Cometh the Hour

15

“Your mother told me I’d never get you to take the day off,” said Giles as his nephew joined him in the front seat.

“Especially to watch a game of cricket,” said Sebastian scornfully, pulling the door closed.

“This isn’t just any old game of cricket,” said Giles. “It’s the opening day of a Lord’s Test match against India, one of our oldest rivals.”

“It was still difficult to explain to my chairman, who’s Scottish, and to the bank’s owner, who’s Turkish and refuses to believe any sporting encounter could go on for five days and then end up without a result.”

“A draw is a result.”

“You try explaining that to Hakim Bishara. However, when I told him I’d be your guest, he was keen for me to accept the invitation.”

“Why?” asked Giles.

“Hakim and Ross Buchanan are both great admirers of yours, and Ross asked me to find out if there was any chance you would consider becoming a director of Farthings.”

“Why would he suggest that, when I know as much about banking as he does about cricket?”

“I don’t think your cricketing prowess is the reason they want you to join the board. But you do have certain skills that could be of benefit to the bank.”

“Like what?” asked Giles, as they turned off Hyde Park Corner and headed up Park Lane.

“You were a senior minister at the Foreign Office in the last government, and you currently sit in the Shadow Cabinet. Just think of the political contacts you’ve made over the years. And if we’re going to join the EEC, imagine the doors you could open that would be closed to our rivals.”

“I’m flattered,” said Giles, “but frankly I’m a politician at heart, and if we win the next election — and I’m convinced we will — I would hope to be appointed a minister again, and would therefore have to give up any directorships.”

“But that might not be for another three or four years,” said Seb, “during which time we could make good use of your knowledge, contacts and expertise to expand our interests in Europe.”

“What would my responsibilities be?”

“You’d have to attend a board meeting every quarter, and be on the end of a phone if Hakim or Ross need to seek your advice. Not too onerous, so I hope you’ll at least give it some thought.”

“A Labour politician on the board of a bank.”

“That might even be an advantage,” said Seb. “Show you don’t all hate business.”

“The first thing I’d need to do is find out how my colleagues in the Shadow Cabinet would react.”

As they drove around Marble Arch, Seb asked, “And how are you enjoying the Lords?”

“It’s not the Commons.”

“What does that mean?”

“The real power will always be in the Lower House. They instigate the bills, while we just revise them, which must be right while we’re an unelected chamber. Frankly I made a mistake not standing in the by-election. But I’m not complaining. It means I get to spend more time with Karin, so in a way I’ve ended up with the best of both worlds. And you, Seb?”

“The worst of both worlds. The woman I love lives on the wrong side of the Atlantic and, as long as her husband’s alive, there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

“Have you told your parents about Jessica?”

“No, not in so many words, but I have a feeling Dad already knows. He came to my office a few weeks ago to take me to lunch and spotted a painting on the wall entitled My Mom, signed ‘Jessica.’”

“And he put two and two together?”

“It wouldn’t have been difficult. My Mom couldn’t be anyone but Samantha.”

“But that’s wonderful on one level.”

“And dreadful on another, because Sam would never consider leaving her husband Michael while he’s lying in a coma in hospital.”

“Perhaps it’s time for you to move on.”

“That’s what Aunt Grace keeps telling me, but it’s not quite that easy.”

“After two failed marriages, I can hardly claim to be a role model,” said Giles. “But I did get lucky the third time, so there must still be some hope for you.”

“And the whole family’s delighted by how it’s worked out. Mum particularly likes Karin.”

“And your father?” asked Giles, as he drove into St. John’s Wood Road.

“He’s cautious by nature, so he may take a little longer. But that’s only because he’s got your best interests at heart.”

“Can’t blame him. After all, he and your mother have been married for over twenty-five years, and they still adore each other.”

“Tell me more about today’s game,” said Seb, clearly wanting to change the subject.

“For the Indians, cricket is not a game, it’s a religion.”

“And we’re guests of the president of the MCC?”

“Yes, Freddie Brown and I both played for the MCC, and he went on to captain England,” Giles said as he parked his car on a yellow line outside the ground. “However, you’re about to find that cricket is a great leveler. There’s sure to be an interesting mix of guests in the president’s box, who only have one thing in common — a passion for the game.”

“Then I’ll be the odd one out,” said Seb.

“The Cabinet Office.”

“It’s Harry Clifton. Could I have a word with the Cabinet Secretary?”

“Hold on please, sir, I’ll find out if he’s free.”

“Mr. Clifton,” said a voice a few moments later. “What a pleasant surprise. I was only asking your brother-in-law the other day if there had been any progress in getting Anatoly Babakov released.”

“Sadly not, Sir Alan, but that wasn’t the reason I was calling. I need to see you fairly urgently, on a private matter. I wouldn’t bother you unless I considered it important.”

“If you say it’s important, Mr. Clifton, I’ll see you whenever it’s convenient, and I don’t always say that, even to cabinet ministers.”

“I’m in London today to visit my publishers, so if by any chance you could fit me in for fifteen minutes this afternoon...”

“Let me check my diary. Ah, I see the prime minister is at Lord’s to watch the test match, where he’ll have an unofficial meeting with Indira Gandhi, so I don’t expect him back at No.10 much before six. Would four fifteen suit you?”

“Good morning, Freddie. It was kind of you to invite us.”

“My pleasure, Giles. Nice to be on the same side for a change.”

Giles laughed. “And this is my nephew, Sebastian Clifton, who works in the City.”

“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” said Sebastian, as he shook hands with the president of the MCC. He looked out onto the magnificent ground, which was quickly filling up in anticipation of the opening salvoes.

“England won the toss and have elected to bat,” said the president.

“Good toss to win,” said Giles.

“And is this your first visit to the home of cricket, Sebastian?”

“No, sir, as a schoolboy I saw my uncle score a century for Oxford on this ground.”

“Not many people have achieved that,” said the president, as two of his other guests entered the box and came across to join them.

Sebastian smiled, although he was no longer looking at the former captain of England.

“And this,” said the president, “is an old friend of mine, Sukhi Ghuman, not a bad spin bowler in his time, and his daughter Priya.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ghuman,” said Giles.

“Do you enjoy cricket, Priya?” Seb asked the young woman, whom he tried not to stare at.

“That’s a rather silly question to ask an Indian woman, Mr. Clifton,” said Priya, “because there wouldn’t be anything to talk to our men about if we didn’t follow cricket. How about you?”

“Uncle Giles played for the MCC, but when bowlers see me, they don’t expect it to be a lasting experience.”

She smiled. “And I heard your uncle say you work in the City.”

“Yes, I’m at Farthings Bank. And you, are you over here on holiday?”

“No,” said Priya. “Like you, I work in the City.”

Sebastian felt embarrassed. “What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a senior analyst at Hambros.”

Let’s wind back, Seb wanted to say. “How interesting,” he managed, as a bell rang and rescued him.

They both looked out onto the ground to see two men in long white coats striding down the pavilion steps, a signal to the packed crowd that battle was about to commence.

“Mr. Clifton, what a pleasure to see you again,” said the Cabinet Secretary as the two men shook hands.

“What’s the teatime score?” asked Harry.

“England are seventy-one for five. Someone called Bedi is taking us apart.”

“I rather hope they beat us this time,” admitted Harry.

“That’s nothing less than high treason,” said Sir Alan, “but I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. And by the way, congratulations on the worldwide success of Anatoly Babakov’s book.”

“You played your own role in making that possible, Sir Alan.”

“A minor role. After all, cabinet secretaries are not meant to appear on the stage, but be satisfied with prompting others from the wings. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Harry, “and as I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, I’ll get straight to the point.” Sir Alan leaned back in his chair. “Some years ago, you asked me to travel to Moscow on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, to carry out a private mission.”

