"Lavinia," he greeted her with a nod when the currents of the crowd brought them within reach.
"Max."
They stared at each other for a second.
"My ... partner Liam," continued Lavinia, finally.
Liam nodded as well.
"And are you ...?" asked Lavinia, gesturing in the air.
Max stuffed his hands inside his pockets, wishing he'd done so long before she come over. There was only one thing she could have been talking about. It was all they'd really had in common, their one-time engagement. Certainly they hadn't shared interests, political beliefs, or even taste in decorating. Max shook his head. "Still single."
"Oh, Max, really," she said, exasperated. "I meant to ask if you were well."
He assured her he was.
"And your sister?"
"She's doing better now, and she's married. I expect you knew that, though."
"It is difficult to miss the covers of the magazines," agreed Lavinia diplomatically. The whole of England probably knew about Sarah Pennington's flings, from the then-popular, now-washed-up rock singer at age 16, through a string of inexplicably hip actors, the rumors of a royal dalliance here and there ... the novelist twice her age and the Nobel laureate, and her final grand gesture with the drugs in the Soho club. That she'd survived and was happily settled in an unassuming Manchester neighborhood with her GP husband was something of a miracle to their family, though a disappointment to the tabloids, who ran little stories when the news was slow, wondering if she'd stray off the path again.
"And your father?"
"Becoming increasingly entrenched in his Conservative ways, I'm afraid," said Max, with a rueful shake of his head.
Lavinia shook her head as well, and Liam gazed across the room at a cluster of men. "Vino, I'll be right back," he said, handing her his drink, which she promptly placed on a table and forget about.
"He calls you Vino?" asked Max, watching Lavinia watch the departing Liam.
"Yes, it's tacky, but what can one do?" Lavinia brightened suddenly, taking one of Max's hands in both of her own. "Oh, Max, it's so good to see you! How long has it been? Eight years? Ten?"
Max counted backwards. "Nearly ten, now."
"Ten years." Lavinia smiled. "And how has ten years treated you? Have you written more novels?" she inquired delicately.
Max had to smile ruefully. It seemed that Lavinia had compensated for the lack of tact she'd displayed as a young woman. "You give me too much credit, I'm afraid. The novel never went much further than it was the day I last saw you."
"Then surely you're working for the BBC, like you intended?"
"Heaven forbid. No, I'm afraid I lean more towards Fleet Street than the Broadcasting House these days. I'm a middling member of the gang covering Whitehall; nothing more, nothing less."
"The Times?" she asked archly.
"The Guardian."
"Your father must be ever so pleased with you."
"We've agreed to disagree," said Max, feeling compelled to defend his father.
"Then that's one thing you got out of the debacle with that blond maid, then." Lavinia, looking nervous now, picked Liam's drink back up and took a sip. "The ability to disagree civilly."
"No, that didn't come along for quite some time," Max explained. "I had to go back to university to read journalism, and the next MP was Liberal, and he fell back into his old ways. It wasn't until I was working that he realized I really wasn't going to go for Parliament, and furthermore, if I did, I'd be as bad as the Liberal he so despised."
Lavinia nodded.
"And we had a few fights, and I got myself an assignment to Los Angeles for a while, but then Sarah, and his heart attack, and we smoothed things out."
"Los Angeles," Lavinia mused, turning Liam's drink around in her hands. "Then you were with the maid after all? What was her name--Emma? Eleanor? I'm certain it started with an 'E'."
"Elizabeth."
"That's right, Elizabeth of the sun-blonde hair and the eyes like the Pacific." Lavinia looked sour at the memory. "The whole affair really was like an American soap opera on the telly, wasn't it? Surely she died in some exciting fashion, sending you exiled back to Britain's benighted shores?"
"No, we ..." It was a touch embarrassing to admit, even now. "We were together for a few months, but I came home one night to find that she'd left a note on the couch and taken up with the boy she'd run to London to be away from."
Lavinia laid a hand on his arm, gently. "She was too young for you, Max."
"She was young, I was young, we were all to young. I stayed in California for a few more years, but when a spot opened up back here, I jumped on the chance to come home again."
"Home," Lavinia mused. "We really were a pair, weren't we? Both looking for a home and desperately clinging to what we thought could provide it."
"But I had a home," Max protested.
"Not you and I, Elizabeth and I," Lavinia corrected him. "Both young, both utterly alone in the world -- her by choice and me by chance -- grabbing desperately at you as if you were our only hope for happiness."
"And me trying my adolescent hardest to do what everyone didn't want me to do."
Lavinia wasn't done on the subject of Liz Wakefield. "She was alone in a strange country. It would have been surprising if she hadn't fixated on you. You were good looking, familiar in a way, with the money and comforts to provide her all the stability she was lacking."
"And you were alone in the world, no parents, no prospects. It couldn't have been pleasant for you."
"I had it easy, as such things go." Lavinia gestured at the fund-raising going on around them, the discreet posters and the pamphlets available. "There but for the grace of God ... one corrupt guardian and I could have been on the streets. You could have, too, if your father had his heart attack ten years, fifteen years earlier. I suppose I can count on you for a contribution?"
Max had to laugh in admiration of the way she'd decisively turned the conversation to the issue at hand. "Yes, the NSPCC can expect a cheque from me. Have your partner in extortion or one of your people give me a call with the details."
Lavinia laughed, too. "I didn't fool you for one minute, did I?"
"About Liam? The way he looked at you, 'Vino'--or rather the way he didn't; even if I didn't know he was queer, I'd know he wasn't interested." He handed over one of his business cards.
Lavinia took the card but didn't let go of his hand. "I'd like to see you again, not just at a party," she said. "Dinner? Some time next week?"
He wasn't adverse to the idea. "Pick a restaurant, then," he agreed. "You always were the one with opinions, and I can't imagine you've changed too much."
Lavinia smiled. "And you still need someone to be decisive, I see."
He could have said many things, but Max chose to smile back. "Until next time, then."
"Until next time." And she was gone.