The Duke Begins

Henry's Birthday

Belgravia, London, 2003

Henry didn't feel like eating, but he pushed his food around the plate, listening to the chatter of people nearby. Bonnie, his father's new girlfriend, who was barely older than Henry himself, had done the seating plan. Curiously, she hadn't even asked him who his closest friends were or who he might want on his table, and it was his birthday party. He was minorly pissed off about it, and, had he had any desire to engage his father's girlfriend in conversation, which he didn't, he would have made a mental note to ask her about it later.

As a large team of waiters and waitresses descended to clear away the empty plates from the tables, Henry sat back, determined to enjoy his own party. But he didn't even know most of the guests; over half of them were friends of his father's and Bonnie's. If he was honest, it was embarrassing. Quite a different crowd to those who had come to his sister's 18th, three years ago, back when their mother was still alive. Aurelia, his sister, had taken a turn for the worst after their mother's death. Stopped eating entirely, and at one point she'd been hospitalised because her internal organs couldn't take the strain anymore.

He glanced across the room at his sister. She looked all right now. Beautiful, of course, but still too thin. Maybe not dangerously so, but always right on the line. He looked away and tried to focus on the vibe of the room, the feeling. Bunches of white and gold helium balloons gathered in the corners of the room, and yellow roses adorned the tables. A buzz of delighted chatter hung in the air, and a string quartet was playing in the corner of the room.

A heavy hand slapped down on his shoulder. Marcus Bonham was leaning over him, his gloriously red face and fat cheeks swollen with champagne and enthusiasm.

"I hear your father got you a sports car," he said.

Henry tapped the keys in his trouser pocket. "Yup. An Aston Martin."

"Wonderful. No drink driving though, Henry." He laughed and tapped sausage-like fingers to his rotund belly, where the buttons on his shirt looked about to pop. "So, what's next for the Great Henry Banville?"

Henry fiddled with the silk bow tie at his neck, aware that everyone else at the table was watching him, listening in to the conversation. Marcus Bonham was his godfather, and an esteemed business partner of his father's.

"Great? I hardly think I've done anything to earn that title yet," Henry said.

Marcus chuckled, and a little hiccup escaped his lips. "You were born great, Henry. Greatness lives in you whether you like it or not—" Marcus looked up to encompass the other guests. "—Don't you think?"

For a moment no one spoke and then a girl called Polly, leaned across the table. "There's a list going round Cheltenham Ladies'—" Her eyes were bloodshot and her words slightly slurred. She was drunk. Henry was already cringing at whatever she was about to say. "—'most fuckable men in London,' and you're the youngest one on there Henry."

"Goodness, is there really such a list?" said Marcus, alert as it was possible to be after a bottle of champagne. "It sounds positively illegal. Am I on it?"

Polly waved a hand and rolled her eyes. There was no way Marcus Bonham made it onto a list like that. He was close to fifty, and looked like a boiled toad. "It's not official," Polly said.  "It's just for fun. We cut the photos out of the Bystander, and rank them. It's all very egalitarian. We take a vote and everything." She added the latter as if that made it better, and suddenly realised that it didn't. "Oh sorry, Henry. It is true though. Most fuckable. Isn't that amazing? It's your eyes, I think. I've never seen anyone with eyes that are genuinely green like yours."

"Shut up, Polls," said Theo, who was sitting next to her. He nudged her and shot a look at Henry. "You're upsetting the birthday boy."

Suddenly Henry realised he was giving himself away. He relaxed his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip. "God, I'm not upset. I'm flattered—"