The Spanish Game by Charles Cumming Page B

that the question might be his last opportunity to maintain a civilized air of polite enquiry.
    ‘Do you really care?’ Ben replied. ‘Or are we just making small talk?’
    For the first time he managed to hold his father’s gaze. One beat, two. Keen, now visibly unsettled, put his glass down and frowned.
    ‘Perhaps this was a bad idea,’ he said.
    ‘You think?’
    ‘I really don’t understand what’s brought this on.’
    An elderly man at a nearby table cast Keen a disapproving look, alerted by the suddenly aggressive tone of their conversation.
    ‘Just traditional stuff,’ Ben said, and it was a moment before Keen realized that he was talking about painting. He felt almost ridiculed, toyed with. ‘Watercolours. Sketches. Oil paintings. The sort of work that’s out of fashion nowadays.’
    Two more waiters appeared and began ladling soup into bowls at a serving table beside them. For some time nothing was said except a very quiet ‘Thank you’ from Keen as his bisque was placed in front of him. Then they ate in silence for as much as two or three minutes. Ben’s pulse was a drum of adrenalin as Keen’s consternation settled. Eventually, he found a fresh subject and tested new ground.
    ‘So you’re married,’ he asked.
    Ben nodded.
    ‘How long ago, if I may ask?’
    ‘A couple of years.’
    ‘And you met here in London?’
    These were questions to which he already knew the answer, and the curt manner of Ben’s reply implied as much.
    ‘That’s right,’ he said.
    ‘She’s very pretty.’
    ‘Is that a statement or a question?’
    Keen took a deep breath.
    ‘A statement.’
    ‘Who told you? Brother?’
    ‘Mark, yes.’
    Ben wondered what else he had revealed about their relationship. Alice is tricky . Alice is ambitious and manipulating . He knew that Mark had his reservations about her, however well he tried to disguise them. Odd that they should be so close and yet labour under such an obvious pretence. Perhaps Mark had also mentioned something about the constant arguments, the money, a marriage turning sour.
    ‘So what else did he say about her?’
    ‘That she’s a writer. A journalist of sorts.’
    ‘For the Standard , yes.’
    ‘Actually, he gave me a photograph of your wedding day.’
    The revelation hit Ben with the full force of betrayal. He was not even conscious of the speed with which his temper flared.
    ‘He did what ?’
    Keen realized instantly that he had made a mistake.
    ‘I have it hanging in my flat,’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘You didn’t know?’
    ‘You had no right to take that.’
    ‘It was a present.’
    ‘It was an invasion of our privacy.’
    ‘Well, I think you’re over-reacting. It looked like the most wonderful day. There’s really no need to be upset.’
    Several heads now turned to lookat Ben, yet he was aware of nothing but his own anger. Every promise he had made to Mark and Alice, every private undertaking to give his father a second chance, had evaporated.
    ‘You think you have any right to tell me that?’
    ‘Mark informed me that he’d asked your permission.’
    ‘Oh, come off it. You trying to play us off against each other? Is that how this works? Divide and rule? You think that by making me angry with Mark I’ll somehow come over to your side?’
    The thought had occurred to Keen, but he said, ‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,’ with as much credibility as he could muster. Flushed now with the awkwardness of a very public row, he searched for a means of salvaging what was in all probability a lost cause. Mark had been biddable and eager to please, as accommodating and straight forward as his mother. But Ben was a different proposition. Looking across the table at his son, Keen might almost have been faced with himself.
    ‘I don’t know what exactly it was that you were expecting from me this evening.’
    Ben looked at him, almost breathless in the wake of his outburst, and realized that he did not know either. He was sure