The Remorseful Day

Chapter forty-six

The Spires Restaurant in the Randolph Hotel is an impressively elegant affair. A full complement of Oxford College crests is mounted in a frieze around the room, the regal ambience of the place relieved by the soft lighting of flambeaux on the brown-papered walls, and by two central chandeliers, holding similar flambeaux, that hang from the high-beamed ceiling. Twenty or so tables are spaciously arranged there, cross-draped with maroon tablecloths, and laid with gleaming silverware, sparkling wineglasses, and linen serviettes of a pale-ochre color. The chairs, of uniform style, are upholstered in a material of bottle-green; and the color combination of the room in toto has appealed to many (if not to all) as an unusually happy one. Two large windows on the room’s northern side overlook Beaumont Street, with the Ashmolean Museum and the Taylorian Institute just across the way; whilst those seated beside three equally large windows on the eastern side look out on to the Martyrs’ Memorial, with St. John’s and Balliol Colleges beyond it, sharing with their fellow diners a vista of St. Giles, the widest street in Oxford and visually one of the most attractive avenues in England.

At 7:15 that same evening, a man in the company of a much younger woman appeared to have eschewed either of these splendid views, for they had chosen a table (set for three) on the restaurant’s west and windowless side, and now sat with their backs partly turned on the sprinkling of other early diners — like people who had no real objections to being seen, perhaps, but equally had no wish to draw attention to themselves.

At 7:25 P.M., the man was again consulting his wrist-watch when a black-tied waiter asked if they would like a further drink while they waited.

Though expensive, the cocktail they had each been drinking was, in the young woman’s judgment, “absolutely yummy” — Cognac, Kümmel, Fraise Liqueur, topped with chilled champagne — and she nodded. Might just as well be happy about something.

“Same again,” said Frank Harrison. “Ailish cocktails.” And when the waiter was gone: “Where the hell’s he got to? I’ve not got all bloody evening.”

“You’ve got to get back tonight, Dad?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it. Seven-fifteen is seven-fifteen!”

“His hearing’s not getting any better, you know. He probably thought you said seven-fifty.”

“Who’s ever ordered a dinner for seven-fifty, for Christ’s sake?”

For the moment Sarah said nothing further, looking around her and enjoying the regal dignity of the restaurant. And in truth her father’s tetchy impatience with Simon was not wholly displeasing to her. There had ever been a closer bond between herself and her father than with her mother; and, in turn, a very much closer bond between Simon and his mother than with his father. But such things were not spoken of freely in families; and it was better that way. Quite why she had always felt possessive about her father, she could not explain well even to herself. But she remembered clearly when she’d first been conscious of it: when she had crept silently downstairs late one night with a party in full swing below; and when, unseen herself, she’d watched her father kissing a young woman in the kitchen. She had cried herself to sleep that night. Only six, she’d been, but she could have murdered the woman. Disbelief? Shock? Outrage? All three mixed together, like a cocktail... like a cocktail topped up with a little chilled jealousy.

Simon appeared at 7:48. Like his father, not looking particularly in love with life.

“You’re both early?” he ventured, as he took his seat. “Seven-fifty, wasn’t it?”

“Forget it!” His father passed over a menu.

“I could do with a drink first, Dad.”

“Just read the question-paper!”

Simon looked down at the succulent-sounding selections: To Start... To Continue... Dessert... Beverages — and felt a little happier, until Harrison père, brusquely ruling out starters, called over the waiter and put in their order for the main courses: Guinea Fowl; Calves’ Liver; Steak (medium). “And a bottle of some decent Claret.”

“Just one?” queried Simon. “Three of us?”

“Sarah’s driving.”

“Aren’t you driving, Dad?” asked Sarah.

“ I don’t really need my daughter to tell me what I can drink, thank you very much.”

Sarah put down her menu and stood up slowly. “Excuse me a minute! I’m just off to...”

But before making her way to the Ladies’ Powder Room, Sarah Harrison stopped at Reception.

“Can I ring one of your guests from here?”

“Of course.” The young girl smiled. “Just ring the room number.” She pointed to the phone at the side of the desk.

“The name’s Harrison — F. Harrison.”

The receptionist tapped a few keys and looked at her video-screen.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Can you just give me the room number?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that. It’s strict company policy—”

“I’m his daughter, for God’s sake!”

“Just a minute!” The girl moved away and the phone on the desk sprang to life when she returned: “All yours.”

Sarah picked up the phone and listened, wondering what on earth she was going to say. But she needn’t have bothered.

“Hellóho.” It was a female, husky, transatlantic voice.

Sarah put down the phone, a sudden glint of fury in her eyes.

She returned to the table to find father and brother, heads close together, in what seemed a significant conversation. But there the exchanges stopped — whether because of her own return or the contemporaneous arrival of the main courses, Sarah was uncertain.

Thereafter the food was appreciatively consumed, the few transmensal exchanges wholly mundane and perfunctory, the bottle of Claret rapidly going and going and soon wholly gone.

“Another bottle, Dad?” suggested Simon.

“No!”

“I came on the bus — I’m going back on the bus.”

“But Dad’s got to drive back to London, remember? Anyway I thought we were all supposed to keep sober tonight. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“It was, yes. Just keep your voice down, will you? And read this. Simon’s already seen it. Pretty quick off the mark, some of these local reporters.”

Sarah looked down at the copy of the Oxford Mail passed across to her, the lower half of the back page folded over to show the latest news column: