“You must admit it’s the most ideal seat I’ve been considered for,” said Simon.
“Yes, but the chairman kept eyeing you suspiciously.”
“But Millburn mentioned that he had been at Eton with Charles Seymour.”
“That’s what worries me,” whispered Elizabeth.
“A 15,000 majority at the last election and only forty minutes from London. We could even buy a little cottage...”
“If they invite you to represent them.”
“At least this time you were able to tell them you would be willing to live in the constituency.”
“So would anyone in their right mind,” said Elizabeth.
The chairman came out and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to return once more to see the committee.
Oh, God, thought Simon. What else can they want to know?
“It’s too near London to be my fault this time,” chuckled Elizabeth.
The committee sat and stared at them with long faces.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman. “After our lengthy deliberations, I formally propose that Mr. Simon Kerslake be invited to contest Pucklebridge at the next election. Those in favor...?”
All twelve hands went up.
“Those against...?”
“Carried unanimously,” said the chairman. He then turned to Simon. “Do you wish to address your committee?”
The prospective Conservative Member of Parliament for Pucklebridge rose. They all waited expectantly.
“I don’t know what to say, except that I’m very happy and honored and I can’t wait for a general election.”
They all laughed and came forward and surrounded them. Elizabeth dried her eyes before anyone reached her.
About an hour later the chairman accompanied Simon and Elizabeth back to their car and bade them good night. Simon wound down his window.
“I knew you were the right man,” Millburn said, “as soon as Charles Seymour phoned” — Simon smiled — “and warned me to avoid you like the plague.”
“Could you tell Miss Trubshaw to come in?” Charles asked his secretary.
Margaret Trubshaw arrived a few moments later and remained standing in front of his desk. She couldn’t help but notice the change of furniture in the room. The modern Conran suite had been replaced by a leather clublike sofa. Only the picture of the eleventh Earl of Bridgwater remained in place.
“Miss Trubshaw,” began Charles, “since Mr. Spencer has felt it necessary to resign so suddenly I think it important for the bank to keep some continuity now that I’m taking over as chairman.”
Miss Trubshaw stood like a Greek statue, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her dress.
“With that in mind, the board has decided to extend your contract with the bank for a further five years. Naturally, there will be no loss in your pension rights.”
“Thank you, Mr. Charles.”
“Thank you, Miss Trubshaw.”
Miss Trubshaw almost bowed as she left the room.
“And Miss Trubshaw?”
“Yes, Mr. Charles,” she said, holding on to the door knob.
“I believe my wife is expecting a call from you. Something about inviting you to lunch at the Savoy Grill.”
Chapter seventeen
“A blue shirt,” said Raymond, looking at the Turnbull and Asser label with suspicion. “A blue shirt,” he repeated.
“A fortieth-birthday present,” shouted Kate from the kitchen.
I shall never wear it, he thought, and smiled to himself.
“And what’s more, you’ll wear it,” she said, her Boston accent carrying a slight edge.
“You even know what I’m thinking,” he complained as she came in from the kitchen. He always thought how elegant she looked in her tailored office suit.
“It’s because you’re so predictable, Carrot Top.”
“Anyway, how did you know it was my birthday?”
“A massive piece of detective work,” said Kate, “with the help of an outside agent and a small payment.”
“An outside agent. Who?”
“The local paper shop, my darling. In the Sunday Times they tell you the name of every distinguished person celebrating a birthday in the following seven days. In a week during which only the mediocre were born, you made it.”
Raymond had to laugh.
“Now listen, Carrot Top.”
Raymond pretended to hate his new nickname. “Do you have to call me by that revolting name?”
“Yes. I can’t stand Raymond.”
He scowled. “In any case, carrot tops are green.”
“No comment. Try on your shirt.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
He took off his black coat and waistcoat, removed his white shirt, and eased the stud on his stiff collar, leaving a small circle above his Adam’s apple. Curly red hairs stuck up all over his chest. He quickly put on the new gift. The fabric had a pleasant soft feel about it. He started to do up the buttons, but Kate walked over and undid the top two.
“You know what? You’ve brought a whole new meaning to the word ‘uptight.’”
Raymond scowled again.
“But in the right clothes you could even pass for good looking. Now. Where shall we go to celebrate your birthday?”
“The House of Commons?” suggested Raymond.
“Good God,” said Kate. “I said celebrate, not hold a wake. What about Annabel’s?”
“I can’t afford to be seen in Annabel’s.”
“With me, you mean?”
“No, no, you silly woman, because I’m a Socialist.”
“If members of the Labour party are not allowed to indulge in a good meal then perhaps it’s time for you to change parties. In my country one only sees the Democrats in the best restaurants.”
“Oh, do be serious, Kate.”
“I intend to be. Now what have you been up to in the House lately?”
“Not a lot,” said Raymond sheepishly. “I’ve been snowed under in court and...”
“Precisely. It’s time you did something positive before your colleagues in Parliament forget you exist.”
“Have you anything particular in mind?” asked Raymond, folding his arms across his chest.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Kate. “I read in the same Sunday paper as the one in which I discovered your best-kept secret that it is proving difficult for the Labour party to repeal the Tories’ trade union legislation. It appears there are long-term legal implications which the front bench are still trying to find a way round. Why don’t you set that so-called ‘first class’ mind of yours to working out the legal niceties?”
“Not such a stupid idea.” Raymond had become used to Kate’s political sense, and when he had remarked on it she had only said, “Just another bad habit I picked up from my ex-husband.”
“Now, where do we celebrate?” she asked.
“Compromise,” said Raymond.
“I’m all ears.”
“The Dorchester.”
“If you insist,” said Kate, not sounding over-enthusiastic.
Raymond started to change his shirt.
“No, no, no, Carrot Top, people have been known to wear blue shirts at the Dorchester.”
“But I haven’t got a tie to match,” said Raymond triumphantly.
Kate thrust her hand into the Turnbull and Asser bag and drew out a dark blue silk tie.
“But it’s got a pattern on it,” said Raymond in disgust. “What will you expect next?”
“Contact lenses,” said Kate.
Raymond stared at her, and blinked.
On the way out of the door Raymond’s gaze fell upon the brightly wrapped package that Joyce had posted from Leeds earlier in the week. He had completely forgotten to open it.