “Do you mind your ex-wife being here?”

“I’ve been pleasurably feeding her champagne. Of course I don’t mind.”

Angela edged towards the balustrade and, out of courtesy, I followed. “I’m sorry we had to ask you to move out of the house,” she said abruptly.

“It was time I moved out.” I wondered why Angela had suddenly become so solicitous of my comfort. Her long hair was twisted into a pretty coil at the back of her narrow skull and she was wearing a simple white dress that made her look very young and vulnerable.

I supposed that such a simple white dress probably cost more than Sycorax ’s mainsail.

She looked at her diamond-studded watch. “Tony’s going to make his announcement in forty-five minutes.”

“I hope it goes well,” I said politely.

Angela looked at me coldly. “I should have spoken to you before, Nick, but things have been very busy. Tony will make the announcement, then introduce Fanny. I’d like you to be next. You won’t have to say anything.”

“Me?” I glanced towards the dark shape of Mystique and saw that Jill-Beth’s dinghy was no longer there, which meant she must have left her yacht, but I could see no sign of her on the terrace.

“Tony will introduce you after Fanny,” Angela explained pedantically.

I looked back to her. “Why?”

She sighed. “Please don’t be difficult, Nick. I just want to have on film the moment when you’re named as Wildtrack ’s navigator.” She saw I was about to protest, and hurried on. “I know we should have talked earlier. I know! That was my fault. But please, tonight, just do as I ask.”

“But I’m not going to navigate.”

She kept her patience. Perhaps, as she claimed, she had overlooked the small matter of my agreement, but I suspected she had preferred to try and bounce me into Bannister’s crew. By catching me in company and presenting me with a fait accompli she gambled on my spontaneous acceptance. She clearly feared my refusal, for she fed me a passionate argument about the advantages of ending the film in the way she wanted; how it would knit the two programmes together, and how it would offer me a double appearance fee as well as the fame of being on a winning team. She then painted an heroic picture of Nick Sandman, victorious navigator, encouraging the handicapped by his achievement.

I shook my head. “But I’d be about as much use to Bannister as a pregnant pole-vaulter.”

That checked her. She frowned. “I don’t understand?”

“I told you before; I’m not a tactician navigator, and that’s what you need. You need someone who’ll hunt down every breath of wind and trace of current. You need a ruthless taskmaster. I hate that sort of sailing. My idea of sailing is to bung the boat in front of a convenient wind and open a beer.”

“But you’re a brilliant navigator,” she said in protest. “Everyone says so.”

“I can generally find the right continent,” I agreed, “but I’m not a racing tactician. That’s what Bannister needs. For me to be in his crew just wouldn’t be honest, or fair.”

“Honest?” She bridled at that word.

“I really hate making yachts go fast for no other reason than to win races. So it would be excessively dishonest of me to pretend that I cared about the St Pierre. I don’t. And I fear I don’t really care about your audience ratings, either.”