“Which you did in an exemplary manner.”

“You may recall that I was required to memorize the names of a group of Russian agents operating in this country, and to pass those names on to you.”

“And most useful that has proved to be.”

“One of the names on that list was an agent called Pengelly.” The Cabinet Secretary reverted to being an expressionless mandarin. “I was rather hoping that is no more than a coincidence.” The wall of silence prevailed. “How stupid of me,” said Harry. “Of course you’d already worked out the significance of that particular name.”

“Thanks to you,” said Sir Alan.

“Has my brother-in-law been informed?” Another question that remained unanswered. “Is that entirely fair, Sir Alan?”

“Possibly not, but espionage is a dirty business, Mr. Clifton. One doesn’t exchange calling cards with the enemy.”

“But Giles is deeply in love with Pengelly’s daughter, and I know he wants to marry her.”

“She is not Pengelly’s daughter,” said Sir Alan. It was Harry’s turn to be struck dumb. “She’s a highly trained Stasi agent. The whole operation was a setup from the beginning, which we’re monitoring closely.”

“But Giles is bound to find out in time, and then all hell will be let loose.”

“You may be right, but until then my colleagues have to consider the bigger picture.”

“As you did with my son Sebastian, some years ago.”

“I will regret that decision for the rest of my life, Mr. Clifton.”

“And I suspect you will regret this one too, Sir Alan.”

“I don’t think so. If I were to tell Lord Barrington the truth about Karin Brandt, many of our agents’ lives would be put in danger.”

“Then what’s to stop me telling him?”

“The Official Secrets Act.”

“Are you absolutely confident that I wouldn’t go behind your back?”

“I am, Mr. Clifton, because if I know one thing about you, it’s that you would never betray your country.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Harry.

“That’s part of my job description,” said Sir Alan.

Harry would often visit his mother at her cottage on the estate during his four to six p.m. writing break, when they would enjoy what Maisie described as high tea: cheese and tomato sandwiches, hot scones with honey, éclairs and Earl Grey tea.

They would discuss everything from the family — her greatest interest — to the politics of the day. She didn’t care much for Jim Callaghan or Ted Heath, and only once, straight after the war, had voted anything other than Liberal.

“A wasted vote, Giles never stopped reminding you.”

“A wasted vote is when you don’t vote, as I’ve told him many times.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice that since her late husband had died, his mother had slowed down. She no longer walked the dog every evening, and recently she’d even canceled the morning papers, unwilling to admit her eyesight was failing.

“Must get back to my six to eight session,” said Harry. As he rose from his seat by the fire, his mother handed him a letter.

“Not to be opened until they’ve laid me to rest,” she said calmly.

“That won’t be for some years, Mother,” he said as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead, although he didn’t believe it.

“So, are you glad you took the day off?” Giles asked Sebastian as they walked back through the Grace Gates after stumps.

“Yes, I am,” said Seb. “Thank you.”

“What a glorious partnership between Knott and Illingworth. They may have saved the day for England.”

“I agree.”

“Did you have a chance to chat to Mick Jagger?”

“No, I didn’t speak to him.”

“What about Don Bradman?”

“I shook his hand.”

“Peter O’Toole?”

“I couldn’t understand a word he said.”

“Paul Getty?”

“We exchanged cards.”

“What about the prime minister?”

“I didn’t realize he was there.”

“From this scintillating exchange, Sebastian, should I conclude that you were distracted by a certain young lady?”

“Yes.

“And are you hoping to see her again?”

“Possibly.”

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“No.”

The three of them met once a week, ostensibly to discuss matters concerning Mellor Travel, on whose board they all sat. But as they didn’t always want their fellow directors to know what they were up to, the meeting was neither minuted nor official.

The Unholy Trinity, as Sebastian referred to them, consisted of Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles. They only had one thing in common: a mutual hatred of anyone named Clifton or Barrington.

After Mellor had been forced to resign from the board of Barrington’s and Sloane was dismissed as chairman of Farthings Bank, while Knowles departed from the shipping company without any “regrets” being minuted, they had become bound together by a common thread — to gain control of Farthings Bank, and then take over Barrington’s shipping company, by fair means or foul.

“I am able to confirm,” said Mellor as they sat quietly in the corner of one of the few London clubs that would have them as members, “that Lady Virginia has reluctantly sold me her seven and a half percent holding in Barrington’s Shipping, which will allow one of us to take a seat on the board.”

“Good news,” said Knowles. “I’m only too happy to volunteer for the job.”

“No need to be in such a rush,” said Mellor. “I think I’ll leave our fellow directors to consider the possible consequences of whoever I might select, so that every time the boardroom door opens, Mrs. Clifton will wonder which one of us is about to appear.”

“That’s a job I would also relish,” chipped in Sloane.

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Mellor, “because what neither of you know is that I already have a representative on the board. One of Barrington’s longest-serving directors,” he continued, “is experiencing a little financial difficulty, and has recently approached me for a fairly hefty loan that I feel sure he has no chance of repaying. So from now on, not only will I be getting the minutes of every board meeting, but also any inside information Mrs. Clifton doesn’t want recorded. So now you know what I’ve been up to during the past month. What have you two got to offer?”

“Quite a bit,” said Knowles. “I recently heard that Saul Kaufman only retired as chairman of Kaufman’s after everyone at the bank, including the doorman, realized he had Alzheimer’s. His son Victor, who couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, has temporarily taken his place while they look for a new chairman.”

“Then this must be our best chance to make a move?” said Mellor.

“I wish it were that easy,” said Knowles, “but unfortunately young Kaufman has begun negotiating a merger with Farthings. He and Sebastian Clifton were at school together, even shared a study, so Clifton’s got the inside track.”

“Then let’s make sure he trips up as he comes around the final bend,” said Sloane.

“I also picked up another useful piece of information,” continued Knowles. “It seems that Ross Buchanan intends to step down as chairman of Farthings some time in the New Year, and Hakim Bishara will take his place, with Clifton as CEO of the newly formed Farthings Kaufman Bank.”

“Will the Bank of England go along with such a cozy little arrangement?”

“They’ll turn a blind eye, especially now Bishara has ingratiated himself with the City. He’s somehow managed to get himself accepted as part of the establishment.”

“But,” interjected Mellor, “doesn’t the new government legislation demand that any proposed bank merger has to be vetted by the City regulators? So there’s nothing to stop us putting in a counterbid and stirring things up.”

“What’s the point, when we couldn’t begin to challenge Bishara’s deep pockets? All we could do is hold the process up, and even that wouldn’t come cheap, as we found to our cost last time.”

“Is there anything else we can do to prevent the merger?” asked Mellor.

“We could so damage Bishara’s reputation with the Bank of England,” said Sloane, “that they wouldn’t consider him a fit and proper person to run one of the City’s larger financial institutions.”

“We tried that once before,” Mellor reminded him, “and failed.”

“Only because our plan wasn’t foolproof. This time I’ve come up with something that will make it impossible for the City regulators to allow the merger to go ahead, and Bishara would have to resign as chairman of Farthings.”

“How can that be possible?” asked Mellor.

“Because convicted criminals are not allowed to serve on the board of a bank.”

16

“Am I ugly?”

“Need you ask?” said Clive Bingham as he sat at the bar sipping a pint of beer.

“And stupid?”

“Never in any doubt,” said Victor Kaufman.

“Then that explains it.”

“Explains what?” asked Clive.

“My uncle took me to Lord’s last Thursday.”

“To watch England thrash the Indians.”

“True, but I met this girl...”

“Ah, the fog is lifting,” said Victor.

“And you fancied her,” said Clive.

“Yes, and what’s more, I thought she quite liked me.”

