and the Eiffel Tower is crouched amid the white emptiness like a spider in its web. Just like in Henri Cartier-Bresson’s photos.
Dad hadn’t been keen on venturing out, but I’d insisted. I know how quickly he can get sucked into things and I had wanted to keep him to myself as long as possible. A mad walk
from the hotel to the Eiffel Tower in the burning cold seemed just the thing, but the tips of my toes are frozen now, even in my sturdy black boots, and I wish I’d put on another pair of
tights and remembered my gloves. I took a few photos on the way over here, but my fingers are too cold to take any more. I shrink down further into my coat, wrapping my scarf once more around my
neck.
‘The tower’s height varies something like ten or fifteen centimetres, depending on the weather,’ Dad says, coming up behind me. ‘“The frost performs its secret
ministry.” Here’ – he hands me a plastic cup of hot chocolate – ‘drink this before I have to phone your mother and tell her you’ve caught
pneumonia.’
‘You can’t catch pneumonia,’ I say, ‘only the infections that cause it.’
‘Where did you learn to be so pedantic?’
‘I wonder . . .’
And he gives a bellyful laugh like Father Christmas in the Coke adverts. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that. His hair is thinner now; it starts further back on
his forehead and I am sure there are more creases around his eyes. Running the country has made my dad old.
I take a sip of my hot chocolate. ‘How tall is it then, the Tower? Come on. I know you’re dying to tell me.’
‘Three hundred and twenty-four metres or roughly nine hundred and eighty-one feet, roughly equivalent to an eighty-one-storey building. Finished in eighteen eighty-nine, it was the
tallest building in the world for forty-one years until the Chrysler Building—’
‘Yes, thank you, Dad. The important question is can we climb it? And the answer to that is yes.’ But Dad’s face is not saying yes. It’s saying, ‘I have a meeting
with the French President on Thursday to discuss Anglo–Franco trade agreements and a mountain of reports to read before then.’ ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Another time.
We probably wouldn’t see much today with all the clouds anyway.’
‘The summit on Thursday with the President is very important, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make the most of our time here,’ he says.
So long as it doesn’t interfere with any planning. ‘Are you nervous about the meeting?’
‘Me? Nervous? No way, kiddo.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Kiddo?’
‘Not what all the kids are saying these days?’
‘No, Dad. Stick to being a boring old politician in a grey suit, all right? Seriously, though, do you ever get nervous?’ He has met so many leaders and dictators over the years.
Sometimes I am too scared to even read aloud in English class.
‘Sometimes. But it’s practice mainly, and preparation. And remembering that people are just people. Even the scary ones. I do like to be ready, though. It is so much easier to get
people on board if you understand one another. And unity is even more important now that the world is in such flux. There are a lot of angry people out there, Bobs. It’s important to shore up
relationships. Not everyone agrees with the way other nations conduct themselves. It’s my responsibility to ensure that no one can find fault with Britain.’
‘You’re talking like a politician.’
‘Am I?’
‘Dad, the fire at Bell-Barkov last year . . .’
‘What on earth has put that into your head now?’
‘On the plane Gordon said something about a security breach, and I’ve heard people saying that the AFC are angry with you because of something to do with Michael.’
‘The AFC are terrorists.’
‘But you’re not in danger or anything, are you?’
‘Me? Goodness, no. Nothing is going to happen to me.’
Gordon, who had been talking on his mobile, comes up to us then and says
Dad hadn’t been keen on venturing out, but I’d insisted. I know how quickly he can get sucked into things and I had wanted to keep him to myself as long as possible. A mad walk
from the hotel to the Eiffel Tower in the burning cold seemed just the thing, but the tips of my toes are frozen now, even in my sturdy black boots, and I wish I’d put on another pair of
tights and remembered my gloves. I took a few photos on the way over here, but my fingers are too cold to take any more. I shrink down further into my coat, wrapping my scarf once more around my
neck.
‘The tower’s height varies something like ten or fifteen centimetres, depending on the weather,’ Dad says, coming up behind me. ‘“The frost performs its secret
ministry.” Here’ – he hands me a plastic cup of hot chocolate – ‘drink this before I have to phone your mother and tell her you’ve caught
pneumonia.’
‘You can’t catch pneumonia,’ I say, ‘only the infections that cause it.’
‘Where did you learn to be so pedantic?’
‘I wonder . . .’
And he gives a bellyful laugh like Father Christmas in the Coke adverts. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that. His hair is thinner now; it starts further back on
his forehead and I am sure there are more creases around his eyes. Running the country has made my dad old.
I take a sip of my hot chocolate. ‘How tall is it then, the Tower? Come on. I know you’re dying to tell me.’
‘Three hundred and twenty-four metres or roughly nine hundred and eighty-one feet, roughly equivalent to an eighty-one-storey building. Finished in eighteen eighty-nine, it was the
tallest building in the world for forty-one years until the Chrysler Building—’
‘Yes, thank you, Dad. The important question is can we climb it? And the answer to that is yes.’ But Dad’s face is not saying yes. It’s saying, ‘I have a meeting
with the French President on Thursday to discuss Anglo–Franco trade agreements and a mountain of reports to read before then.’ ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Another time.
We probably wouldn’t see much today with all the clouds anyway.’
‘The summit on Thursday with the President is very important, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make the most of our time here,’ he says.
So long as it doesn’t interfere with any planning. ‘Are you nervous about the meeting?’
‘Me? Nervous? No way, kiddo.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Kiddo?’
‘Not what all the kids are saying these days?’
‘No, Dad. Stick to being a boring old politician in a grey suit, all right? Seriously, though, do you ever get nervous?’ He has met so many leaders and dictators over the years.
Sometimes I am too scared to even read aloud in English class.
‘Sometimes. But it’s practice mainly, and preparation. And remembering that people are just people. Even the scary ones. I do like to be ready, though. It is so much easier to get
people on board if you understand one another. And unity is even more important now that the world is in such flux. There are a lot of angry people out there, Bobs. It’s important to shore up
relationships. Not everyone agrees with the way other nations conduct themselves. It’s my responsibility to ensure that no one can find fault with Britain.’
‘You’re talking like a politician.’
‘Am I?’
‘Dad, the fire at Bell-Barkov last year . . .’
‘What on earth has put that into your head now?’
‘On the plane Gordon said something about a security breach, and I’ve heard people saying that the AFC are angry with you because of something to do with Michael.’
‘The AFC are terrorists.’
‘But you’re not in danger or anything, are you?’
‘Me? Goodness, no. Nothing is going to happen to me.’
Gordon, who had been talking on his mobile, comes up to us then and says
Similar Books
