“I’m sorry to see you on your own again, Seb,” said Grace once the applause had died down and everyone had resumed their seats. Seb didn’t respond. Grace took her nephew’s hand. “Hasn’t the time finally come for you to accept that Samantha is married and has another life?”
“I wish it was that easy,” said Seb.
“I regret not marrying and having children,” Grace confided, “and that’s something I’ve not even told my sister. But I do know that Emma wants so much to be a grandmother.”
“She already is,” whispered Seb. “And like you, that’s something I’ve never told her.”
Grace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “Sam has a little girl called Jessica,” Seb said. “I only needed to see her once to know she was my daughter.”
“Now I begin to understand,” said Grace. “Is there really no chance you and Samantha can be reconciled?”
“Not while her husband is still alive.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Grace, squeezing her nephew’s hand.
Harry was delighted to see his brother-in-law chatting amiably to Griff Haskins, the Labour Party agent for Bristol Docklands. Perhaps the wily old pro could still persuade Giles to allow his name to go forward, despite Major Fisher’s poisonous intervention. After all, Giles had been able to show that the letter was peppered with half-truths and was clearly an attempt to settle old scores.
“So have you finally made a decision about the by-election?” asked Harry, when Giles broke away from Griff to join him.
“I’ve not been left with a lot of choice,” said Giles. “Two divorces and a dalliance with an East German woman, who may even be a Stasi spy, doesn’t make one the ideal candidate.”
“But the press seem convinced that whoever the Labour candidate is, they’re certain to win by a landslide while this Tory government remains so unpopular.”
“It’s not the press or even the electorate who will select the candidate but a group of men and women who make up the local selection committee, and I can tell you, Harry, there’s nothing more conservative than a Labour Party selection committee.”
“I’m still convinced they’d back you now they know the truth. Why don’t you throw your hat in the ring and let them decide?”
“Because if they asked me how I feel about Karin, they might not like the answer.”
“It was kind of you to include me in such an illustrious occasion, Mrs. Clifton.”
“Don’t be silly, Hakim, your name was one of the first on the guest list. No one could have done more for Sebastian, and after that rather unpleasant experience with Adrian Sloane I shall be forever in your debt, which I know your countrymen don’t take lightly.”
“You have to know who your friends are, when you spend so much time looking over your shoulder, Mrs. Clifton.”
“Emma,” she insisted. “And tell me, Hakim, what exactly do you see when you look over your shoulder?”
“An unholy trinity that I suspect has plans to rise from the dead and once again try to take control of Farthings — and possibly even Barrington’s.”
“But Mellor and Knowles are no longer on the board of Barrington’s, and Sloane has forfeited whatever reputation he had in the City.”
“True, but that hasn’t stopped them forming a new company.”
“Mellor Travel?”
“Which I don’t imagine will be recommending that their customers book a holiday on the Barrington line.”
“We’ll survive,” said Emma.
“And I presume you know that Lady Virginia Fenwick is considering selling her shares in Barrington’s? My spies tell me she’s a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”
“Is she indeed? Well, I wouldn’t want those shares to fall into the wrong hands.”
“You needn’t worry about that, Emma. I’ve already instructed Sebastian to pick them up the moment they come on the market. Be assured that if anyone even thinks about attacking you again, Hakim Bishara and his caravan of camels will be at your disposal.”
“It’s Deakins, isn’t it?” said Maisie, as a thin, middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair came up to her to pay his respects. He was dressed in the suit he must have graduated in.
“I’m flattered that you remember me, Mrs. Clifton.”
“How could I ever forget? After all, Harry never stopped reminding me, ‘Deakins is in my class but, frankly, he’s in a different class.’”
“And I was proved right, Mother,” said Harry as he joined them. “Because Deakins is now Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. And like myself, he mysteriously disappeared during the war. But while I ended up in jail, he was at a place called Bletchley Park. Not that he ever reveals what went on behind those moss-covered walls.”
“And I doubt he ever will,” said Maisie, looking more closely at Deakins.
“‘Did you ever see the picture of “We Three”?’” said Giles, appearing by Deakins’s side.
“Which play?” demanded Harry.
“Twelfth Night,” said Giles.
“Not bad, but which character says the words and to whom?”
“The Fool, to Sir Andrew Aguecheek.”
“And who else?”
“Sir Toby Belch.”
“Impressive,” said Deakins, smiling at his old friend, “but for an alpha, which act and which scene?”
Giles fell silent.
“Act two, scene three,” said Harry. “But did you spot the one-word mistake?”
“Did you never see,” said Maisie.
This silenced the three of them, until Emma came across and said, “Stop showing off and circulate. This isn’t an old boys’ reunion.”
“She always was a bossy little thing,” said Giles as the old school chums split up and began to mingle with the other guests.
“When a woman shows some leadership,” said Maisie, “she’s immediately branded as bossy, but when a man does exactly the same thing, he’s described as decisive, and a born leader.”
“’Twas ever thus,” said Emma. “Perhaps we should do something about it.”
“You already have, my dear.”
After the last guest had departed, Harry and Emma accompanied Maisie back to her cottage.
“Thank you for the second happiest day of my life,” said Maisie.
“In your speech, mother,” Harry reminded her, “you said it was the happiest day of your life.”
“No, not even close,” replied Maisie. “That will always be reserved for the day I discovered you were still alive.”
5
Harry always enjoyed visiting his New York publisher, but he wondered if anything would have changed now that Aaron Guinzburg had taken over from his father as chairman.
He took the lift to the seventh floor, and when the doors slid open, he found Kirsty, Harold’s long-suffering former secretary, waiting for him. At least that hadn’t changed. Kirsty led him briskly down the corridor to the chairman’s office. A gentle tap on the door before she opened it, to allow Harry to enter another world.
Aaron, like his father before him, considered it must have been a clerical error by the Almighty that he had not been born on the other side of the Atlantic. He wore a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, probably tailored in Savile Row, a white shirt with a starched collar and a Yale tie. Harry could have been forgiven for thinking Aaron’s father had been cloned. The publisher jumped up from behind his desk to greet his favorite author.
Over the years the two of them had become close friends and, once Harry had sat down in the ancient leather armchair on the other side of the publisher’s large desk, he spent a few moments taking in the familiar surroundings. The oak-paneled walls were still covered in sepia photographs — Hemingway, Faulkner, Buchan, Fitzgerald, Greene and more recently Saul Bellow. Harry couldn’t help wondering if he would ever join them. He’d already outsold most of the authors on the wall, but the Guinzburgs didn’t measure success by sales alone.