Edward looked across at Joseph. Pretending to be sleepy, he had put a sleeping mask over his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and settled back in the reclining seat. Edward took frequent glances at him, staring at his dark skin, and the thick black hair with the comma that fell across his left eye. Edward knew with a sick sense of certainty that he was failing with Joseph, the knots of his plan fraying and splitting, that careful latticework that he had worked so very hard to weave slowly coming apart. A riot of emotion swelled within him, of anger, impatience and frustration. Joseph had been different when they met in Calcutta. He had been relaxed there, carefree, willing to take risks and damn the consequences. That night they met, when he had come to his aid; what had happened to him since then? The longer he spent in this benighted country, the more he was drawn closer to the bosom of his lunatic family and his lunatic friends, the more different he became. Edward had failed, in every way, but it was not his fault. It was Joseph’s stubbornness, his lack of independent spirit, his unthinking reversion to what he had been used to before. Edward had offered him his respect, his intelligence, his companionship, and Joseph had replied with indifference and now, it seemed, the beginnings of hostility. Edward could see into his future and he knew, as certainly as he had ever known anything in his life, that it held nothing for him. He would be politely nudged to the side and then left out in the cold. He would have to return to the kitchen, to the Labour Exchange, to insignificance.

A pretty hostess rested her hand on the seat in front and dipped her head. “A cup of tea, sir?” she asked quietly for fear of disturbing Joseph.

“I’m sorry to be terribly difficult,” he said, “but I’m an awful flyer. Do you have any gin?”

If the hostess disapproved she did not show it. “Of course,” she said, smiling, and went back towards the galley.

No, Edward chided himself. He needed to pull himself together. It did not serve to brood on things that had not even happened. And, of course, he reminded himself, there was a chance he was over-reacting. That was another of his faults. He concentrated on being optimistic. He had taught himself, long ago, that one could summon the desired mood by simply acting in the fashion that best evoked that mood. If you wanted to be thoughtful, or cautious, or hearty, or joyous, then you simply had to act those emotions with every gesture. So, he would summon optimism: he forced himself to smile, straightened his back and squared his shoulders. If he was correct and there was a problem between them, then surely this trip would be the perfect opportunity to iron it out. It was Paris, for goodness sake! The City of Lights! Edward was confident that his memory of it was good. Joseph had never been to France, let alone Paris, and there would be ample opportunity to enjoy it. There would be museums, galleries, and excellent food and wine. That was the way to look at it: this was an opportunity. They had two days together with no distractions. There was no need to worry about Billy Stavropoulos, there would be no Eve to divert Joseph’s attention, they had no need to discuss Jack Spot or the folly of the Costellos’ appalling response. Two days. That ought to be ample for him to remind Joseph of why he had invited him into the family business. Optimism. This was an opportunity and he would take advantage of it.

* * *

THEY TOOK TWO ROOMS in a splendid little pension on the Left Bank and spent the day exploring. Edward was filled with anticipation for a day of culture and good living but Joseph seemed distracted and refused to be vigorous about anything. He showed no interest as Edward read him passages from his Baedeker, did not seem impressed as he spoke in deliberately bad French (his French was excellent, but that would be difficult to explain) and practically had to be dragged into the Louvre. He complained of boredom as Edward led the way through the narrow streets and sulked until Edward gave up and found a pavement bar where they could drink Bieres Excelsior and watch the mademoiselles go by. Joseph said that he was tired and wanted to sleep before dinner and, in the end, Edward suggested they go their separate ways and rendezvous later in the hotel bar. Edward walked all the way to Notre Dame and back and, by the time he reached the hotel with a half an hour to spare, his feet ached and he was in a bitter and resentful mood.

He reminded himself to be cheerful and, as Joseph came down the stairs to meet him, he popped up with a wide smile on his face. “I’ve read about a great place for dinner,” he proposed, tapping the cover of his Baedeker. “Do you like French food?”

“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “I’ve never had it.”

They took a taxi to Montmartre. The restaurant was off the beaten track, with ten tables, cheap bottles of excellent wine and wonderful food. They took a table on the terrace that offered a view of the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré Coeur. Edward explained the history of the district as they waited for their starters to arrive, telling Joseph about Dali, Modigliani, Monet, Mondrian, Picasso and van Gogh. Joseph was still preoccupied. Edward gritted his teeth with frustration. There they were, in the middle of Paris with a chance to drink in the atmosphere, and all Joseph could do was to ogle the women and make crass jokes at the expense of the French, usually at how they had been occupied by “Fritz.” Edward had known that Joseph was not predisposed towards culture but he had hoped that he might be swayed by all the art and the history that he would be able show him. That had not been the case. His conversation tonight was also tedious. Joseph had been pensive at first but, once the drink had loosened his tongue, he went on and on about what it had been like growing up in Little Italy, telling stories about the trouble that he and Billy had caused, and Edward had found the whole thing disinteresting and frustrating. It was ancient history and it betrayed narrow horizons. He seemed unable or unwilling to think about what he could achieve if he really put his mind to it.

Edward eventually persuaded him that they should book tickets to a music-hall show but their taxi driver took them through the Ninth Arrondissement so that they passed alongside Le Folies Bergère and Joseph told him to stop, and told Edward that he had heard about the women inside and that it would be a much more enjoyable way to spend the evening. Edward felt jaded and did not have the energy to argue. Why not, he conceded. They booked tickets for the midnight show and were allotted an excellent table near to the front. Joseph was quickly in buoyant spirits but Edward struggled to lift himself out of a despondent slough. The show was tedious and he was pleased when it was over. The day had not gone as he had planned. He wrote it off and tried to forget it. They had another day tomorrow. He would try harder then.

They took a taxi back to their hotel.

Joseph settled back and stretched out his legs. He looked to be drifting away to sleep when his eyes suddenly flicked open. “Damn!” he said. “I nearly forgot. I saw Billy before we came away. He said the strangest thing happened to him yesterday. He’d gone to the showroom to see Ruby about some business and he says this chap came in looking for you while he was there.”

Edward had a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. “For me?” he said in a deep voice, trying to hide his tremulousness.

“So he says. Billy said this bloke said he was your brother. I didn’t even know you had a brother.”

He thought rapidly. He did not have a brother or sister but perhaps the real Edward Fabian did? He had no idea. What would be the safest thing to say? There was no way of knowing. He wet his lips. “I do,” he said quickly. He prayed that Billy did not have a name, or that, if he did, he had not told Joseph.