“Then she must be dumb.”

“But when I called her the next day and asked her to dinner, she turned me down.”

“I like the sound of this woman.”

“So as we both work in the City, I suggested lunch.”

“And she still spurned you?”

“Out of hand,” said Seb. “So I asked her if she—”

“Would consider dispensing with the meals and—”

“No, if she’d like to see Laurence Olivier in The Merchant of Venice.”

“And she still turned you down?”

“She did.”

“But you can’t get tickets for that show even from touts,” said Victor.

“So I’ll ask you again. Am I ugly?”

“We’ve already established that,” said Clive, “so all that’s left to discuss is which one of us will be your date for Merchant.”

“Neither of you. I haven’t given up yet.”

“I thought you told me you liked Sebastian?”

“I did. He was wonderful company for a day I’d been dreading,” said Priya.

“So why did you turn him down?” asked her flatmate.

“It was just unfortunate that on all three days he asked me out, I already had something else on.”

“And you couldn’t rearrange any of them?” asked Jenny.

“No, my father had invited me to the ballet on Wednesday evening. Margot Fonteyn in Swan Lake.”

“OK, I’ll accept that one. Next?”

“On Thursday, my boss asked me to attend a lunch he was giving for an important client who was flying in from New Delhi.”

“Fair enough.”

“And on Friday I always do my hair.”

“Pathetic.”

“I know! But by the time I’d thought about it, he was no longer on the line.”

“Pathetic,” Jenny repeated.

“And worse, Dad rang the next day to say something had come up and he had to fly to Bombay, and would I like the tickets. Fonteyn in Swan Lake. Can I tempt you, Jenny?”

“You bet. But I’m not going with you, because you are going to call Sebastian, tell him your father can’t make it and ask him if he’d like to join you.”

“I can’t do that,” said Priya. “I couldn’t possibly phone a man and ask him out.”

“Priya, it’s 1971. It’s no longer frowned upon for a woman to ask a man out.”

“It is in India.”

“But we’re not in India, just in case you hadn’t noticed. And what’s more, you phone men all the time.”

“No, I do not.”

“Yes you do. It’s part of your job, and you’re rather good at it.”

“That’s different.”

“So it would be all right to call Sebastian and discuss the drop in interest rates, but not to invite him to the ballet.”

“Perhaps he’ll call me again.”

“And perhaps he won’t.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to see Fonteyn?”

“Of course I do. And if you give me the tickets I’ll phone Sebastian and ask him if he’d like to be my date.”

“There’s a Jenny Barton on line one, Mr. Clifton.”

“Jenny Barton, Jenny Barton... Doesn’t ring a bell. Did she say which company she’s from?”

“No, she said it was a personal matter.”

“I can’t place her, but I suppose you’d better put her through.”

“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. You don’t know me, but I share a flat with Priya Ghuman.” Seb nearly dropped the phone. “You rang Priya yesterday and invited her to dinner.”

“And lunch, and the theatre, all of which she turned down.”

“Which she now regrets, so if you were to call her again, I think you’ll find she might be free on Wednesday night after all.”

“Thank you, Miss Barton,” said Seb. “But why didn’t she call herself?”

“You may well ask. Because after what she told me about you, I certainly wouldn’t have turned you down.” The line went dead.

“I had no idea you were interested in the ballet, Sebastian. I always think of you as more of a theatre buff.”

“You’re quite right, Mother. In fact it will be my first visit to the Royal Opera House.”

“Then be warned, don’t bother to have lunch.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s all very civilized at Covent Garden. You have dinner throughout the evening. They serve the first course before the curtain goes up, the main course during the long interval, and coffee, cheese and biscuits after the curtain comes down. Who are you taking?”

“I’m not. I’m a guest.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Stop fishing, Mother.”

Sebastian arrived at the Royal Opera House a few minutes before seven, surprised by how nervous he felt. But then, as Clive had so helpfully reminded him, it was his first date for some time. He scanned the crowd streaming through the front doors, and then he saw her. Not that he could have missed her. Priya’s long dark hair and deep brown eyes were complemented by a striking red silk dress that made him feel she should be gracing the cover of Vogue rather than hidden away analyzing profits and losses in the deep recesses of a bank. Her face lit up the moment she spotted him.

“Wow,” he said. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you,” Priya replied, as Seb kissed her on the cheek as if she were his aunt Grace.

“I’m sure you’ve been to the House many times before,” she said, “so you’ll be familiar with the routine.”

“No, it’s my first visit,” admitted Seb. “In fact, I’ve never been to the ballet before.”

“Lucky you!”

“What do you mean?” asked Seb as they entered the restaurant on the ground floor.

“You’ll either be hooked for life, or you won’t ever want to come again.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Seb.

Priya stopped at the entrance. “We have a booking in the name of Ghuman.”

“Please follow me, madam,” said the maître d’, who led them to their table and, once they were seated, handed each of them a menu.

“They serve the first course before the curtain goes up, and we have to order the main course at the same time so they can have it ready for us at the interval.”

“Are you always this organized?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Priya. “I was only trying to help.”

“And I was only teasing,” said Seb. “But then, when you’ve got a mother like mine, it goes with the territory.”

“Your mother is a remarkable lady, Seb. I wonder if she knows just how many women look upon her as a role model?”

A waiter appeared at their side, his order pad open.

“I’ll have the asparagus, and Dover sole,” said Priya.

“And I’ll have the duck pâté, and a lamb chop,” said Seb, “and I’d like to order a bottle of wine.”

“I don’t drink,” said Priya.

“I’m sorry. What would you like?”

“Water will be fine, thank you. But don’t let me stop you.”

Seb checked the wine list. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot,” he said.

“As a banker,” said Priya, “you’d approve of how well this place is run. Most of the courses are simple and easy to prepare, so when you return to your table at the end of each act, they can serve you quickly.”

“I can see why you’re an analyst.”

“And you head up the property division of Farthings, which must be quite a responsibility for someone—”

“—of my age? As you well know, banking is a young man’s game. Most of my colleagues are burnt out by forty.”

“Some at thirty.”

“And it still can’t be easy for a woman to make headway in the City.”

“One or two of the banks are slowly coming around to accepting that it’s just possible a woman might be as bright as a man. However, most of the older establishments are still living in the dark ages. Which school you went to, or who your father is, often outranks ability or qualifications. Hambros is less Neanderthal than most, but they still don’t have a woman on the board, which is also true of every other major bank in the City, including Farthings.”

Three bells rang.

“Does that mean the players are about to come out onto the pitch?”

“As you’re a regular theatregoer, you’ll know that’s the three-minute bell.”

Seb followed her out of the restaurant and into the auditorium as she seemed to know exactly where she was going. He wasn’t surprised when they were shown to the best seats in the house.

From the moment the curtain rose and the little swans fluttered out onto the stage, Seb was transported into another world. He was captivated by the dancers’ skills and artistry, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, the prima ballerina made her entrance, and he knew he would be returning again and again. When the curtain fell at the end of the second act and the applause had died down, Priya led him back to the restaurant.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked as they sat down.

“I was spellbound,” he said, looking directly at her. “And I enjoyed Margot Fonteyn’s performance as well.”

Priya laughed. “My father first took me to the ballet when I was seven years old. Like all little girls, I left the theatre wanting to be one of the four cygnets, and it’s been an unbroken love affair ever since.”

“I had the same feeling when my father first took me to Stratford to see Paul Robeson in Othello,” Seb said as a lamb chop was placed in front of him.

“How fortunate you are.” Seb looked puzzled. “You’ll now be able to see all the great ballets for the first time. Mind you, starting with Fonteyn won’t make it easy for those who follow her.”

