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were prepared for that. It would do you good to be better equipped.’
    Dexter frowned. ‘What, a career you mean?’
    ‘Partly.’
    ‘You sound like Dad.’
    ‘Good God, in what way?’
    ‘A proper job, something to fall back on, something to get up for.’
    ‘Not just that, not just a job. A direction. A purpose. Some drive, some ambition. When I was your age I wanted to change the world.’
    He sniffed ‘Hence the antiques shop,’ and she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
    ‘That’s now, this was then. And don’t get smart with me.’ She took hold of his arm and they began walking slowly again. ‘I just want you to make me proud, that’s all. I mean I’m alreadyproud of you, and your sister, but, well, you know what I mean. I’m a little drunk. Let’s change the subject. I wanted to talk to you about something else.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Oh – too late.’ They were in sight of the hotel now, three stars, smart but not ostentatious. Through the smoked plate glass window he could glimpse his father hunched in a lobby armchair, one long thin leg bent up to his knee, sock bunched up in his hand as he scrutinised the sole of his foot.
    ‘Good God, he’s picking his corns in the hotel lobby. A little bit of Swansea on the Via del Corso. Charming, just charming.’ Alison unlooped her arm and took her son’s hand in hers. ‘Take me for lunch tomorrow, will you? While your father sits in a darkened room and picks his corns. Let’s go out, just you and me, somewhere outside on a nice square. White tablecloths. Somewhere expensive, my treat. You can bring me some of your photographs of interesting pebbles.’
    ‘Okay,’ he said, sulkily. His mother was smiling but frowning too, squeezing his hand a little too hard, and he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I want to talk to my handsome son and I’m a little too drunk right now, I think.’
    ‘What is it? Tell me now!’
    ‘It’s nothing, nothing.’
    ‘You’re not getting divorced, are you?’
    She gave a low laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course not.’ In the hotel lobby his father had seen them, and was standing and tugging on the ‘push to open’ door. ‘How could I ever leave a man who tucks his shirts into his underpants?’
    ‘So tell me, what is it?’
    ‘Nothing bad, sweetheart, nothing bad.’ Standing on the street she gave him a consoling smile and put her hand in the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down to her height so that their foreheads were touching. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Tomorrow. We’ll talk properly tomorrow.’

CHAPTER THREE
The Taj Mahal
     

SUNDAY 15 JULY 1990
     
    Bombay and Camden Town
    ‘ATTENTION PLEASE! Can I have your attention? Some attention if you don’t mind? If you could listen? Don’t throw things, listen please? Please? ATTENTION, PLEASE? Thank you.’
    Scott McKenzie settled on his bar stool and looked out at his team of eight staff: all under twenty-five, all dressed in white denim jeans and corporate baseball caps, all of them desperate to be anywhere but here, the Sunday lunch-time shift at Loco Caliente, a Tex-Mex restaurant on the Kentish Town Road where both food and atmosphere were hot hot hot.
    ‘Now before we open the doors for brunch I’d just like to run through today’s so-called “specials”, if I may. Our soup is that repeat offender, the sweetcorn chowder, and the main course is a very delicious and succulent fish burrito!’
    Scott blew air out through his mouth and waited for the groaning and fake retching to subside. A small, pale pink-eyed man with a degree in Business Management from Loughborough, he had once hoped to be a captain of industry. He had pictured himself playing golf at conference centres or striding up the steps of a private jet, and yet just this morning he had scooped a plug of yellow pork fat the size of a human head from the kitchen drains. With his bare hands. He could still feel the grease between