‘Nothing wrong with Maccy D’s. We can’t all be rich,’ he added, lowering his head and allowing his hair to fall over his eyes as he gave his best impression of a Dickensian urchin before reaching across to take the man’s hand in his own. Jeremy leapt up, as if he’d been touched by an electric cattle prod.

‘I’m just going to run to the loo,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll get another drink in, if you like? Rum and Coke again, or something different?’

‘Surprise me,’ said Achilles.

Jeremy stepped away from the table, descending the stairs in the direction of the toilets. The moment he was of sight, Achilles reached forward and put his hand in the inside pockets of the man’s coat, taking out his wallet, but it wasn’t money he was after. He flicked through it quickly and found what he wanted. A business card.

Jeremy Arlo

it said.

Arlo, Quill, Fitzgerald & Connolly

Solicitors-at-Law

1 Temple Chambers

London WC2

Interesting, he thought as he glanced back up at the television screen, where his father was shaking hands with Mick Jagger and wrapping up his show. What have you been doing that you shouldn’t, Daddy?

PART 2

Part 2

21 March 2006

It’s the Cleverley family’s last morning in Dublin – George has been recording a special St Patrick’s Day edition of Cleverley in the RTÉ studios in Donnybrook – and they’re wandering around the Princess Grace suite of the Shelbourne Hotel, finishing their packing. Beverley has been quiet recently, filled with anxiety at the notion of being pregnant again. She loves her children with all her heart, but the idea of adding a fourth to their brood is too much for her, particularly since she’d almost died giving birth to Achilles.

She hasn’t said a word to George about being late, but she knows that he’s guessed something isn’t right as he’s been particularly solicitous of her since their arrival in the city. Beverley watches him now, checking his passport is in his hand luggage, and smiles. He’s a kind man and theirs is a good marriage.

Sensing that he’s being watched, he turns around.

‘What?’ he asks.

She shakes her head. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says.

He puts his bag down and comes towards her.

‘It’s not nothing,’ he tells her. ‘You’ve been acting very strangely since we got here. What’s going on?’

Beverley bites her lip. She can hear the children arguing in the next room and knows that this isn’t the time to broach the subject but, without warning, tears come to her eyes and start streaming down her cheeks.

‘Good Lord, Beverley,’ says George, stepping back a little. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happening?’

There’s no way around it other than just saying the words.

‘I think I might be pregnant,’ she tells him. ‘Again.’