Pratt a Manger Read Online Free PDF Page A

his glass replenished, his lies mounting in the face of the relentless ravages of time.
    ‘Nonsense. I’m obscenely old and I look it and I hate it. My face is like crumpled yellowing old paper. I look like an old copy of the
Manchester Guardian
. I disgust me. Lampo is devastated that he can’t come, Henry.’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Oh, but he is. Only something absolutely unavoidable would have kept him away.’
    ‘Ah.’
    A brief silence fell between them, as if they had done enough talking for one lifetime.
    ‘Have you found any good biscuit tins lately?’ asked Henry.
    ‘Oh my God.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My little hobby bores you rigid, and you only toss it in when the conversation is seriously flagging. I’ve never known it to crop up quite so swiftly. I’m becoming a bore. I’ve lived too long.’
    ‘Nonsense. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was an unwelcome subject.’
    ‘No, no. No, it really isn’t, actually. I found a really sweet little tin in a bric-a-brac shop in Abingdon. It’s from the Darjeeling Shortbread Company. It has a picture of a huge Indian in a turban.’
    ‘Fabulous. That’s great, Denzil. What a find. Excuse me, I must have a word with my daughter.’
    ‘Kate!’
    ‘Dad.’
    ‘You look …’
    ‘What, Dad?’
    ‘Well, lovely, of course, despite …’
    ‘Despite what?’
    ‘Well … dressing down to hide your loveliness, darling.’
    ‘Sorry, but I had to come straight from the theatre.’
    Kate was the artistic director of the Umbrella Theatre in Kilburn.
    It hurt Henry that her wonderful smile wasn’t being beamed at some lovely young man. It seemed such a waste in a sad world. He couldn’t resist asking her about this, as usual, even though he knew that it would irritate her, as usual.
    ‘So, is there still no …?’
    ‘Dad!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You were going to ask if there’s still nobody in my life. Do try to start treating me as an adult. I’m almost thirty-eight.’
    ‘Well, exactly. And …’
    ‘And I’ll soon be too old to have babies. Dad, accept it. You are never going to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet.’
    She walked away, but came back immediately.
    ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to spoil your great day. It’s just that I just can’t believe …’
    ‘What? What can’t you just believe?’
    ‘That at sixty you’re still so obsessed with sex.’
    The hum of conversation grew steadily louder. The champagne seemed inexhaustible. Henry chatted to Ted and Helen. He was amazed that Hilary had invited them. It was thirty-five years since they’d been colleagues on the Thurmarsh
Evening Argus
, but Hilary knew that Henry had fancied Helen for most of half a lifetime, and had finally made love to her on a snooker table, dramatically scuppering his political career before it had begun, and all for a moment of pleasure which he’d been too drunk to remember. Were her legs still beautiful at sixty-two, he wondered.
    Ted looked at him sourly, Helen looked at him coquettishly, Henry looked at Ted sourly, Helen looked at Ted sourly, Henry tried not to look at Helen at all, but it was impossible. Those pearly grey eyes were magnets. The lips had thinned with age, but retained their pert, blatant invitation.
    Hilary joined them.
    ‘I hope you approve of my inviting Ted and Helen,’ she said to Henry.
    ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I think it’s lovely.’
    ‘I wanted to show how much I trust you now,’ said Hilary, smiling sweetly at Helen.
    Ted scowled. Henry remembered Nicky’s cleavage and felt that he’d been punched in the stomach.
    Before they went in to dinner, Henry went to the loo, where he telephoned the Café to make sure Greg and Michelle were coping. He knew that Hilary didn’t think he trusted them enough, so he spoke very quietly.
    He gasped as he entered the dining room. He couldn’t believe how it had been transformed while he was upstairs with Hilary. The great table, lit only by candlelight, was beautifully laid.