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Her eyes are distant, as if she is reliving the experience. “And you are so clean. I never realized how inadequate we are at washing our own bodies until my first time at a hammam.“
“Think of today as a chance to relax before the stresses of the party. Lots of people you don’t know. I know how much you love crowds.”
I drop light kisses on her face. My phone beeps and I check the screen.
YOU’RE LATE.
Damn. Ian’s message galvanizes me.
“Gotta run.” One last, longing gaze, and I’m out the door, gift in hand.
First up on my schedule is a bachelor brunch. Not all actual bachelors, of course, but no women allowed. They have their own thing going on. I survey the assembled Grant clan and, much as I love them all, I’d rather be with Cress, having breakfast in bed.
When I reach the lobby, everyone is milling around, except JL.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” I give him a hug and hand him the shopping bag.
“This is heavy,” he says, putting on the floor at his feet. Then he gives me a hug. “Happy birthday to you too,” he says before hefting the bag and taking it to the reception desk so they can put it in his room.
Ian claps me on the back. “Did Cress give you something smashing?” He accompanies the comment with a leer.
“This is your day, Dad. Don’t worry about me.” I’ve never really cared about my birthday and I want him to garner all the attention. The family story is he was so chuffed to share his birthday with one of his children, so he wanted me named Brian. Mum put her stiletto heel down to burst his bubble. Dad insisted on naming Ian for a Grant forebear, and she wanted me named for her father, Maxim. And that was that.
The rest of the gang comes over to add to the congratulations. JL joins us in the lobby and adds to the birthday wishes, then pulls me aside. “Didn’t catch sight of any lurkers on my way over.”
He only walked a hundred yards, so the chance he’d notice anyone was minuscule, but I appreciate vigilance. “Good.”
As we walk over, we both do discreet surveillance. No one comments as JL focuses quick glances on Green Park while I stare into hotel entryways, plate-glass windows, or turn my head slightly to check out passersby before crossing over at Dover Street to walk in the magnificent gilded wrought iron entrance on Piccadilly.
My shoulders loosen and my breathing becomes easier as we take our seats at a table where the six of us can spread out comfortably. We’re tucked away in the parlor where prying ears can’t overhear us.
Dad tells the waiter we want porridge all around as a starter. JL doesn’t demur, even though I know he won’t eat it. When it arrives, we lift our drams of whisky and shout, “Slàinte Mhath” before pouring the golden liquid into the steaming bowls, while JL downs his shot. A few curious patrons crane their necks to watch.
The shine from the chandeliers catches my eye. Their round, open shape and hanging lights remind me of the fixtures in the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Everything brings back my Turkish experiences. I shake off my disquiet and appreciate the rest of the opulent setting. It’s a far cry from the building’s start as a car showroom and its later incarnation as a bank.
My dad plays the quintessential Scot, downing a plate of fried haggis and duck eggs with whisky sauce. Duck eggs are a signature ingredient at the Wolseley. Les, my English brother-in-law, plumps for fried duck’s egg and Bubble&Squeak with wild mushrooms, after scoffing not only his porridge but JL’s too. Stalwarts all, Ian, Frank, and I go for the full English breakfast with fried eggs.
Dad puts some egg and haggis on his fork, but instead of popping it in his mouth, he points the fork, egg yolk dripping onto the plate, at me. “What’s this about terrorists targeting you?”
I glare at Frank, who shakes his head. Then I switch my gaze to Ian. He smirks. “You arse,” I spit at him.
In the meantime, Dad has calmly eaten several forkfuls. Now he lays down the cutlery. “Well?” He raps it out as a command and a demand. Then he essays another bit of brekkie, waiting for my answer.
My brother-in-law, who works at Government Communications Headquarters, looks alarmed. “Max, is this classified information?”
I pause and scratch my cheek. “The whole family knows what happened in 2003, so not really.”
With an air of relief, he goes back to his bubble and squeak.
Dad has turned completely white, as if a vampire has drained away all his blood. He sways slightly in his chair. JL sits next to him. “Mr. Grant, are you all right?“
“Fine,” Dad chokes out. “Remembering the broadcast.”
“Broadcast? What broadcast?” My voice sounds scratchy, and I guzzle more tea, my eggs and beans growing cold on my plate.
“Your mother and I saw the news the night you got blown up.” His quaver is alarming and he takes a pill bottle out of his shirt pocket. After a quick swallow, he goes on. “We spent the next few days trying to find out if you were really all right and pestering the government to bring you home.”
“I wondered why MI6 whisked me away so quickly after giving my statement to Turkish police. I sent a written statement when the court needed my testimony for the trial.”
