The Last Word by Hanif Kureishi Page A

allowed no further – and helped him return to the house. Liana had strung a mobile phone around her husband’s neck with two numbers in it, those of herself and of Harry. A writer is loved by strangers and hated by his family. As a young man, Harry would have been amazed, thankful and flattered to have Mamoon Azam call him five times a day. Why would such a distinguished man, with whom everybody, surely, would love to converse, want to talk with him ? Now, as ‘family’, he was too close, and dreaded hearing that languid voice. ‘Please, Harry, dear boy, if you’re nearby, would you be so kind as to fetch me a book – the one with the green cover, I think it’s green, greenish or perhaps turquoise, but I can’t remember the title or the author – from near the television . . . At least I think it’s near the television. Also, I can’t locate my glasses exactly. These are the ones with the blue not the black frames. Do you have any idea . . .’
    It was unfortunate that Mamoon’s back injury, which rendered him physically incapable, as well as more irascible than usual, coincided with Liana’s desire to impress Harry with their friends. Liana had become particularly engaged with and, indeed, somewhat manic about the dinner – ‘the beginning of always’, as she referred to the evening.
    With Julia flying behind her being shouted at, Liana hurried into town on numerous occasions, bearing lists, to organise the menu, drink and seating plan. She was keen to ensure it was the perfect mix of people. Apparently, most of the diners would be local, but friends were coming from London; others would be driving across the country. There would be witty talk and laughter, drink, and good food. It would be useful for Harry too: he would see how a successful man lived and was loved. It would be a rehearsal for the sort of thing Liana anticipated happening regularly in London, once they raised the money to buy a place.
    Alice, now at work in London, had heard about all this from Harry. She had been in Paris with people from the office, but had promised she would get on the train and join them if she could, depending on how things went in town.
    On the evening of the dinner, one month after Harry had arrived at the house, he and Mamoon were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Julia to finish helping Liana to get dressed. The two women, with Ruth’s assistance, had been at it for some time – since yesterday morning, in fact. Mamoon had compared it to redecorating Chartres. Meanwhile, the men, having taken only a second to get their suits on and jiggle their hair, had already had a number of bracing Martinis.
    Harry asked Mamoon if he was okay. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you have the alarmed look of a man who has just noticed he’s boarded the wrong train.’
    ‘It’s not the juice making my hands shake, Harry. What could be worse than a dinner in one’s honour, my friend? I’d have preferred to stay in and self-harm. The wife, as you would call her in the faux cockney you must have learned at public school, seems to be having a mad spell, even for her.’
    ‘This dinner is making you both tense. Liana is wonderfully kind—’
    ‘I must say, you’re a sparky lad to be erecting one’s effigy and bringing drinks. I’m getting rather fond of you. You might have to do me a slight favour.’
    ‘I wondered if something along those lines was in the offing—’
    Mamoon leaned forward. ‘Keep an eye on Liana tonight – you know how good you are at making conversation about brassieres, ley lines and other female interests.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘You’re smart enough to recognise that the subjects of migraines and cats never fail with the women. Lead the old girl towards the mint tea.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Mind you, you could do me another favour by fetching that bottle of vodka for me, please. The one in the freezer, where Liana keeps her cashmere sweaters.’ Harry got it, and two crystal shot glasses. Mamoon