When everyone’s taken their place, there are six people at the table. Eve, Flo, the elderly couple, a tall woman with green hair, and a thin, young man in a suit several sizes too large for him.
‘Is that the Bishop of Southwark over there?’ Flo asks Eve, peering through the crowd.
‘Quite possibly,’ Eve says. ‘He and Bili are pals from the fancy rat circuit.’
‘I liked Balice’s last husband,’ the elderly man grumbles. ‘What was his name?’
‘Charlie,’ the man’s wife says.
‘What?’
‘Charlie. Balice’s ex-husband.’
‘What about him?’
‘She left him. For this one.’
‘Why?’
‘Probably got fed up.’
‘All married people get fed up. Doesn’t mean you have to run off with a sailor. He’s much too young for her.’
‘She,’ the green-haired woman says. ‘And she’s not a sailor. She works for the Foreign Office.’
‘We were told his name was Bill.’
‘Not Bill.Bili. Bilyana. She’s from Poland or somewhere.’
‘Bulgaria,’ Eve says.
‘What about it?’
Why do you always get the same cast of crazies at every English wedding? The woman with green hair has a fondness for wine and a plaintive look in her eye which suggests that before the day is done she will be either weeping, shouting or fucking a stranger in the toilets – probably one of those hedge-fund types at Oxana’s table who think of themselves as dashing roués but actually look like sex-offenders. Then there’s that young guy with the self-cut hair and the charity-shop suit who, very sensibly, has avoided conversation and concentrated on his meal, pausing only to answer the old boy’s query as to what it is that two women actually do together by helpfully showing him a clip on his phone of two women actually doing it. The only person here with whom I feel the slightest thing in common is Flo, and she wants to lock me up and wishes that Oxana were dead.
And there’s Oxana now, walking towards us, all blonde innocence in her Miu Miu frock and straw hat. She was in a weird mood about us coming to this wedding, probably because she assumes that I’m dying to get married to her. In fact, I’m quite happy with how things are. I’ve been married, and it didn’t end well. I love Oxana, but she’s not what my mother used to call ‘marriage material.’ And I’m pretty sure I’m not either.
Oxana is accompanied by a slender young man in gold-rimmed glasses, whose suit somehow combines extreme shabbiness with impeccable cut. ‘This is Captain Gladstone,’ Oxana tells Eve. ‘Could we drag you away?’ She beams at the other guests at the table. ‘Family business, I’m afraid. So boring.’
Eve stands, relieved at the chance to escape. As the three of them walk away, Oxana turns and subjects Flo to a lingering, enigmatic stare.
Outside the marquee, the sky is a cloudless blue. They seat themselves on one of the brickwork steps leading up to the manor house. ‘Captain Gladstone was my host when Balice interned me,’ Oxana says. ‘He made me very comfortable.’
‘I wish you’d been in Paris with me,’ Eve says.
‘I do too, babe. I might have stopped you getting yourself stabbed.’
‘According to my sources,’ Gladstone says, ‘you acted very bravely indeed.’
‘Which sources were those, exactly?’ Eve asks.
‘Captain Gladstone works with Balice,’ Oxana says. ‘And less officially, with our friends from further east.’
Gladstone nods. ‘It’s in the latter capacity that I’ve been asked to talk to you. But before I do, I want to ask about the apartment. Are you comfortable there?’
Eve frowns. ‘We’re fine. Why?’
‘I just wanted to be sure that it’s what you wanted.’