One hundred and twenty-eight

That evening, as they finished dinner, Ghita excused herself, leaving Blaine to explain to her father what happened to the priceless Silver Ghost.

‘I will be back in a little while,’ she said as she left.

Having heard the story of the attempted break-out, Omary took a sip of Saint-Émilion, savouring it as it went down.

‘The most magical thing in the world,’ he said, ‘is to have children and to watch them as they change.’ He paused, holding his glass up in the air. ‘I should like to toast you.’

‘Even though I’m partly responsible for ruining such a fine old car?’ said Blaine.

Hicham Omary waved the thought of it away with his hand.

‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just an object.’ Raising his glass a little higher, he said: ‘I toast you for the woman you have made out of Ghita – something I was unable ever to do.’

‘I love her,’ Blaine said quietly. ‘I love her more than she will ever understand.’

‘I know you do,’ Omary replied. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’