“My father once told me,” said Seb, “that he wished he’d never read a word of Shakespeare until he was thirty. Then he could have seen all thirty-seven plays without knowing the endings. I now realize exactly what he meant.”

“I just don’t get to the theatre enough.”

“I did invite you to The Merchant of Venice, but—”

“I had something on that night. But I can now get out of it, so I’d love to go with you. Assuming you haven’t offered the ticket to someone else.”

“I’m sorry, but two of my friends were desperate to see Olivier, so...”

“I understand,” said Priya.

“But I turned them down.”

“Why?”

“They both have hairy legs.”

Priya burst out laughing.

“I know you—”

“Where do you—”

“No, you first,” said Priya.

“I just have so many questions I want to ask you.”

“Me too.”

“I know you went to St. Paul’s and then Girton, but why banking?”

“I’ve always been fascinated by figures and the patterns they create, especially when you have to explain their significance to men, who so often are only interested in a short-term gain.”

“Like me, perhaps?”

“I hope not, Seb.”

It could have been Samantha speaking. He wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time. “How long have you been with Hambros?”

“Just over three years.”

“So you must be thinking about your next move?”

“So like a man,” said Priya. “No, I’m very happy where I am, although I do get depressed when inadequate men are promoted to positions above their actual ability. I wish banking was like the ballet. If it was, Margot Fonteyn would be governor of the Bank of England.”

“I don’t think Sir Leslie O’Brien would make a very good black swan,” said Seb as the three-minute bell rang. He quickly drained his glass of wine.

Priya was right, because Seb couldn’t take his eyes off the black swan, who mesmerized the entire audience with her brilliance, and when the curtain fell at the end of act three, he was desperate to find out what would happen in the final act.

“Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” he said as they returned to their table.

“I won’t,” said Priya. “But savor the moment, because sadly you can only have this unique experience once.”

“Perhaps you’ll have the same experience when I take you to The Merchant of Venice.”

“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica, look how—”

Sebastian bowed his head.

“I’m so sorry,” said Priya. “What did I say?”

“Nothing, nothing. You just reminded me of something.”

“Or someone?”

Seb was rescued by the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please take your seats, the final act is about to begin.”

The final act was so moving, and Fonteyn so captivating, that when Seb turned to see if it was having the same effect on Priya, he thought he saw a tear trickling down her cheek. He took her hand.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m making a fool of myself.”

“That wouldn’t be possible.”

When the curtain finally fell, Seb joined in the ten-minute standing ovation, and Margot Fonteyn received so many curtain calls and bouquets she could have opened a flower shop. As they left the auditorium, he took Priya’s hand as they strolled back to the restaurant, but she seemed nervous and didn’t speak. Once coffee had been served, Priya said, “Thank you for a wonderful evening. Being with you was like seeing Swan Lake for the first time. I haven’t enjoyed a performance so much in a long time.” She hesitated.

“But something is worrying you.”

“I’m a Hindu.”

Seb burst out laughing. “And I’m a Somerset yokel, but it’s never worried me.”

She didn’t laugh. “I don’t think I can come to the theatre with you, Seb.”

“But why not?”

“I’m frightened of what might happen if we see each other again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you my father had to return to India.”

“Yes, I assumed on business.”

“Of a kind. My mother has spent the past few months selecting the man I will be expected to marry, and I think she’s made her final choice.”

“No,” said Seb, “that can’t be possible.”

“All that’s needed now is my father’s approval.”

“You have no choice, no say in the matter?”

“None. You have to understand, Seb, it’s part of our tradition, our heritage and our religious beliefs.”

“But what if you were to fall in love with someone else?”

“I would still have to honor my parents’ wishes.” Seb leaned across the table to take her hand, but she quickly withdrew it. “I will never forget the night I saw Swan Lake with you, Seb. I will cherish the memory for the rest of my life.”

“And so will I, but surely...” But when he looked up, like the black swan, she had disappeared.

17

“So how did last night go?” asked Jenny, as she placed two eggs in a saucepan of warm water.

“It couldn’t have been much worse,” Priya replied. “Didn’t work out at all as I’d planned.”

Jenny turned around to see her friend on the verge of tears. She rushed across, sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. “That bad?”

“Worse. I liked him even more the second time. And I blame you.”

“Why me?”

“Because if you’d agreed to come to the ballet with me, none of this would have happened.”

“But that’s good.”

“No, it’s awful. At the end of the evening I walked out on him, after telling him I never wanted to see him again.”

“What did he do to make you so angry?”

“He made me fall in love with him, which wasn’t what I intended.”

“But that’s fantastic, if he feels the same way.”

“But it can only end in disaster when our parents—”

“I’m pretty sure Seb’s parents will welcome you as a member of their family. Everything I’ve ever read about them suggests they’re extremely civilized.”

“It’s not his parents I’m worried about, it’s mine. They just wouldn’t consider Sebastian a suitable—”

“We’re living in the modern world, Priya. Mixed-race marriage is becoming quite the thing. You should take your parents to see Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.”

“Jenny, a black man wanting to marry a white woman in 1960s America is nothing compared to a Hindu falling in love with a Christian, believe me. Did you notice in that film, they never once discussed religion, only the color of his skin? I realize it’s not unknown for an Indian to marry someone of a different race, especially if they’re both Christians. But it’s not something a Hindu would ever consider. If only I hadn’t gone to that cricket match.”

“But you did,” said Jenny, “so you’ll have to deal with reality. Would you rather try and build a worthwhile relationship with Sebastian, or please your parents by marrying a man you’ve never met?”

“I just wish it was that simple. I tried to explain to Seb last night what it’s like to be brought up in a traditional Hindu household, where heritage, duty—”

“What about love?”

“That can come after marriage. I know it did for my mother and father.”

“But your father’s met Sebastian, so surely he’d understand.”

“The possibility of his daughter marrying a Christian will never even have crossed his mind.”

“He’s an international businessman who sent you to St. Paul’s, and was so proud when you won a place at Cambridge.”

“Yes, and he made it possible for me to achieve those things, and has never asked for anything in return. But when it comes to who I should marry, he’ll be immovable, and I’ll be expected to obey him. I’ve always accepted that. My brother was married to someone he’d never met, and my younger sister is already being prepared to go through the same process. I could face defying my parents if I felt that in time they might come around, but I know they never will.”

“But surely they must accept that there’s a new world order and things have changed?”

“Not for the better, as my mother never tires of telling me.”

Jenny ran across to the stove as the water bubbled over the rim of the saucepan and rescued two very hard-boiled eggs. They both laughed. “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Jenny.

“There’s nothing I can do. I told him we couldn’t see each other again, and I meant it.”

There was a firm rap on the front door.

“I’ll bet that’s him,” said Jenny.

“Then you have to answer it!”

“Sorry. Got another egg to boil, and can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

A second rap on the door, even firmer.

“Get on with it,” said Jenny, remaining by the stove.

Priya prepared a little speech as she walked slowly into the hall.

“I’m sorry, but—” she began as she opened the front door to find a young man standing on the doorstep holding a red rose.

“Are you Miss Priya Ghuman?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I was asked to give you this.”

Priya thanked him, closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Was it him?” asked Jenny.

“No, but he sent this,” she said, holding up the rose.

“I really must start going to more cricket matches,” said Jenny.

“On the hour, every hour?” asked Clive.

“That’s right,” said Seb.

“And for just how long do you intend to keep sending her a rose on the hour, every hour?” asked Victor.

“For as long as it takes.”

“There’s got to be one very happy florist out there somewhere.”

“Tell me, Vic, do Jewish parents feel as strongly about their children marrying outside their faith?”

“I have to admit,” said Vic, “when my parents invited Ruth to dinner three Fridays in a row, I knew the only thing I was going to be allowed to choose was the vegetables.”

