III.

Ethel picked him up in a black Bentley and drove him in climate-controlled, leather-seated, wood-paneled, six-speakered comfort to a home that was Tudor on the outside and English country on the inside, despite being in the middle of Chelsea. She let him pick which of the three guest rooms he would use, and he chose the largest one, done in blue and white with silver accents, with a view of the garden out back – more roses, plus irises, tulips and a sea of wildflowers. The wind wafted the sweet scents into the room and shifted the shadows of the trees on the wall. Moving to the country would be the right thing to do, if just this little bit of nature could lift his spirits so much.

He lay down for a nap on the soft, spacious bed, waking to the scent of lilac and roast chicken and potatoes. He went down the stairs into the kitchen to find the table set and some white wine poured, and Ethel putting a simple green salad on his plate.

They didn't speak much throughout the dinner. It was just too awkward.

She cleared away the plates and led him into the drawing room, where she made him a cup of coffee with one of those pod things, had one herself, and then said, "I think I should explain."

"What's the point?" Richie asked. "It was twenty years ago."

"Right, and you've had that long to steam over it and listen to Eddie gloat about it – oh yes, I know he does. Believe me, it does not make me feel good about myself."

"Why not?" Richie snarled.

Ethel sighed. "There was no reason it had to happen. Oh yes, I was upset you puked all over me on the bus, and I was unhappy that you were taking so long to propose –"

"You knew I was going to?"

"I knew you'd said you were going to," Ethel returned. "I knew almost from the moment you told your Aunt Olga. She and my mum were very anxious that we get married, you know. But you didn't propose, even after you'd had the ring back for weeks, and I thought I'd done something to make you change your mind ..."

"And every time I got worked up about it I thought you didn't know, so I could wait until I was calmer!" Richie felt about twenty different emotions all at once – sorrow, anger, joy, regret ... "Oh, if only one of us knew the whole story, things might be different today!"

"Yeah, we'd be divorced instead of never married."

Richie looked at her. That wasn't what he had been thinking at all. He thought they'd be happily in love, looking forward to their 20th anniversary, with their teenaged children (two of each) blossoming into worthy heirs of the Richard family, and Eddie ... well, working as their chauffeur or butler or some such, knowing his place and keeping to it – no, no, that wasn't Eddie. He'd have tried to seduce Ethel sooner or later. It was just the way he was. Just like he'd had it off with the Moldovian countess. Just like he'd stolen or detoured who knows how many birds from him before he even got a chance with them.

"Oh, I suppose you're right," he said. "It wasn't meant to be."

"I'm glad you see it that way, Richie, I really am," Ethel said. "I felt awful about ... well, Agincourt, as you call it. I'd worked myself up into a pretty rage, and Eddie was so kind to me about it, and one thing led to another – and I felt so ashamed of myself afterward that I couldn't look you in the eye. And the real problem is –"

The phone rang. "Oh, damn, excuse me." She crossed the room to an absurdly rococo gilt and white telephone and picked it up. Richie didn't listen to her conversation; he was thinking about Agincourt again. If only, if only, if only he had simply confronted her, got the fuck over it, and proposed anyway; even if the marriage had failed, he wouldn't be a virgin anymore. He wouldn't have to get married again; he would just have the confidence to score without going so ridiculously overboard about it.

"That was the hospital," Ethel said. "They've moved Eddie into a general ward. They're going to let him go in two or three days."

"Oh, thank God he's going to be all right. He looked awful when I saw him last."

"Eddie's too tough to let a little bit of smoke kill him off," Ethel said casually. "Well, it's too late to go see him, what shall we do – have a game of poker?"

Richie froze.

"What's wrong?"

"Well, it's just that ... I don't know how ..."

"Oh, rubbish. You used to play poker with Eddie all the time."

"Yes, but I never learned the rules."

Ethel slapped her forehead. "Oh for ... well, you may as well start learning now. Sit down."

Ethel only went to the office in the afternoons four days a week; mornings she spent at home doing research, tracking her clients' portfolios, or tending to her own investments. Most of her income came from investments, she told Richie. She had started with a small inheritance from her father and built it up. Aside from this house, she owned one in the South of France. She readily owned up that she was not as wealthy as she could be because she wanted to enjoy her money. If she worked eighteen hour days, seven days a week, she might have an enormous net worth, or she might have a nervous breakdown.

Evenings she was in a good enough mood to concoct a good supper; then she would suggest some kind of board game or some programme on the telly, or both. If they watched telly she would also do a bit of needlework – Richie was never sure if it was knitting or crocheting; it involved an enormously long needle, whatever it was. And she would listen to Richie as he talked, nodding and smiling and making the occasional comment. Such a nice change from Eddie, who would tell him to shut up after about five minutes. It was just like the evenings they'd spent together when they were dating.

Eddie was supposed to get out of the hospital that Friday, but then he contracted some kind of infection and the doctor decided to keep him over the weekend. Richie went over on Saturday afternoon to bring him takeaway fish and chips and an illicit can or two of lager and to cheer him up. The last part didn't work so well. After an hour Eddie yelled at him to either shut up or get out. Ten minutes after that, Eddie yelled at him to shut up AND get out. Richie started walking to the tube station but turned left where he should have turned right and found himself near the old flat. The building it had occupied was torn down now, making the local skyline look gap-toothed. Richie stood looking at it, feeling an ache in his throat; he had lived there all his adult life. Forty years of memories, up in smoke. Although some of those memories weren't worth remembering ...

He finally got back to Ethel's, well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon. Ethel was in her study, feet up, talking on the phone to someone.

"Oh, he just walked in, speak of the devil. Hello, Richie! Yes, that's the one I was dating a long time ago for a couple of years ... yes, yes, I know, he's a little odd, but he's harmless – he's just inherited a lot of money now so you have to call him 'eccentric.'" She laughed, and Richie headed up the stairs to change into something more suitable for lounging in. He took his time before exchanging his dress shirt and tie for a polo shirt and a cardigan and heading back down the stairs. Ethel was still talking, and when her voice became distinct to him, he froze.

"... utterly and spoiled me. I compare other men to him and it doesn't matter how intelligent, gifted, wealthy, successful they are, they flunk the most important part of the test. They don't touch me – emotionally, I mean – they don't touch me the way he does. And without that, the rest of it doesn't matter. Yes, I said does, present tense. I realized it this past week, after the fire at his flat, and I saw him at the hospital – well, I still love him as much as I ever did. We patched things up a bit, and I'm glad. I would marry him right this instant if he'd only ask. ..."

Richie turned and headed back up the stairs, afraid he would do or say something stupid. She wasn't talking about him, was she? Of course she was! Who else could it be?