‘It’s none of my business how you maintain your lifestyle,’ Frontal said without missing a beat. ‘But you realise that if there are any commercial operations going on at The Lodge, we’ll catch up with you.’

‘We’re not making any profit.’

‘It doesn’t have to be a good commercial operation.’ Frontal chuckled. ‘Take a tip: don’t spend up so big on the fancy imported linen and tableware. If you’re raising any money, you’ll need every cent for compliance and improvements. Especially hygiene, if you’re selling food—that’s always a kick in the guts.’

Jesus, Gordon thought, is there anything about me this prick doesn’t know?

Frontal walked towards his hybrid in his tan synthetic slacks, well-shined shoes and off-white business shirt, open-necked because it must’ve been Freaky Friday at the council chambers. It didn’t matter how inflated the bureaucrats’ salaries had become, they still had a style they could call their own.

Halfway to his car, Frontal had a second thought and turned towards Gordon. People like this were never content with having had the last word. They had to have it in triplicate.

‘I forgot to ask.’ Frontal’s disingenuousness was transparent as he arrived at his purpose. ‘How’s your boy going?’

‘Ben?’

‘I heard he’s having problems again.’

It was unlike Frontal to use such outmoded terms as ‘problems’, a sign that he was now trying to antagonise Gordon. Frontal’s dislike for Gordon was a lifelong habit. Even back at school, Frontal’s resentment at the fact that his diligence and compliance received zero recognition was directed not at the alpha males, whom he hero-worshipped, but at the Gordons. Which made him pretty much the perfect personality type for a council deputy general manager. He had worked his way up the ranks, starting out as a parking inspector and giving his free time to football refereeing, a peculiar subtype of men who not only coped with opprobrium but revelled in it. Certainly, Frontal saw himself as a more evolved human than Gordon, which was confirmed by the status of his son, Daniel, the incoming St Pat’s school captain, the acme of sporting hero and academic high-achiever upon whom young Frontal had gazed from an admiring distance all those years ago. Where Frontal had been a washed-out face in the crowd, Daniel was dark and delineated, commander of every photograph. Frontal had left Bluebird for one stint of his life—a university degree in public administration in England that had turned into a council job in London, for a five-year bracket of his twenties—before returning a widower (double credit points; his young Spartan wife, Soula, had died from ovarian cancer) with a miracle child, a miniature Greek god, the instrument of his revenge. The story was almost biblical, in a pinhead suburban white-bread beachside sort of way.

‘Again?’ Gordon said.