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‘Well, we’re even then,’ he said, sitting back down.
There was a murmur of approval from the diners sitting nearby, and one or two clapped.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Minki. ‘You’ve made a complete spectacle of yourself.’ She laughed and held out her hand, admiring the ring.
‘So…about meeting your father?’
‘Well, dear Max, if you really want to meet him, I suppose we’ll have to drive down to Augsburg.’
The pair arranged to visit Minki’s father the week before Christmas.
Snow lay on the ground, as Max’s Mercedes crunched up the long drive to her family home. Minki was suddenly transported back to her younger self – no longer the impressive, independent career woman, but a nervous child. She gripped Max’s hand as they pulled up outside the house. ‘Why did we come here?’ she murmured, suddenly anxious. ‘I’ve never got on with my father… let’s just go to Munich and forget all about it.’
‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart. He knows we’re coming…it would be rude just to drive away. Besides, I’d like to meet him.’
Pulling her mother’s fur coat round her, Minki led Max to the grand porch and rang the bell. Max wrapped his arm protectively round her shoulders, kissed her forehead and smiled encouragingly.
To her surprise, her father opened the door himself, smiling broadly. ‘Minki…how lovely. And this must be your young man.’
‘Max vonZeller, sir,’ said Max, holding out his hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘Gunther Sommer,’ he replied, shaking Max’s hand. ‘Well, come in, come in, both of you, don’t let all the cold air in.’
He ushered the couple into the hall, where a maid took their coats.
‘We’ve lit the fire in the sitting room,’ he said, ‘so it’s nice and warm. And lunch will be ready in an hour or so.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ said Max. ‘But I wonder if, first, I might speak with you privately, sir?’
Gunther glanced over at his daughter. ‘Does he mean what I think he means?’
Minki shrugged. ‘I suspect so. Max wants to ask you for my hand in marriage. I told him it was none of your business – but he’s an impossible romantic, and old-fashioned to boot.’
‘Minki!’ whispered Max. ‘There’s no need to be quite so outspoken.’
Gunther smiled. ‘My daughter is nothing if not headstrong and opinionated, Max. You’d better come into my study – we can talk man to man in there. Minki, you can wait for us in the sitting room.’
Minki knew there was no question of her father refusing Max, but nevertheless the idea of her future being discussed by these two men was irritating. To distract herself, she studied the silver-framed photographs in the sitting room. Arranged in groups on various side tables, and on the grand piano, most were of her mother, Greta. They chronicled much of her adult life until her untimely death, aged just thirty-five. There were pictures of her on her wedding day, standing ramrod straight in a long Edwardian gown and large straw hat. Another showed her laughing gaily, wearing a silk evening dress, with feathers in her hair. Another of her hiking on a Bavarian hillside, and fishing on a lake. Minki wondered who the photographer had been – it must have been her father, she presumed, and yet she struggled to imagine him with this joyous, energetic woman.
Above the fireplace was an oil portrait of Greta that she knew well. Her mother’s blue eyes followed the viewer around the room. They matched her pale-blue day dress exactly. Had that been that artistic licence, Minki wondered, or were Greta’s eyes really that shade of blue? So many years after her mother’s death, she struggled to remember.
There were only two photographs of Minki herself. One had been taken when she was a child, dressed in corduroy trousers with a mop of blond hair, astride a fat little pony. Her mother, looking impossibly beautiful in jodhpurs and a fitted jacket, was holding the reins. Minki tried to recall where the photograph had been taken. She had never owned a pony of her own, so they must have been on holiday. It distressed her that she couldn’t remember the details.
The second photograph took her by surprise. It was a picture of her receiving her degree. Minki had no memory of it being taken. Perhaps her father had been proud of her achievements after all.
Looking at the photograph now, it struck her how much she resembled her mother. They had the same smile, the same shaped face and hair colour. They even had a similar taste in clothes – a mixture of elegance and flamboyance. Minki’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, saddened by all the experiences her mother had missed – Minki finishing school, her first party, and graduating from university. She felt sure her mother would have been proud of her – and how happy she would have been to meet her daughter’s future husband.
‘Well, Minki,’ said her father, leading Max back into the room, ‘I must congratulate you on your choice. This young man is an excellent prospect.’
‘Oh, Papa – what a ridiculous thing to say,’ said Minki sharply, blinking away tears. ‘I’m not marrying Max because of his prospects. I love him – it’s as simple as that.’
Standing behind Gunther, Max beamed at Minki, and mouthed the words, ‘I love you, too.’
Lunch was served in the formal dining room. Gunther sat at the head of the table, with Max and Minki on either side of him. The conversation was dominated by the two men: they discussed Gunther’s business, Max’s work and his ambition for the future. Minki felt, as she often did, ignored by her father – as if her own career, her own life had no meaning.
When dessert was cleared away, Gunther finally turned his attention to his daughter. ‘Well, Minki, I hope that once you’re married you might come home and see your old father a little more often.’
‘Yes, Papa. Although I do work, you know.’
