Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”
“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”
Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”
“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”
“Do I need a dinner jacket?”
“Always a good idea at an English country house.”
“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”
“Of course you will.” She hung up.
Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”
Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”
“Perfect; see you then.”
Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.
“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”
“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”
“Know much about him?”
“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”
“Oh.”
“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.
Stone nodded.
“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”
Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.
“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”
“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.
“Get in!”
The doorman held the door open for him.
“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.
Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.
Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.
“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.
“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”
“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.
Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.
“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”
“Port.”
“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”
“All too easily.”
“And who was your host?”
“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.
“English or American?”
“American, but an anglophile.”
“Thus, the port.”
“Yes.”
“How did you like the Garrick?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“They’re just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”
“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.
He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the windshield to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the glass, and it was eye to eye with him. “Where are we?” he asked.
“In the middle of a flock of sheep,” Sarah replied. “They have the right of way in the country.”
“I mean, where are we?”
“Halfway there. You hungry?”
Oddly, he was. “Yes.”
“There’s a pub round the bend; we’ll have a ploughman’s lunch.” She drove on when the sheep had passed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch—bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.