River bounty (on my head)
Picnic on the river, organised by Eliza's godfather. First person we meet is a personable American slicing a ham. Jonathan goes pale, nervous laugh.
This man, T, stares at him.
Turns out he last spoke to J in the nineties when he repeatedly ordered J to break up with me as I was an evil witch. (I paraphrase: I was editing Londoner's Diary at the Evening Standard at the time & had run a story T & his gf had shared over Sunday lunch but didn't want to see in print.)
J, also a journalist back then, had apparently told T to get over it, go boil his head &c.
I recall the story was a good one: something about the V&A, which ran Apsley House at the time, mislaying all the Duke of Wellington's silver. The Duke of the day was also v cross & berated my father in his club. It was, as I say, a long time ago.
Back to the riverbank: there is a moment of recognition & some male back-slapping & "How the hell are you?". I attempt to shimmy away after murmuring that it must be 30 years since last we met.
"Twenty-nine, actually," T replies, the ham-knife pausing mid air.
A braver woman would have photographed the ham. Instead, figs & perry.
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