“How can we even begin to understand the pressure Priya must be facing?” said Clive. “I feel for her.”

“On a lighter note, Seb,” said Victor, “does this mean you won’t be taking her to The Merchant of Venice at the National tonight?”

“It seems unlikely, so you may as well have my tickets.” He took out his wallet and handed them to Clive. “Hope you both enjoy it.”

“We could toss a coin,” said Victor, “to decide which one of us goes with you.”

“No, I have other plans for tonight.”

“It’s Miss Jenny Barton on line three, Mr. Clifton.”

“Put her through.”

“Hi, Seb. I was just calling to say hang in there. She’s weakening.”

“But she hasn’t replied to any of my letters, doesn’t answer my calls, won’t acknowledge—”

“Perhaps you should try to see her.”

“I see her every day,” said Seb. “I’m standing outside Hambros when she turns up for work in the morning, and again when she catches her bus in the evening. I’m even there when she gets back to her flat at night. If I try any harder, I could be arrested for stalking.”

“I’m visiting my parents in Norfolk this weekend,” said Jenny, “and I won’t be back until Monday morning. I can’t do much more to help, so get on with it.”

It was raining when Priya left the bank on Friday evening. She put up her umbrella and kept her head down, looking out for puddles as she made her way to the bus stop. Of course he was waiting for her, as he had been every night that week.

“Good evening, Miss Ghuman,” he said, and handed her a rose.

“Thank you,” she replied before joining the queue.

Priya climbed on board the bus and took a seat on the top deck. She glanced out of the window and for a moment thought she spotted Seb hiding in the shadows of a shop doorway. When she got off the bus in Fulham Road, another young man, another rose, another thank you. She ran to the flat as the rain became heavier by the minute. By the time she put her key in the front door she was frozen. She’d decided on a quick supper, a warm bath and early bed, and tonight she would even try and get some sleep.

She was taking a yogurt out of the fridge when the door bell rang. She smiled, and checked her watch: the last rose of the day, which would join all the others in the vase on the hall table. Wondering just how long Seb would keep this up, she walked quickly to the door, not wanting the young man to get drenched. She opened it to find him standing there, an umbrella in one hand, a rose in the other.

Priya slammed the door in his face, sank to the floor and burst into tears. How could she continue to treat him so badly, when she was the one to blame? She sat in the hallway, hunched up against the wall. It was some time before she slowly picked herself up and made her way back to the kitchen. The light was fading, so she walked across to the window and drew the curtains. It was still raining — what the English describe as cats and dogs. And then she saw him, head down, sitting on the curb on the far side of the road, rain cascading off his umbrella into the gutter. She stared at him through the tiny gap in the curtain, but he couldn’t see her. She must tell him to go home before he caught pneumonia. She ran to the door, opened it and shouted, “Sebastian.” He looked up. “Please go home.”

He stood up, and she knew she should have closed the door immediately. He began walking slowly across the road toward her, half expecting the door to be slammed in his face again. But she didn’t close it, so he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

“I don’t want to go on living if I can’t be with you,” he said.

“I feel the same way. But you must realize it’s hopeless.”

“I’ll go and see your father as soon as he comes back from India. I can’t believe he won’t understand.”

“It won’t make any difference.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about it before he returns.”

“The first thing we’re going to have to do is get you out of that suit. You’re soaking.” As she took off his jacket, he leaned forward and began to undo the tiny buttons on her blouse.

“I’m not soaking,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered, as they continued to undress each other. He took her in his arms and kissed her for the first time. They fumbled around like teenagers, discovering each other’s bodies, slowly, gently, so when they finally made love, for Sebastian it was as if it was for the first time. For Priya it was the first time.

For the rest of the weekend they never left each other, even for a moment. They ran together in the park each morning, she cooked while he laid the table, they went to the cinema, not watching much of the film, laughed and cried, and lost count of how many times they made love. The happiest weekend of her life, she told him on Monday morning.

“Let me tell you about my master plan,” he said as they sat down for breakfast.

“Does it begin with making love in the corridor?”

“No, but let’s do that every Friday night. I’ll stand out in the rain.”

“And I’ll tell you to go home.”

“Home. That reminds me, my master plan. Next weekend I want to take you down to the West Country so you can meet my parents.”

“I’m so worried they won’t—”

“Think I’m good enough for you? They’d be right. I suspect the real problem will be convincing your father that I’ll ever be good enough for you, but I’ll go and see him the moment he’s back in England.”

“What will you say to him?”

“I’ve fallen in love with your daughter, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“But you haven’t even proposed.”

“I would have done at Lord’s, but I knew you’d only laugh at me.”

“He won’t laugh. He’ll only ask you one thing,” she said softly.

“And what will that be, my darling?”

Her words were barely audible. “Have you slept with my daughter?”

“If he does, I’ll tell him the truth.”

“Then he’ll either kill you, or me, or both of us.”

Seb took her back in his arms. “He’ll come around once he sees how much we care for each other.”

“Not if my mother’s already chosen a suitable man for me to marry, and the two families have come to an understanding. Because just before my father flew to India, I gave him my word I was still a virgin.”

During the week, Seb spoke to his mother and father, and they were not only delighted by his news, but couldn’t wait to meet their future daughter-in-law. Priya was heartened by their response, but couldn’t hide how anxious she was about how her father would react. He phoned her on Thursday to say he was on his way back to England and had some exciting news to share with her.

“And we have some exciting news to share with him,” said Seb, trying to reassure her.

On Friday evening, Seb left the bank early, only stopping off on the way to buy another bunch of roses. He then continued across town to the Fulham Road to pick up Priya before they traveled down to the West Country together. He couldn’t wait to introduce her to his parents. But first he must thank Jenny for all she’d done to make it possible, and this time he would give the roses to her. He parked outside the flat, jumped out of the car and rang the doorbell. It was some time before the door opened, and when it did he felt his legs give way. Jenny stood there shaking uncontrollably, a red swelling on her cheek.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

“They’ve taken her away.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her father and brother turned up about an hour ago. She put up a fight, and I tried to help, but the two of them dragged her out of the flat, threw her in the back of a car and drove off.”

18

“It was good of you to see us at such short notice, Varun,” said Giles. “Especially on a Saturday morning.”

“My pleasure,” said the High Commissioner. “My country will always be in your debt for the role you played as foreign minister when Mrs. Gandhi visited the United Kingdom. But how can I help, Lord Barrington? You said on the phone the matter was urgent.”

“My nephew, Sebastian Clifton, has a personal problem he’d like your advice on.”

“Of course. If I can assist in any way, I will be happy to do so,” he said, turning to face the young man.

“I’ve come up against what seems to be an intractable problem, sir, and I don’t know what to do about it.” Mr. Sharma nodded. “I’ve fallen in love with an Indian girl, and I want to marry her.”

“Congratulations.”

“But she’s a Hindu.”

“As are eighty percent of my countrymen, Mr. Clifton, myself included. Therefore should I assume the problem is not the girl, but her parents?”

“Yes, sir. Although Priya wants to marry me, her parents have chosen someone else to be her husband, someone she hasn’t even met.”

“That’s not uncommon in my country, Mr. Clifton. I didn’t meet my wife until my mother had selected her. But if you think it might help, I will be happy to have a word with Priya’s parents and try to plead your case.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I’d be most grateful.”

“However, I must warn you that if the family has settled the contract with the other parties concerned, my words may well fall on deaf ears. But please,” continued the High Commissioner as he picked up a notepad from the table by his side, “tell me everything you can about Priya, before I decide how to approach the problem.”

