Next of Kin by John Boyne

missed her. He hadn’t seen her since the morning Sir Denis Tandy had gathered them together for the reading of the will, and she was in his thoughts a lot.
    â€˜I suppose I could cancel them,’ he muttered.
    â€˜I’d be very grateful if you would,’ she said. ‘How about seven o’clock? At Claridge’s?’
    â€˜I’ll see you there,’ he said, ringing off before she could question him further.
    The dinner had lasted for a little over an hour and had been a difficult encounter, made even more unpleasant for him by the fact that she’d decided to bring her fool of a boyfriend, Raymond Davis, with her. When Montignac made his excuses for leaving just before half past eight Stella sighed loudly, looking thoroughly exhausted with him.
    â€˜You can’t go, Owen,’ she said. ‘We haven’t finished discussing things yet. We’ve barely begun.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, but we’ll have to pick it up another time,’ he said. ‘I have important business to attend to.’
    â€˜More important than this?’
    â€˜Stella,’ he said quietly, equally tired with their ongoing battle. ‘The world doesn’t run to your timetable, you know.’
    â€˜I don’t expect it to,’ she said, insulted. ‘But I wish I could just pin you down for five minutes and talk about what happens next. You seem so angry with me. The way you’re behaving anyone would think that I’d planned all of this.’
    â€˜Would they,’ he stated in a matter-of-fact voice, looking her directly in the eye. ‘What an absurd idea.’
    â€˜Look here, old fellow,’ said Raymond, using that phoney Englishman-in-Africa syntax that he’d picked up from the most recent Waugh. ‘All the old girl’s trying to say is—’
    â€˜Drop round to the gallery tomorrow,’ Montignac said to his cousin. ‘Around lunchtime. We can talk then. Just the two of us.’ He ignored both Raymond’s interruption and his presence as if he was nothing more than a hovering maître d’, waiting to find out whether they wanted teas or coffees to finish.
    â€˜Well you better be there,’ said Stella as he stood up. ‘If I arrive and you’ve gone off somewhere for the day—’
    â€˜I’ll be there,’ he promised, attempting a smile, trying to avoid noticing how magnificent she looked in her new gown—an expensive, dark red taffeta dress that she had bought earlier in the day. ‘And we’ll talk then. Alone,’ he repeated for emphasis.
    Leaving Claridge’s at breakneck speed, he stood outside on the street for a few minutes, trying to recover his composure, counting to ten to prevent himself from going back inside and dragging Raymond Davis out on to the street with him, or down some back alley to show him what happened to fools who thought they could come between him and Stella. A light drizzle began to threaten and he made his way along Brook Street, looking for a quiet bar where he might settle his nerves.
    A few minutes later he was relaxing in the Duck and Dog with a large whisky, quietly watching a game of feathers being played by two middle-aged men opposite. The bar was half empty and he noticed a large man, tall and heavy in a dark suit, enter and look around before smiling at him for a moment and walking over towards the bar. He glanced around again, checking to see what Montignac was drinking, said something to the barman, and a moment later started to walk towards him with a glass in each hand.
    â€˜Whisky’s your drink, I’m told,’ he said. ‘Here’s a top-up,’ he added, handing one across and keeping one for himself.
    Montignac’s eyes narrowed. He looked across at the door and wondered whether he should just stand up and leave. Whether he would even be allowed. He didn’t touch the drink.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Do I