Dedication

For my big brothers Christopher and Anthony Whiteside (in the words of Horace, Par nobile fratrum). With my love always and my thanks to you both for being there when I needed you.

In loving memory of: Patrick D’Arcy, Ellen Whiteside, Tommy Whiteside, Jack O’Loughlin and Christopher Lane.

Also Ronald Burt, Roy Burt and Bernie Steingold remembering our youth and long summer days.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to: the twins and KC and the Sunshine Band for all the help, the stories and the laughter.

Prologue

‘Georgio shouldn’t be much longer now, Harry. Let me get you a refill.’

Donna Brunos took the Waterford crystal whisky glass from the small man in front of her and smiled at him tightly. He’d already had more than enough to drink; a few more whiskies and his nasty streak would surface.

She poured a hefty measure of ginger ale into the glass, topping it up with a small amount of Red Label whisky. She closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds, hoping to take away the ache behind them.

As she turned to face Harry Robertson, his wife Bunty gave one of her high-pitched laughs. Donna handed the drink to Harry and, using the excuse that she was wanted in the kitchen, moved through the lounge, stopping here and there to have a brief word with different people.

Donna was aware that they were all waiting for her husband, that they classed her a poor second as hostess. The only reason they were here, the men as well as the women, was because Georgio had invited them personally. Everyone was grateful for a little bit of attention from Georgio, she knew that, had always known that. Donna smiled ruefully; she felt that way herself and she was his wife. It was a knack he had. When Georgio looked at a person, he could make them feel as if there was no one else in the world and he used this to his advantage.

Inside the kitchen she leant against the wall and sighed.

‘He’s bloody cutting it fine,’ said Dolly, her housekeeper and friend.

Donna nodded and, pushing herself away from the wall, she surveyed the work surfaces intently. ‘How’s the duck?’

‘Drier than a nun’s tits!’

Donna laughed gently, a laugh she didn’t think she had inside her. ‘You’re crude, Dolly, but then you already know that.’

Dolly flicked the ash from her cigarette into the waste disposal and shrugged good-naturedly.

‘It’s nearly half-eight - why don’t you sit down without him? The sooner they eat, the sooner they’ll go. When Georgio gets in, he’ll be grateful most of it is over. He can get down to the business in hand over the brandy and we can all be in bed for twelve.’

Donna pushed her heavy dark hair off her face; it was a weary gesture and Dolly smiled at her sympathetically.