“Yesterday evening, Priya and I had planned to drive down to the West Country so she could meet my parents. When I arrived at her flat to pick her up, I found that she had, quite literally, been kidnapped by her father and brother.”

“May I know their names?”

“Sukhi and Simran Ghuman.”

The High Commissioner shifted uneasily in his chair. “Mr. Ghuman is one of India’s leading industrialists. He has very strong business and political connections, and I should add that he also has a reputation for ruthless efficiency. I choose my words carefully, Mr. Clifton.”

“But if Priya is still in England, surely we can prevent him from taking her back to India against her will? She is, after all, twenty-six years old.”

“I doubt if she’s still in this country, Mr. Clifton, because I know Mr. Ghuman has a private jet. But even if she were, proving a father is holding his child against her wishes would involve a long legal process. I have experienced seven such cases since I took up this post, and although I’m convinced all seven young women wished to remain in this country, four of them were back in India long before they could be questioned, and the other three, when interviewed, said they no longer wanted to claim asylum. But if you wish to pursue the matter, I can call the chief inspector at Scotland Yard who is responsible for such cases, though I should warn you that Mr. Ghuman will be well aware of his legal rights and it won’t be the first time he’s taken the law into his own hands.”

“Are you saying there’s nothing I can do?”

“Not a great deal,” admitted the High Commissioner. “And I only wish I could be more helpful.”

“It was good of you to spare us so much of your time, Varun,” said Giles as he stood up.

“My pleasure, Giles,” said the High Commissioner. The two men shook hands. “Don’t hesitate to be in touch if you feel I can be of any assistance.”

As Giles and Seb left Varun Sharma’s office and walked out on to the Strand, Giles said, “I’m so sorry, Seb. I know exactly what you’re going through, but I’m not sure what you can do next.”

“Go home and try to get on with my life. But thank you, Uncle Giles, you couldn’t have done more.”

Giles watched as his nephew strode off in the direction of the City, and wondered what he really planned to do next, because his home was in the opposite direction. Once Seb was out of sight, Giles headed back up the steps and into the High Commissioner’s office.

“Rachel, I need five hundred pounds in rupees, an open-ended return ticket to Bombay and an Indian visa. If you call Mr. Sharma’s secretary at the High Commission, I’m sure she’ll speed the whole process up. Oh, and I’ll need fifteen minutes with the chairman before I leave.”

“But you have several important appointments next week, including—”

“Clear my diary for the next few days. I’ll phone in every morning, so you can keep me fully briefed.”

“This must be one hell of a deal you’re trying to close.”

“The biggest of my life.”

The High Commissioner listened carefully to what his secretary had to say.

“Your nephew has just called and applied for a visa,” he said after putting the phone down. “Do I speed it up, or slow it down?”

“Speed it up,” said Giles, “although I admit I’m quite anxious about the boy. Like me, he’s a hopeless romantic, and at the moment he’s thinking with his heart and not his head.”

“Don’t worry, Giles,” said Varun. “I’ll see that someone keeps an eye on him while he’s in India and tries to make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble, especially as Sukhi Ghuman is involved. No one needs that man as an enemy.”

“But when I met him at Lord’s, he seemed quite charming.”

“That’s half the reason he’s so successful.”

It wasn’t until later that evening, when Seb had fastened his seat-belt and the plane had taken off, that he realized he didn’t have a plan. All he knew for certain was that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if this journey just might have made a difference. The only piece of useful information he picked up from the chief steward during the flight was the name of the best hotel in Bombay.

Seb was dozing when the captain announced that they were about to begin their descent into Bombay. He looked out of the cabin window to see a vast, sprawling mass of tiny houses, shacks and tenement blocks, filling every inch of space. He could only wonder if Bombay had any planning laws.

As he left the aircraft and walked down the steps, he was immediately overwhelmed by the oppressive humidity, and once he’d entered the airport, he quickly discovered the local pace of everything — slow or stop. Having his passport checked, the longest queue he’d ever seen; waiting for his luggage to be unloaded from the hold, he nearly fell asleep; being held up by customs, although he only had one suitcase; and then trying to find a taxi when there wasn’t an official rank — they just seemed to come and go.

When Seb finally set off for the city, he discovered why no one was ever booked for speeding in Bombay, because the car rarely got out of first gear. And when he asked about air-conditioning, the driver wound down his window. He stared out of the open window at the little shops — no roofs, no doors, trading everything from spare tires to mangos — while the citizens of Bombay went about their business. Some were dressed in smart suits that hung loosely on their bodies and ties that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Square Mile, while others wore spotless loincloths, bringing to mind the image of Gandhi, one of his father’s heroes.

Once they’d reached the outskirts of the city, they came to a halt. Seb had experienced traffic jams in London, New York and Tokyo, but they were Formula One racetracks compared to Bombay. Broken-down lorries parked in the fast lane, over-crowded rickshaws on the inside lane, and sacred cows munched happily away in the center lane, while old women crossed the road seemingly unaware what it had originally been built for.

A little boy was standing in the middle of the road carrying a stack of paperback books. He walked up to the car, tapped on the window and smiled in at Sebastian.

“Harold Robbins, Robert Ludlum and Harry Clifton,” he said, giving him a beaming grin. “All half price!”

Sebastian handed him a ten-rupee note and said, “Harry Clifton.”

The boy produced his father’s latest book. “We all love William Warwick,” he said, before moving on to the next car. Would his father believe him?

It took another hour before they drew up outside the Taj Mahal Hotel, by which time Seb was exhausted and soaked with perspiration.

When he stepped inside the hotel, he entered another world and was quickly transported back to the present day.

“How long will you be staying with us, sir?” asked a tall, elegant man in a long blue coat, as Seb signed the registration form.

“I’m not sure,” said Seb, “but at least two or three days.”

“Then I’ll leave the booking open-ended. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“Can you recommend a reliable car hire firm?”

“If it’s a car you require, sir, the hotel will happily supply you with a chauffeur-driven Ambassador.”

“Will it be possible to keep the same driver for the whole visit?”

“Of course, sir.”

“He’ll need to speak English.”

“In this hotel, sir, even the cleaners speak English.”

“Of course, I apologize. I have one more request — could he possibly be a Hindu?”

“Not a problem, sir. I believe I have the ideal person to meet all your requirements, and I can recommend him highly, because he’s my brother.” Seb laughed. “And when would you want him to start?”

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Excellent. My brother’s name is Vijay and he’ll be waiting for you outside the main entrance at eight.” The receptionist raised a hand and a bellboy appeared. “Take Mr. Clifton to room 808.”

19

When Sebastian left his hotel at eight o’clock the following morning, he spotted a young man standing beside a white Ambassador. The moment he saw Seb heading toward him, he opened the back door.

“I’ll sit in the front with you,” said Seb.

“Of course, sir,” said Vijay. Once he was behind the wheel he asked, “Where would you like to go, sir?”

Seb handed him an address. “How long will it take?”

“That depends, sir, on how many traffic lights are working this morning and how many cows are having their breakfast.”

The answer turned out to be just over an hour, although the milometer indicated that they had covered barely three miles.

“It’s the house on the right, sir,” said Vijay. “Do you want me to drive up to the front door?”

“No,” said Seb as they passed the gates of a house that was so large it might have been mistaken for a country club. He admired Priya for never having mentioned her father’s wealth.

Vijay parked in an isolated spot, down a side road from where they could see anyone coming in or out of the gates, while they would be unlikely to be noticed.

“Are you very important?” asked Vijay an hour later.

“No,” said Seb. “Why do you ask?”

“Because there’s a police car parked just down the road, and it hasn’t moved since we arrived.”

Seb was puzzled but tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, even though Cedric Hardcastle had taught him many years ago to always be wary of coincidences.

