“Sadly, I do not have the cock of one.” He pulls me into a corner behind a makeup station. “I need a word.”
“Just one? The world is indeed becoming a strange place.” I put my hand up as he starts to speak. “And no, I don’t have my diary on me.”
Distracted, he glares at me. “Well, ofcourseyou don’t. It’s only the organiser of your entire life. Why on earth would you need that? Where is it?”
He has a strange fascination with paper diaries and constantly thrusts them into my hands. I hesitate, thinking of the last diary he gave me. “Maybe Berlin,” I finally say.
“Or?”
I shrug. “Who knows? It might be on the plane I caught last week.”
“Was that the fashion shoot in Zagreb you forgot about?”
“I got there, didn’t I?”
“Only after I pulled you out of that party. It’s lucky I was in Paris.”
“I didn’t think it was quite so lucky.”
He shakes his head. “You go through more diaries than Samuel Pepys. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”
“I’m just not a huge fan of organisation. I had a tad too much of that in my early life.”
“Xavier Quaver, organisation finds you whether you like it or not.”
“That sounded alarmingly philosophical, and why are we still using the nickname that doesn’t mean anything?”
“It’s affection.”
“Can we try for less of that?”
“No. I’m afraid you’re my charge.”
“It’s like Jane Eyre without the petticoats.”
He nudges me. “How very literate of you.”
“Why do you look so horrified? It’s a novel. Not a sex scandal.”
“Don’t tell anyone in here you read books. You’ll beostracised.”
“By all means, mention it. They might stop talking to me then.” I eye him. “Can I help you today before I get the sack for not being where I should be?”
He taps his lip and sighs, his sassy mood fading and the caring man emerging. He spends so much time sassing that it’s sometimes easy to miss what a fierce friend and ally he is. “I have something to tell you.”
A chill shivers down my spine. “Well, that sentence never heralds anything good,” I say lightly, but it feels like my insides have turned to jelly.Please don’t be Reuben. Please don’t be him.
“It’s about Jez Farnham.”
I freeze, that name crashing into my brain like a brick. I have a sudden memory of a windswept graveyard on a winter day, thetolling of a church bell, and the sight of Reuben, his arm in a sling, his face drawn white in pain. I push it immediately away. “What about him?”
“The Mail are doing a retrospective on famous war journalists. They rang me this morning. Apparently, they’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week to clarify something.”
“I don’t answer numbers I don’t recognise.” I narrow my eyes. “Clarify what?”
He’s silent for a second. “That you’re his son.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I pace a few steps away and lean against a clothes rail. I rub my fingers into the soft cashmere of one of the coats, searching for calm. Then I spin around. “Tell them no comment,” I snap.
