The hidden man am-2 Read online

  ‘What does Alice think about it?’ Mark found himself asking. ‘What does she reckon you should do?’

  ‘We haven’t talked about it much,’ Ben replied. ‘Why? Has she said anything?’

  And suddenly Mark had a chance to force the issue. He remembered that Keen had asked an almost identical question as they were leaving the restaurant in Queensway.

  ‘What’s Alice’s view?’ his father had said. ‘Does she think Ben’s right about this? Right not to want to meet me?’

  Mark had hesitated briefly, but the wine at lunch had led him to betray a confidence.

  ‘She’s just got used to the idea. Ever since she’s known Ben she’s known about you and your situation. And if you want my honest opinion I reckon she thinks Ben’s being narrow-minded. In fact, she’s told me as much.’

  If Mark could have retracted that statement, he would have done so in an instant. Keen’s eyes had lit up.

  ‘You could use that,’ he said, and the inference was appalling.

  ‘ Use that? What do you mean?’

  ‘Tell Ben that you and Alice are in agreement. Tell him that it’s time he reconsidered. It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘… Mark?’

  Ben was trying to attract his attention.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. I wandered off.’

  ‘I asked you a question. I said, has Alice said anything about this?’

  ‘Well, maybe you should ask her.’ Mark had not intended to sound mysterious.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Does she know about this? Does she know that we’re having this conversation?’

  And at that moment Alice looked over, sensing the note-change in the tenor of her husband’s voice. Ben saw the set-up instantly.

  ‘Jesus. You’re not here by coincidence, are you?’

  Mark wasn’t sure whether Ben was touched or angry; his face was momentarily unreadable. As a consequence he did not bother to lie in response. Shaking his head and even smiling at the stupidity of Keen’s plan, Mark said, ‘I’m not here by coincidence, no.’

  And Ben was out of the pub in seconds.

  13

  Ben knew that it was not a good idea for a man of thirty-two to walkout of a crowded London pub after telling his older brother to fuckoff. Not in Kensington and Chelsea, at any rate. And not in front of half a dozen of his wife’s colleagues, most of whom would now be on their mobile phones telling anyone from the Standard not fortunate enough to have been there in person just exactly what happened in the lounge bar of the Scarsdale at 8.28 p.m.

  Mark had followed him outside, and Ben had heard Alice calling his name as he turned on to Kensington High Street, but they had both decided to let him go and were probably still waiting back in the pub. There was no sense, after all, in going after Ben when the red mist descended. They both would have known that from long experience.

  He walked in the direction of Hyde Park, turning back on himself at the gates to Kensington Palace and returning along the opposite side of the street. Alice tried calling him on his mobile phone but he switched it off. It took about ten minutes for Ben to calm down and another five for embarrassment to set in. So much of his anger, he knew, was just a pose, a melodramatized statement of his long-term refusal to change. Whatever arrangement, whatever trap had been set by Alice and Mark, angered him only because he had been kept out of the loop, treated like a child by his wife and brother, and finally cornered in a place from which there was no realistic escape. It had occurred to him many times that he was clinging to old ideas simply because they shielded him from facing harder choices; in a very dangerous sense, Ben was defined by an attitude towards his father which he had formed as a teenager. To abandon that principled stand would mean the dismantling of an entire way of thinking. How would people react to him? How would he square it with what had happened to Mum? Ben wished to honour her memory, and yet that was the easy position. Far more difficult, surely, to do what Mark had done, to let bygones be bygones and to open himself up to chance.

  He was heading back to the pub via a street at the western end of Edwardes Square when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Ben?’

  He turned and saw that Mark was following him. He looked shattered. With the club opening in Moscow, he was probably only sleeping five hours a night and this was the last thing he needed.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Don’t blame Alice. I asked her to help me out and she was just being loyal.’

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. We just…’ Mark stalled on the words. He had obviously rehearsed something and was determined to get it right. ‘All I was trying to say was this. More and more I’ve been thinking about the future, you know? Where are we gonna be ten years down the line? You and Alice have kids, Dad’s their grandfather, but because of all this shit that’s thirty years in the past his name can’t be mentioned at the dinner table. Mean while he and I are getting on better than ever, but we’re still having to creep around behind your back. How long’s it gonna last?’

  ‘So you want me to meet him just so that you can have a better time of it when you’re fifty-five?’

  Ben regretted saying that, but for the sake of fraternal pride did not want to concede too early.

  ‘I’m just saying that you should think about giving him a chance. Not tonight. Tonight is fucked into a hat. But soon, Ben, soon. Otherwise he’s just going to be this barrier between us, a bridge we can’t cross.’

  Ben smirked and looked up at the night sky.

  ‘I knew this was going to happen,’ he said. ‘Something like tonight.’

  ‘It was inevitable,’ Mark said.

  ‘Yes it was. And you know why? Because he’s talked you into it. You’re too soft on him, brother. You always want to do what’s right so that no one gets upset. Well, I’m upset. I got very upset in there. I embarrassed myself, I embarrassed you and I embarrassed my wife in front of everybody she works for. How does that feel?’

