The Bone Clocks

“I heard rumors of that, yes. Some of Sharon’s and my Corkonian cousins were introducing Pete to the subtleties of Irish whisky. That’s a work of art you’re wearing, Mrs. Webber.”

To me Pauline Webber’s hat looks like a crash-landed crow with turquoise blood, but she accepts the tribute. “I swear by a hatter in Bath. He’s won awards. And call me Pauline, Brendan—you sound like a tax inspector with bad news. Now, a buttonhole—white for the bride’s side, red for the groom’s.”

“Very War of the Roses,” I offer.

“No, no,” she frowns at me, “these are carnations. Roses would be too thorny. And you’d be?”

“This is Ed,” says Ruth. “Ed Brubeck. Holly’s partner.”

“Oh, the intrepid reporter! De lighted. Pauline Webber.” Her handshake is gloved and crushing. “I’ve heard somuch about you from Sharon and Peter. Let me introduce you to Austin, who—” She turns to her missing husband. “Well, Austin’s dying to meet you too. We’re glad you got here in time. Delayed flights and bovva?”

“Yes. Iraq’s not the easiest of places to depart from.”

“No doubt. Sharon was saying you’ve been in that place, Fa—Faloofah? Falafel? Where they strung up the people on the bridge.”

“Fallujah.”

“Knew it began with ‘Fa.’ Appalling. Why arewe meddling in these places?” She makes a face like she’s smelling possibly gone-off ham. “Beyond the ken of us mere mortals. Anyway.” She hands me a white carnation. “I met Holly and your daughter, yesterday—Aoife, isn’t it? I could eat her with a spoon! What—a— sweetie.”

I think of the sulky goblin on the pier. “She has her moments.”

“Pippa! Felix! There’s a live babyin that pushchair!” Mrs. Webber dashes off and we proceed up the aisle. Brendan has a lot of hello-ing, handshaking, and cheek-kissing to do—there’s a big contingent of Holly’s Irish relatives in attendance, including the legendary Great-aunt Eilнsh, who cycled from Cork to Kathmandu in the late 1960s. I drift up to the front. By the vestry door, I spot Holly in a white dress, laughing at a red-carnation young male’s joke. Once upon a time I could make her laugh like that. The guy’s admiring her, and I want to snap his neck, but how can I blame him? She looks stunning. I stroll up. My new shirt is rubbing my neck, and my old suit is pinching the temporary bulge around my middle, which I’ll dispose of soon with a rigid regime of diet and exercise. “Hi,” I say. Holly basically ignores me.

“Hi,” says the guy. “I’m Duncan. Duncan Priest. My aunt’s buttonholed you onto Sharon’s side, I see.”

I shake his hand. “So you’re, um, Pauline’s nephew?”

“Yep. Peter’s cousin. Have you met Holly, here?”

“We bump into each other at weddings and funerals,” Holly says, deadpan. “These irksome family events that get in the way of one’s meteoric career.”

“I’m Aoife’s father,” I tell Duncan Priest, who’s looking baffled.

“ TheEd? Ed Brubeck? Your”—he points to Holly—“other half? Such a pity you missed Pete’s stag do last night, though.”

“I’ll learn to cope with the disappointment.”

Duncan Priest senses my pissed-offness and makes an o- kayface. “Rightio. Well, I’ll go and check up on, um, stuff.”

“You have to forgive Ed, Duncan,” says Holly. “His life is so full of adventure and purpose that he’s allowed to be rude to the rest of us lemmings, wage slaves, and sad office clones. By rights we ought to be grateful when he even notices we exist.”

Duncan Priest smiles at her, like a fellow adult in the presence of a misbehaving child. “Well, nice meeting you, Holly. Enjoy the wedding, maybe see you at the banquet.” Off he walks. Tosser.

I refuse to listen to the onboard traitor who says I’m the one being the tosser. “Well, that was nice,” I tell Holly. “Loyal too.”

“I can’t hear you, Brubeck,” she says witheringly. “You’re not here. You’re in Baghdad.”