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new,” muses Bliss a few minutes later as he takes the linen jacket and slacks from the boy, and then he spots the designer’s label and gives a low whistle. “No wonder you charge so much for dinner,” he quips as he slips on the coat and knots an Armani tie.
    â€œShoes, sir,” says John, handing Bliss a pair of hand-made Italian slip-ons without questioning his size.
    â€œYou’re good,” replies Bliss as he steps comfortably into them.
    â€œCommander Fox has taken zhe private dining room zhis evening,” explains Greasy, leading Bliss past some of London’s hottest celebrities who are basking in the cool of a monumental ice carving of the Trevi fountain centred in the main room.
    â€œHe would,” mutters Bliss, and mentally ups his order from Tournedos Rossini to Lobster Newburg, although he knows he’ll be lucky if he gets a nibble at the olive bowl.
    Candlelight glitters off diamonds and quartz alike, and as Bliss sweeps the glitzy restaurant he is unable to pick out the real from the fake. A few faces have a certain familiarity; movies or television, he assumes, though he rarely watches either and is at a loss for names.
    Greasy stops, hands on double doors, and turns to give Bliss a quick final inspection before pulling.
    â€œ
Bon anniversaire
,
monsieur
,” he says as he swings open the doors, and Bliss stands mute for a second before bursting into laughter.
    â€œYou bastards,” he says through the laughter as fiancée Daisy, daughter Samantha and her husband, Peter, Daphne Lovelace, and a host of colleagues stand with raised glasses, singing “Happy Birthday.”
    â€œHope you like your birthday present, Dad,” says Samantha as she hugs her father.
    â€œPresent?” he asks.
    â€œThe suit.”
    â€œI bought you the tie,” chirrups Daphne as Daisy gives him a kiss that brings a cheer and a round of applause from the room.
    â€œAnd I bought zhe shoes in Italy especially for you. You like,
non
?”
    â€œI like, no,” he parodies, but the biggest surprise of the evening comes after the cake and the port, when Samantha proposes a toast to her father then casually turns to him, adding, “A really great dad who is soon to become a grandfather.”
    The congratulatory cheer is immediately superseded by ageist quips, and one wag slips out to borrow the restaurant’s wheelchair. “This is for you, granddad,” he yells as he pushes it into the room. Half a dozen strong hands grab Bliss and drop him into the chair, and while he is still struggling to find the right pigeonhole in his brain for the information, he is shot out of the door and boisterously raced around the restaurant under the noses of the glitterati. Greasy’s upper lip quivers as he steps in to stop the fracas, and his French takes a dive as he mutters, “F’kin idiots.”
    â€œZhat is good news,
non
?” says Daisy on Bliss’s return.
    â€œYes. That is good news, no,” he agrees ambiguously, with a feeling that he is on the verge of another huge step on the road to eternity.
    Daisy’s visit is short-lived. “I have to go back to France tomorrow for my mozher,” she explains as they are driven home by Samantha after the birthday dinner, but Bliss has his own surprise.
    â€œNever mind. I’m taking the week off after the Queen’s visit on Friday. We could go to Venice.”
    Daisy turns up her nose. “Venice — in August?”
    â€œCorsica then,” he suggests, then snuggles close. “Anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”
    â€œIt is zhe festival of fireworks in Cannes on Saturday,” she reminds him excitedly, and he happily makes it a date.
    By midweek the heat has sparked a rash of mini riots as short-tempered drinkers spill out of bars and find nothing to dampen their spirits. Lexicographers perspire as they try to keep pace with the superlatives of exuberant