They remained seated in the car for most of the day, during which time several cars and a van passed in and out of the gates. There was no sign of Priya, although at one point a large Mercedes left the grounds with Mr. Ghuman seated in the back talking to a younger man Seb assumed must be his son.

In between the comings and goings, Vijay gave Seb a further insight into the Hindu religion, and he began to realize just how difficult it must have been for Priya even to consider defying her parents.

He was about to call it a day when two men, one carrying a camera, the other a briefcase, came strolling down the drive from the house and stopped outside the main gate. They were dressed smartly but casually, and had a professional air about them. They hailed a taxi and climbed into the back.

“Follow that cab, and don’t lose them.”

“It’s quite difficult to lose anyone in a city where bicycles overtake you,” said Vijay as they progressed slowly back toward the city center. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a large Victorian building that proclaimed above its front door: the Times of India.

“Wait here,” said Sebastian. He got out of the car and waited until the two men had entered the building before following them inside. One of them waved to a girl on the reception desk as they headed toward a bank of lifts. Sebastian made his way over to the desk, smiled at the girl and said, “How embarrassing. I can’t remember the name of the journalist who’s just getting into the lift.”

She glanced around as the lift door closed. “Samraj Khan. He writes a society column for the Sunday paper. But I’m not sure who that was with him.” She turned to her colleague.

“He’s freelance. Works for Premier Photos, I think. But I don’t know his name.”

“Thanks,” said Sebastian, before making his way back to the car.

“Where now?” asked Vijay.

“Back to the hotel.”

“That police car is still following us,” said Vijay, as he eased into a long line of traffic. “So you’re either very important, or very dangerous,” he suggested, displaying a broad grin.

“Neither,” said Seb. Like Vijay, he was puzzled. Did Uncle Giles’s influence stretch this far, or were the police working for the Ghumans?

Once Seb was back in his room, he asked the switchboard to get Premier Photos on the line. He had his story well prepared by the time the operator called back. He asked to be put through to the photographer who was covering the Sukhi Ghuman story.

“Do you mean the wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding,” said Sebastian, hating the word.

“That’s Rohit Singh. I’ll put you through.”

“Rohit Singh.”

“Hi, my name is Clifton. I’m a freelance journalist from London, and I’ve been assigned to cover Priya Ghuman’s wedding.”

“But it’s not for another six weeks.”

“I know, but my magazine wants background material for a color spread we’re doing, and I wondered if you’d be able to supply some photographs to go with my piece.”

“We’d need to meet and discuss terms. Where are you staying?”

“The Taj.”

“Would eight o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?”

“Look forward to seeing you then.”

No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again.

“While you were on the line, sir, your secretary called. She asked if you would ring a Mr. Bishara at the bank urgently. She gave me the number. Shall I try and get him on the line?”

“Yes please,” said Seb, then put the phone down and waited. He checked his watch, and hoped Hakim hadn’t already gone to lunch. The phone rang.

“Thanks for calling back, Seb. I realize you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment, but I have some sad news. Saul Kaufman has died. I thought you ought to know immediately, not just because of the takeover deal we’re in the middle of, but, more important, I know Victor is one of your oldest friends.”

“Thank you, Hakim. How very sad. I greatly admired the old man. Victor will be my next call.”

“Kaufman’s shares have fallen sharply, which is hard to explain, seeing Saul hasn’t been in to the office for over a year.”

“You and I know that,” said Seb, “but the public doesn’t. Don’t forget, Saul founded the bank. His name is still at the top of the notepaper, so investors who don’t know any better will wonder if it’s a one-man band. But taking into account the bank’s strong balance sheet, and its considerable assets, in my opinion Kaufman’s shares were already well below market value even before Saul’s death.”

“Do you think they might fall even further?”

“No one gets in at the bottom and out at the top,” said Seb. “If they fall below three pounds — and they were £3.26 when I left — I’d be a buyer. But remember Farthings already has six percent of Kaufman’s stock, and if we go over ten percent, the bank of England will require us to make a full takeover bid, and we’re not quite ready for that.”

“I think there may be someone else in the market.”

“That will be Desmond Mellor, but he’s only a spoiler. He doesn’t have the sort of capital to make a real impact. Believe me, he’ll run out of steam.”

“Unless he has someone else backing him.”

“No one in the City would consider backing Mellor, as Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles have already discovered.”

“Thanks for the advice, Seb. I’ll buy a few more Kaufman’s shares if they fall below three pounds, and then we can look at the bigger picture once you get back. By the way, how’s it all going out there?”

“I wouldn’t buy shares in Clifton Enterprises.”

Seb was gradually coming to terms with the oppressive heat and even the traffic jams, but he couldn’t handle the fact that being on time simply wasn’t part of the Indian psyche. He had been pacing up and down the lobby of the Taj since 7:55, but Rohit Singh didn’t come strolling through the revolving doors until a few minutes before nine, offering only a shrug of the shoulders and a smile. He uttered the single word, “Traffic,” as if he had never driven in Bombay before. Sebastian didn’t comment, as he needed Singh on his team.

“So who do you work for?” Singh asked once they’d sat down in a pair of comfortable seats in the lounge.

“Tatler,” said Sebastian, who had decided on the magazine overnight. “We want to do a center-page spread on the wedding. We’ve got quite a bit on Priya Ghuman, because she’s been living in London for the past three years, but we don’t even know the name of the man she’s going to marry.”

“We only found out ourselves yesterday, but no one was surprised to hear it was Suresh Chopra.”

“Why?”

“His father is chairman of Bombay Building, so the marriage is more about the joining of two companies than of two people. I’ve got a picture of him if you’d like to see it.” Singh opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. Sebastian stared at a man who looked around fifty, but might have been younger, because he was certainly fifty pounds overweight.

“Are he and Priya old friends?” he asked.

“Their parents are, but I’m not sure they themselves have ever met. I’m told the official introductions will be made next week. That’s a ceremony in itself, to which we won’t be invited. Can I ask about payment?” said Singh, changing the subject.

“Sure. We’ll pay you the full agency rate,” replied Seb, without any idea what that meant, “and an advance payment to make sure you don’t share your pictures with anyone else in England.” He passed over five hundred-rupee notes. “Is that fair?”

Singh nodded and pocketed the cash in a way that would have impressed the Artful Dodger.

“So when do you want me to start?”

“Will you be photographing any members of the family in the near future?”

“Day after tomorrow. Priya’s got a fitting at Brides of Bombay on Altamont Street at eleven o’clock. Her mother wanted me to take a few shots for a family album she’s preparing.”

“I’ll be there,” said Seb. “But I’ll keep my distance. I gather Sukhi Ghuman doesn’t care much for London hacks.”

“He doesn’t care for us either,” said Singh, “unless it suits his purpose. Be warned, Mrs. Ghuman will almost certainly accompany her daughter. That will mean at least two armed guards, which the family have never bothered with in the past. Perhaps Mr. Ghuman just wants to remind everyone how important he is.”

Not everyone, thought Seb.

20

Sebastian walked over to the reception desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And my brother is proving satisfactory?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“Excellent. And how can I help you today?”

“First, I’d like you to replace the Ambassador with a motorbike.”

“Of course, sir,” said the receptionist, not sounding surprised. “Anything else?”

“I need a florist.”

“You’ll find one downstairs in the arcade. Fresh flowers were delivered about an hour ago.”

“Thank you,” said Seb. He jogged down the steps to the arcade, where he spotted a young woman arranging a bunch of vivid orange marigolds in a large vase. She looked up as he approached.

“I’d like to buy a single rose.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, gesturing toward a selection of different-colored roses. “Would you like to choose one?”

Seb took his time picking a red one that was just starting to bloom. “Can I have it delivered?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like to add a message?” she asked, handing him a pen.

