Fleur, he saw then, was particularly excited by escaping the suburbs where she had grown up. This was it: sitting next to an elderly French literary man who was describing to her one or two of his many sexual encounters, trying to pique her interest, irredeemably and for ever vain, in this magnificent but tired chateau overlooking a wooded creek of some unknown Breton river. Her mouth – how clearly he remembers it now – was glistening with oil, and the literary man was (she told him) trying to stroke her leg under the table. She winked at Artair. Later she also confessed to having brushed the front of his trousers with the back of her hand, but she found no sign of life. She and Artair made love again in the huge brocaded bed after the dinner; a fine cloud of ancient dust rose from the tapestries and the bed coverings. Above all he remembers Fleur lying on her front, carelessly, innocently, knowingly provocative. And he feels the loss keenly in the horse-scented vehicle as it is towed down the A30. He’s allergic to horses and their by-products. The owner of this malodorous horse box, who himself has yellow equine teeth and a huge earring, looks at him disdainfully as he starts to sneeze. Artair feels an urge to kill him, as they trundle along behind the tow-truck.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Before he went to the hospital, Julian tried to summon his brother from the Okavango Delta, but there was no obvious way of finding him. He has delegated to Nigel the task of getting him a message somehow, although he knows Nigel is busy with the accounts.

In the hospital his father lies wired up. His head, still a very bold presence, moves and smiles, or seems to. But Mr Abbott says that the scan reveals that there is no significant brain function. He has the sort of handsome, intelligent look that seems to develop in the higher reaches of professional life.

‘Can you keep him alive until we are all assembled?’

‘We can. Unless there is another catastrophic brain event.’

‘He squeezed my hand.’

‘Yes,’ says Abbott, ‘but that is, I am afraid, simply an involuntary reaction, a sort of spasm.’

Mr Abbott has a hieratic and soothing manner, as though over years of giving bad news he has perfected the words to a point where they have almost become a litany, the sort of familiar and comforting formula believers like to hear in church.

‘Are you saying there’s absolutely no chance of recovery?’

‘None. I’m sorry and it’s entirely understandable and commendable that you would wish to take any possible opportunity to help your father, but this is, sadly, the end of the road. Your brother will be here soon, you said, and I think then it would be best to end this process. Of course the final word is yours and Lady Trevelyan-Tubal’s.’