Whiteout - Ken Follett [65]
“So says Miranda.”
“And I’m just not sure you have put it behind you. I sense you holding something back.”
Kit tried to keep his face wooden so that his guilt would not show. “I’m doing my best,” he said. “It’s not easy.”
Stanley seemed satisfied. “Well, I can’t ask any more of you than that,” he said. He put his hand on Kit’s shoulder, bent down, and kissed the top of his head. “I came to tell you supper’s almost ready.”
“I’m nearly done. I’ll come down in five minutes.”
“Good.” Stanley went out.
Kit slumped in his chair. He was shaking with a mixture of shame and relief. His father was shrewd, and suffered no illusions—yet Kit had survived the interrogation. But it had been ghastly while it lasted.
When his hands were steady enough, he dialed the Kremlin again.
The phone was picked up immediately. Steve Tremlett’s voice said, “Oxenford Medical.”
“Hibernian Telecom here.” Kit remembered to change his voice. He had not known Tremlett well, and nine months had passed since he had left Oxenford Medical, so it was unlikely Steve would remember his voice; but he was not going to take the chance. “I can’t access your central processing unit.”
“I’m not surprised. That line must be down also. You’ll have to send someone.”
This was what Kit wanted, but he was careful not to sound eager. “It’s going to be difficult to get a repair crew out to you at Christmas.”
“Don’t give me that.” Steve’s voice betrayed a touch of anger. “You guarantee to attend to any fault within four hours, every day of the year. That’s the service we pay you for. It’s now seven-fifty-five p.m., and I’m logging this call.”
“All right, keep your shirt on. I’ll get a crew to you as soon as possible.”
“Give me a time estimate, please.”
“I’ll do my best to get them to you by midnight.”
“Thank you, we’ll be waiting.” Steve hung up.
Kit put down his mobile. He was perspiring. He wiped his face with his sleeve. So far, it had all gone perfectly.
8:30 P.M.
STANLEY dropped his bombshell during dinner.
Miranda felt mellow. The osso bucco was hearty and satisfying, and her father had opened two bottles of Brunello di Montepulciano to go with it. Kit was restless, dashing upstairs every time his mobile rang, but everyone else was relaxed. The four kids ate quickly then retired to the barn to watch a DVD movie called Scream 2, leaving six adults around the table in the dining room: Miranda and Ned, Olga and Hugo, Daddy at the head and Kit at the foot. Lori served coffee while Luke loaded the dishwasher in the kitchen.
Then Stanley said, “How would you all feel if I started dating again?”
Everyone went quiet. Even Lori reacted: she stopped pouring coffee and stood still, staring at him in shock.
Miranda had guessed, but all the same it was disquieting to hear him come right out and say it. She said, “I suppose we’re talking about Toni Gallo.”
He looked startled and said, “No.”
Olga said, “Oh, poo.”
Miranda did not believe him, either, but she refrained from contradicting him.
“Anyway, I’m not talking about anyone in particular, I’m discussing a general principle,” he went on. “Mamma Marta has been dead for a year and a half, may she rest in peace. For almost four decades she was the only woman in my life. But I’m sixty, and I probably have another twenty or thirty years to live. I may not want to spend them alone.”
Lori shot him a hurt look. He was not alone, she wanted to say; he had her and Luke.
Olga said bad-temperedly, “So why consult us? You don’t need our permission to sleep with your secretary or anyone else.”
“I’m not asking permission. I want to know how you would feel if it happened. And it won’t be my secretary, by the way. Dorothy is very happily married.”
Miranda spoke, mainly to prevent Olga saying something harsh. “I think we’d find it hard, Daddy, to see you with another woman in this house. But we want you to be happy, and I believe we’d do our best to welcome someone you loved.”
He gave