The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger

He was disappointed to find that even nuns said ‘No problem’.

He tried to make his way over to Luke, but his path was blocked by Hugo, immaculate to excess and as supercilious as a cat.

‘Posh do, Gordon.’

‘Well, you know.’

‘Yes. Keeping up appearances.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Stop looking for hidden meanings. Anyway, I can see I’ll have to pull my socks up next year.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hugo. You top me every time. Last year was fantastic.’

‘It was good, wasn’t it? Still, this looks lovely. Where’s Christina?’

‘Oh, here, there, everywhere. Being charming.’

‘Not being charming, Gordon. She is charming.’

‘You don’t live with her.’

Hugo gave the very faintest twitch.

‘True. Very true.’

Sir Gordon edged closer to Luke. A quick look showed his father chatting happily with the nun. Maybe Siobhan had known what she was doing inviting her.

At last he was with Luke. They shook hands. The formality seemed odd, but a kiss was out of the question.

‘Dad, this is Emma Slate.’

The worst yet.

‘Delighted to meet you, Emma.’

‘Really? Luke said you’d hate me.’

‘Well, give me a chance. I haven’t had time yet.’

Uneasy laughter. Good.

‘I may as well tell, you, Sir Gordon –’ there was a look of defiance on her face, plus an element of fear that if she wasn’t careful she might look attractive to men she despised – ‘that I came here under duress.’

‘Not the quickest way. I recommend coming through Esher and Epsom. Any more vandalism, Luke?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a pessimist, Luke, why should there be any more?’

‘I just have a feeling, Dad.’

‘Luke gets these feelings, Sir Gordon.’

‘Oh, does he? I wouldn’t know, Emma. I don’t know him as well as you.’

‘Dad!’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Oh look, Luke, not today.’

‘OK. Right. No, I think I must have – or we must have because you were mentioned as well – offended the Welsh in some way.’

‘Well, that isn’t difficult. So, Emma, are there a Mr and Mrs Slate?’

‘No, I was produced by artificial insemination.’

‘Emma!’

‘I’m sorry, Luke, but I just hate telling people. It’s such a conversation stopper. No, there isn’t a Mr Slate or a Mrs Slate. Both my parents are dead, Sir Gordon. They drowned in Tenerife.’

Emma was right. It was a conversation stopper.

Now, as the buzz grew louder, the crowd thicker, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, two people, the sight of whom demanded instant attention – his daughter Joanna, and a Greek Orthodox priest. It was no contest. He approached the priest with determination in his step.

‘Excuse me … I don’t know you … I’m … I’m Sir Gordon. Your host.’

‘Lovely party.’

‘Thank you. I … um … I have no wish to be in any way offensive, and I … I have no idea of how one is supposed to address a Greek Orthodox priest.’

‘A Greek Orthodox archbishop.’

‘Oh my goodness. Then perhaps I ought to call you “Your Beatitude”.’

‘That will do splendidly.’

‘Good. I have to ask you, Your Beatitude, who invited you?’

‘You did.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, not personally, but the invitation was from you.’