Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 3 - Anniversary Dinner

'So, Castella's second bull, of Don Gregorio Romero. Pepelito, if I remember correctly. What happened there? All the elements of a great afternoon, and we were deprived, just twenty minutes in.' Henry wore a suit and spoke English in an upper class accent. He put the piece of steak to his lips. He spoke coldly to the man seated next to him but loud enough so the 20 other people at the Taurine Club of Kensington's Anniversary Dinner could hear him.

'Yes, I can't remember the last time that happened. Not simply did it escape, it ran away and disappeared altogether! The Spanish police seem rather useless, don't they, Henry?' The man sitting next to him, George, rolled his eyes as he spoke. Behind Henry's seat was the Stubbs portrait of Lord Stedbury, a distant relation of his, seated on his horse. Hanging above the door, opposite the huge mahogany dining table, was the head of a stag.

'Yes, useless. I'm sceptical these supposed house to house enquiries exist,' Henry said.

'That bull is from one of the larger, more distinguished bloodlines,' said a third club member, Lord Owenstoft, who owned a grouse moor in Northumberland.

'Yes. It beggars belief that nobody has seen it. Although there is, of course, another possibility. The police might simply not want to retrieve the beast. It's often seemed to me that we at the Taurine Club love Spanish culture far more than the Spanish themselves.' Henry speared one of the carrots on his plate. The Cava on the table had cost 500 Euros. As in his Oxford days, Henry had insisted on paying for it in pound coins and having the cashier count them in front of him. Britannia ruled the waves after all.

'Well, one aspect of Spanish culture, anyway. I don't particularly care for the rest of it,' Lord Owenstoft said. They all laughed.

'I can't drink this rot, George, is this all you Winchester College boys could afford,' Henry said, taking a sip from a slightly less expensive bottle and pursing his lips in disgust.

'You'll have to get used to it, if Labour win the next election.' George laughed. He mentioned this unpleasant possibility far too often for Henry's liking.

The huge oak door creaked open. In strode Javier Castella himself. The Guest of Honour at this exclusive gathering of English aficionados. Often considered the best matador in Spain, Javier was used to being the centre of attention. A frequent guest at the Club’s meetings, Javier’s appearance had been scheduled for months. His cancelled corrida in Valladolid had given it an added urgency.

'My apologies for being late, ladies and gentlemen, my jet could not take off on time, because of the air traffic control strike in Madrid, I haven't managed to buy my way out of that yet,' he said. Everyone laughed and nodded in understanding.

‘My wife gives her apologies. She is enjoying a spa day at the Armitage Hotel.’ Javier smiled as the five-star establishment’s proprietor nodded approvingly, two seats down from Henry. Maria Silvera was a councillor for a right-wing party in a small town somewhere in Castile and Leon. Henry could never recall the town’s name. It was hardly important in any case.

'Any news about the bull, maestro?' George said. Heavens, he could be annoying, Henry thought. He should make allowances, poor fool was getting there but he still didn't have half the self confidence that his own, far superior education had instilled.

'Not yet,' Javier said, laughing. His face darkened as he looked round the room and clenched his fist around an imaginary sword.

On the table were several copies of the new edition of the club's magazine, La Salida. Its front page featured Javier, grinning, next to a dying brown bull. Henry picked it up and started flicking through it until he found his own article, 'The Perfect Corrida’. Not for the first time, he congratulated himself on his literary prowess. It was almost as good as his book, ‘The Perils of Regulation – How the Nanny State Holds Back Economic Growth.’