We were sitting in the yacht club at Dun Laoghaire when I broached the idea, eating lobster and drinking Moët and Chandon, but he refused me instantly, declaring that he didn’t loan money to friends, as such acts of philanthropy always ended badly. “But we’re more than friends, surely,” I said, throwing myself on his mercy. “You’re my adoptive father, after all.” “Oh come along, Cyril,” he replied, laughing as if I was making a joke. “You’re twenty-five years old now—” “I’m twenty-one.”
