Chapter 18
Ludo
Freshly showered and pyjamaed back at the Otter’s Den, I decided to video-call Uncle Ben.
We messaged every day, but sometimes I just needed to hear my godfather’s voice and see his face.
I’d kept him up to date on the situation with Sunny.
(Uncle Ben had put the emphasis on the definite article as soon as I told him about our fight at Maxime’s.) His advice had been to play nicely.
After all, Sunny was a tabloid reporter and could very easily turn our fracas into a juicy titbit for the Bulletin.
“How are you fairing up in the fair isles, dear boy? Have you run off with a swarthy fisherman yet?”
“Yes, I am calling you from atop my widow’s walk. I am waiting for my lover to return from the sea.”
Uncle Ben laughed, coughed, and cleared his throat.
In fact, I was calling from my bed, which he could clearly see.
Uncle Ben was wearing his silk dressing gown and sitting in his wingback armchair in his drawing room in his Connaught Square flat.
Piano music tinkled softly in the background.
It was like having a Zoom call with Noel Coward.
It was a carefully cultivated image of decadence, which I jolly well envied and made a mental note to emulate in my senior years.
“Did you get the picture of me with the puffins?” I asked.
“I did, dear boy. They looked like good eating.”
“You can’t eat them, Uncle Ben. They’re a vulnerable species. We just photographed them.”
“Shame, they’re a good size for the oven. I bet they roast up beautifully.” Uncle Ben was in a silly mood. I adored him when he was like this. “How is the situation? Have you flung Sunny Miller bodily into the North Sea?”
“No, I saved that honour for my Dictaphone,” I said.
“What have you done now?”
“We were on an oil rig this afternoon, and I tripped over a cable while running away from what I suspect was an actual albatross.”
“Why were you running away from an albatross?”
“It was chasing me. Anyway, when I hit the deck, the Dictaphone slipped out of my hand and skittered over the edge. The albatross went flying off after it. So, I expect it’s either swimming with the fishes or it’s currently giving an enormous seabird a bout of constipation it’s unlikely to forget.”
“It’s like being godfather to Frank Spencer.”
“Who?”
“Never mind, dear boy. If only you could be clumsy on demand, we could book the Palladium and sell tickets.”
Uncle Ben sucked back on his cheroot and coughed.
“The situation?” he repeated.
“Better than expected,” I confessed. I told him about the apology and the pyjama party. “Then this morning he was incredibly sweet and held my knee while I had a minor panic attack about a helicopter ride.”
“My God, do you remember Cannes?”
“But then afterwards, he slipped me his MP3.’
“Sounds positively erotic.”
I rolled my eyes. “He shared his audio file.”
“I’m not sure I understand your generation,” Uncle Ben said. “In my day, if you were sweet on a boy, you shared a kiss, not an audio file. Occasionally, you might even share a police cell. But the 1950s were like that.”
“What the bally hell makes you think he’s sweet on me?” I asked.
“Isn’t he sweet on you? You watched movies together. In your pyjamas. In your bed.”
“I don’t think he is.”
“But you’re sweet on him.”
It was a statement, not a question. I was taken aback. Where had he got that impression? What had I said? Wait, was I sweet on Sunny Miller? I didn’t think so.
“We’re just colleagues, Uncle Ben,” I said.
“If you say so, darling boy.” He sounded disappointed.
“Put it this way: So far, he hasn’t asked me to put in a good word for him with Father, Mummy, or Jonty.
So, he might be an overzealous class warrior, but at least he’s not using me as a stepladder to a better job.
That’s more than I can say for most of the other reporters I’ve met since joining the Sentinel. ”
There was a knock on my bedroom door.
“I bet you that’s him now,” Uncle Ben said. “Bearing champagne and roses and confessions of undying love.”
“It’s probably the landlady,” I said. “I better go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“If it’s the situation, dear boy, then he’s definitely sweet on you!”
I sighed heavily.
“Goodnight, Uncle Ben.”
“Sweet dreams, dear boy.”
We ended the call, Uncle Ben’s words rattling around in my head like a pea in a baby’s rattle, demanding attention. I got up and opened the door…