  Mark did not respond. It looked as if he wanted to, but was holding back for fear of making things worse.

  ‘You want my truthful opinion?’ Ben was not surprised to feel that there was still resentment inside him. Most of it was a desire not to lose face, and he knew that he was prepared to make a later concession. ‘I think the relationship Dad has with you gives him what he wants — an opportunity to absolve himself of guilt.’ From his jacket pocket he took out a packet of cigarettes and watched his brother’s face for a register of annoyance. ‘Now he wants to complete that process, supposedly to convince me of his worth as a father. But that’s not motivated by a genuine concern for my welfare, or Alice’s, or anyone else. It’s just a selfish desire to convince himself of his blamelessness in respect of the past. He’s a spy, for Christ’s sake. All his relationships are games, little intrigues and power struggles. Lookhow he’s manipulated you. For most of his adult life Christopher Keen has been making a living out of an ability to convince people that he is something other than the person he appears to be. Think about it, Mark. If he could do it to Mum when they were married, if he could to it to us when we were kids, what’s to stop him doing it now?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mark said, his face tightening. ‘You think I’m that much of a mug?’

  Ben didn’t answer. He started walking towards the metal fence that ran along the western edge of the square. He had to move between parked cars.

  ‘You’ve got him all wrong,’ Mark said, following behind. ‘He’s not some puppet-master pulling the strings. Don’t you think people change? Don’t you think it’s possible that he might want to say sorry?’

  Ben stopped and turned.

  ‘Has he said sorry to you?’

  Mark could not give the answer he needed to without lying.

  ‘That’s not his style,’ he said, fudging it. They were now standing together on the pavement. ‘Dad just wants to make his peace. It’s that simple.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, maybe he does,’ Ben conceded. ‘Maybe he does. And he can make it somewhere else.’

  There were lights on in several of the houses on Edwardes Square, oil paintings and chintz and Peter Sissons reading the news. Ben saw a man enter a yellow-wallpapered drawing room wearing bottle-green corduroy trousers and a bright red sweater. The man was carrying a tray of food and talking to someone in another room.

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ Mark said.

  ‘Don’t I?’ Ben stared hard into his eyes. ‘He’s doing what I always thought he’d do. Crawling back, mid-life crisis, wanting us both to pat him on the head and tell him everything’s OK. Well, it’s not OK. He doesn’t meet me, he doesn’t meet Alice. End of story.’

  ‘Is that how she feels?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Ben turned again. ‘You two seem to be very close.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask her.’ Mark was angry now. He couldn’t keep it in. ‘She knows what I know. She knows what you should know if you weren’t so fucking pig-headed. She knows that you’re fascinated by Dad. She knows that you can’t wait to meet him.’

  Until that moment, Ben had thought that he was in control, bending Mark to his will. But this last remark caught him off guard. He ran through every one of his recent conversations with Alice, every argument, every lie, every quiet chat in the house, but he could not recall even hinting at what Mark had just suggested.

  ‘Is that what she told you?’ he asked.

  ‘She doesn’t need to tell me.’

  Ben frowned.

  ‘Look,’ Mark said. ‘Don’t you even want to know what he looks like? How his character is different from yours? Don’t you want to know if he’s boring or vain or funny or rich? Doesn’t any of that interest you? Don’t you wonder what sort of a person he is, the hidden man?’

  ‘We have nothing in common,’ Ben said, but the statement lacked conviction. He blew a column of smoke at the railings. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested in any of that at all.’

  But Mark was on to him.

  ‘I don’t buy it. You have nothing but interest in that. Listen, if you turn around now and agree to meet him, Alice is not going to think badly of you. Your friends won’t think you’ve sold out. I won’t think you’ve sold out.’ Mark touched his chest. ‘Is that all that’s stopping you? What other people might think?’

  Ben was stunned by how well they both knew him. He thought that he had concealed his feelings, maintained a privacy, but his thoughts had been preempted. It was as if he was listening to his entire personality being pulled inside-out. He managed to say ‘No’, but the word was meaningless. Mark was whispering.

  ‘And it’s not disloyal to Mum. I know that’s always been on your conscience, but she wanted us to be happy.’

  ‘Does Alice think I’m stubborn?’ It was a question to which Ben already knew the answer. Somebody walked past them, but he did not look up. ‘Does Alice think I’m too proud to face facts, that I’m stuck in the past?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Ben, it doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. If you feel the way you feel, then it sounds like we’re all wasting our time. It sounds like there’s nothing more to be said.’

  Ben waited. He was ready now. It was the right moment. He knew that Mark was being shrewd and not forcing the issue.

  ‘Nobody should make you do something that you don’t want to do,’ he said. ‘At the end of the day, just because I’ve started seeing Dad doesn’t mean that you should too.’

  ‘I know that…’

  ‘But I think it would do you good to meet him. I think it’s something that you need to do. Even if it’s just to let off steam, to have it out with him. That’s why we set this thing up tonight, this disastrous fucking drinkin this disastrous fucking boozer.’ Mark nodded his head in the direction of the pub. ‘But to know that he’s here in London and not do anything about that is just going to eat away at you. It’s bad for you, it’s bad for me and it’s bad for your marriage.’

