Then We Die

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‘I need to talk to you. . about your father.’

Plucking a French Fancy from the three-tiered cake stand, Carlyle carefully nibbled at the pink icing skin before attacking the exposed sponge underneath.

She shot him a sharp look, knowing that he wanted to ignore the subject at hand and was simply playing for time in the hope that it would go away of its own accord. ‘John. .’

‘Mm.’ With his free hand Carlyle pulled at the collar of his shirt, wondering what was coming next. The hotel’s formal dress code required him to wear a jacket and tie and he had felt somewhat uncomfortable even before the conversation had changed tack. Fumbling with the top button of his shirt, he tried to think of something to say, but nothing sprang to mind. The only thing he knew was that he really didn’t want to talk about his dad.

Not with his mum, anyway.

Refusing to make eye-contact, he played for time by scrutinizing a sculptured female figure crafted in gilded lead, flanked by a pair of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tea at the Ritz with his mother always felt a little surreal. God knows why she liked it so. The whole place looked like a Gianni Versace wet dream.

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