  And, finally, he had said enough. For a moment Ben allowed the silence of the square to envelop them, then he extinguished his cigarette on the black painted spike of a gate.

  ‘I’m right, you know,’ Mark said.

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  Ben stared, taking his time.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  14

  There was something almost mundane about the hour that preceded their reunion. Ben simply showered, put on a clean shirt and a suit, placed a tie in one of the pockets of his jacket and drank a single gulp of vodka from a bottle of Stolichnaya he kept in the fridge. The spirit burned in his throat, spreading like linctus across his chest. Then he walked outside on to Elgin Crescent and began looking around for a cab.

  It was a quarter to eight on a Thursday night. Alice was still at work, Mark already back in Moscow having acted as the intermediary in setting up the reunion. Ben found a taxi on Ladbroke Grove and settled into the backseat, wearily informed by the driver that pre-Christmas traffic had jammed up throughout London and that it might take as much as an hour to reach the Savoy. Ben was already late and wondered how long his father would wait before giving up and going home. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? What would be an appropriate span of time for a man who had not seen his son in twenty-five years? At eight thirty, still five hundred metres short on the Strand, Ben decided to walk and paid off the driver with a twenty-pound note. He resented the cost of the journey.

  A small group of European tourists wearing brand-new Burberry raincoats were clustered in the art deco forecourt of the Savoy: tanned men with immaculately coiffed hair, their wives balanced precariously on high-heeled shoes. A doorman dressed in full morning suit scoped Ben briefly, saw that he looked respectable, and stepped aside to allow him through the revolving doors.

  Polished wood panelling. Squares of black and white stone set into the floor like a chessboard. The lobby resembled the set of some pre-war costume drama. Sheer nervous momentum carried Ben through the lobby, past whispering guests on sofas and a pretty receptionist who caught his eye. He found himself heading towards the source of some music, piano notes played lightly on the black keys, coming through a wide drawing-room area packed with tables and chairs. Everything to Ben’s eyes looked green and peach: the flecked, avocado-coloured carpet, the Doric-order columns finished in tangerine marble. More men in morning coats were moving soundlessly around the room, collecting trays of empty cups and spreading linen cloths reverently across tables. The white-tied pianist was playing on a raised platform at the centre of the room. Ben thought that he recognized ‘I Get A Kick Out Of You’, but the melody was lost, chopped up into shapeless bursts of modern jazz.

  Ahead of him, behind a glass partition, he could see people seated for dinner in the restaurant. Some of the tables looked out over the Thames. A group of waiters, many with grey hair, had gathered near what appeared to be a lectern at the entrance to the restaurant. The oldest of them, whom Ben took to be the manager, broke away to greet him.

  ‘Can I help at all, sir?’ he asked in a thick East End accent. The man was almost entirely bald, with a dry, ridged complexion like the surface of a golf ball.

  ‘I’m having dinner with my father,’ Ben told him. ‘He should be here.’

  ‘The name, sir?’

  ‘His name is Keen. Christopher Keen. It was for eight fifteen.’

  The waiter turned to consult his reservations book. Ben was almost too afraid to scan the tables beyond the glass in case he should catch sight of his father.

  ‘We don’t seem to have a booking for that name, sir.’

  The waiter’s tone suggested that Ben had wasted his time.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He felt tricked, gripped by the sure thought that his father had bottled out.

  ‘Quite sure, sir. Of course, it’s possible that you’re dining with us
in the Grill Room.’

  ‘The Grill Room?’

  ‘Our other restaurant, sir. You would have passed it on the way in. Just go backto the main door. You’ll find it on the right of reception, top of the stairs.’

  Muttering an embarrassed thank you, Ben turned and walked back towards the foyer. He felt rushed now, no longer in control. A slim French woman introduced herself at the entrance to The Grill and took his name with a smile. He was surely on the brink of it now, his father only seconds away. She was conferring with one of her colleagues, pointing out into the room, and when Ben looked up to take in the quiet formality of his surroundings he saw his father at the far end of the restaurant, seated at a table backed up against the wall. Their eyes met and Keen nodded, rising to his feet, a man of sixty who seemed never to have aged. A very broad, effortful smile and that steady, unreadable gaze that Ben remembered even as a child. His breathing doubled back on itself as he moved towards the table. Ben tried to set his face but the effort was hopeless.

  ‘Benjamin.’

  ‘Hello.’

  A firm handshake, a contact of skin, examining his father’s face for the bits that looked like him.

  ‘It’s so wonderful to see you. So wonderful. Do come and sit down.’

  Some men of Keen’s generation had faces weakened by experience, eyes and mouths rendered timid by the failures of age. But his father looked capable, renewed, not someone whom a younger man might profitably challenge. Ben was amazed by the preservation of his good looks; his father had the vigour and apparent fitness of a man half his age. He was, against all expectation, impressed by him.