Seb took a card from the counter, turned it over and wrote:

He gave the florist Priya’s address and said, “Please charge it to room 808. When will it be delivered?”

She looked at the address. “Some time between ten and eleven, depending on the traffic.”

“Will you be here for the rest of the morning?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, looking puzzled.

“If anyone calls and asks who sent the rose, tell them it was the guest who’s staying in room 808.”

“Certainly, sir,” said the florist, as he handed her a fifty-rupee note.

Seb ran back upstairs, aware that he had only a couple of hours to spare, three at the most. When he walked out of the hotel he was pleased to see that the receptionist had carried out his instructions and replaced the Ambassador with a motorbike.

“Good morning, sir. Where would you like to go today?” asked Vijay, displaying the same irrepressible smile.

“Santacruz airport. The domestic terminal. And I’m not in a hurry,” he emphasized as he climbed onto the back of the bike.

He carefully observed the route that Vijay took, noting the occasional blue and white airport signs dotted along the way. Forty-two minutes later Vijay screeched to a halt outside the domestic terminal. Seb jumped off, saying, “Hang around, I’ll only be a few minutes.” He walked inside and checked the departures board. The flight he required was leaving from Gate 14B, and the word “Boarding” was flashing next to the words “New Delhi.” He followed the signs, but when he arrived at the gate, he didn’t join the queue of passengers waiting to board the plane. He checked his watch. It had taken forty-nine minutes from the moment he’d left the hotel to reach the gate. He retraced his steps to find Vijay waiting patiently for him.

“I’ll take us back,” said Seb, grabbing the handlebars.

“But you don’t have a license, sir.”

“I don’t think anyone will notice.” Seb flicked on the ignition, revved up and waited for Vijay to climb on behind him before he joined the traffic heading into Bombay.

They were back outside the hotel forty-one minutes later. Seb checked his watch. The rose should be delivered any time now.

“I’ll be back, Vijay, but I can’t be sure when,” he said before walking quickly up the steps and into the hotel. He took the lift to the eighth floor, went straight to his room, poured himself a cold Cobra and sat down next to the phone. So many jumbled thoughts flooded through his mind. Had the rose been delivered? If it had, would Priya even see it? If she did see it, would she realize who’d sent it? At least he felt confident about that. She would recognize his handwriting, and with one call to the florist she would discover which room he was in. It was clear that her family weren’t letting her out of the house unaccompanied, possibly not even out of their sight. Checking his watch every few minutes he paced up and down the room, occasionally stopping to take a sip of his beer. He glanced at the front page of the Times of India, but didn’t get beyond the headlines. He thought about ringing his uncle Giles, and bringing him up to date, but decided he couldn’t risk the line being busy when she called.

When the phone made a loud metallic sound, Seb grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Is that you, Seb?” Priya whispered.

“Yes it is, black swan. Can you talk?”

“Only for a minute. What are you doing in Bombay?”

“I’ve come to take you back to England.” He paused. “But only if that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s what I want. Just tell me how.”

Seb quickly explained exactly what he had planned, and although she remained silent, he felt confident she was listening intently. Suddenly she spoke, her voice formal. “Thank you, yes. You can expect my mother and me around eleven—” A pause. “I’m also looking forward to seeing you.”

“Don’t forget to bring your passport,” said Seb, just before she put the phone down.

“Who was that?” Priya’s mother asked.

“Brides of Bombay,” said Priya, casually, not wanting her mother to become suspicious. “Just confirming our appointment for tomorrow,” she added, trying to conceal her excitement. “They suggested I wear something casual, as I’ll be trying on several outfits.”

Seb made no attempt to disguise how euphoric he felt. He punched the air and shouted “Hallelujah!” as if he’d just scored the winning goal in the cup final. Once he’d recovered, he sat down and thought about what needed to be done next. After a few moments, he left his room and went downstairs to the front desk.

“Did you find what you were looking for at the florist, Mr. Clifton?”

“She couldn’t have been more helpful, thank you. Now I’d like to book two first-class tickets on Air India’s flight to New Delhi at two twenty tomorrow afternoon.”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll ask our travel desk to send the tickets up to your room as soon as they’re confirmed.”

Seb sat alone in the hotel restaurant, picking at a curry as he went over his plan again and again, trying to eradicate any possible flaws. After lunch he left the hotel to find Vijay sitting on the bike. He could have given a lapdog lessons in loyalty.

“Where to now, sir?”

“Back to the airport,” said Seb, as he grabbed the handlebars and climbed on.

“Do you require me, sir?”

“Oh yes. I need someone sitting behind me.”

Seb knocked three minutes off their previous time to the airport, and once again walked across to Gate 14B, where he double-checked the departure board. On the return trip to the hotel, he knocked another minute off his time, without ever breaking the speed limit.

“See you at ten tomorrow morning, Vijay,” said Seb, knowing he was talking to someone who didn’t need to be reminded to be on time.

Vijay gave a mock salute as Sebastian entered the hotel and returned to his room. He ordered a light supper and tried to relax by watching Above Us the Waves on television. He finally climbed into bed just after eleven, but didn’t sleep.

21

Despite a sleepless night, Sebastian wasn’t tired when he pulled open the curtains the following morning, letting the first rays of the sun flood into his room. He now knew what an athlete must feel like the morning before an Olympic final.

He took a long cold shower, put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of trainers. He ordered breakfast in his room, but only to kill time. He would have called his uncle Giles to bring him up to date if it hadn’t been the middle of the night in London. He went down to the front desk just after ten and asked for his bill.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Clifton,” said the concierge, “and will be returning soon.”

“I hope so too,” said Seb as he handed over his credit card, although he couldn’t imagine what circumstances would make it possible for him ever to return. When the receptionist handed him back his credit card, he asked, “Shall I send someone up to collect your luggage, Mr. Clifton?”

Seb was momentarily thrown. “No, I’ll pick it up later,” he stammered.

“As you wish, sir.”

When Seb stepped out of the hotel, he was pleased, though not surprised, to see Vijay leaning on the motorbike.

“Where to this time, sir?”

“114 Altamont Street.”

“Posh shopping area. You buy present for your girlfriend?”

“Something like that,” said Seb.

They arrived outside Brides of Bombay at twenty minutes past ten. This was never going to be an appointment Seb would be late for. Vijay didn’t comment when Seb asked him to park out of sight, but he was surprised by his next instruction.

“I want you to take a bus to the airport and wait for me outside the entrance to the domestic terminal.” He took five hundred rupees from his wallet and handed over the well-worn notes to Vijay.

“Thank you, sir,” said Vijay, before walking away looking even more bemused.

Seb kept the engine turning over as he remained hidden behind a dilapidated old lorry. He couldn’t decide whether it had been dumped or parked.

A large black Mercedes drew up outside Brides of Bombay a few minutes after eleven. The chauffeur opened the back door to allow Mrs. Ghuman and her daughter to step out. Priya was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and flat shoes, as Seb had recommended. It didn’t matter what Priya wore, she always looked stunning.

One guard accompanied them as they entered the bridal shop, while the other remained in the front seat of the car. Seb had assumed that once the chauffeur had delivered his passengers, he would drive off and come back later. But the car remained parked in a restricted zone, and clearly wasn’t going to move until his charges returned; Seb’s first mistake. He had also thought both guards would accompany Mrs. Ghuman into the shop. His second mistake. He switched off the bike’s engine, not wanting to draw attention to himself. His third mistake. He wondered how long it might be before Priya reappeared, and whether she would be alone or accompanied by the guard.

A few minutes later he spotted Rohit Singh in his wing mirror. The photographer was strolling nonchalantly along the pavement, camera slung over one shoulder, clearly content to be fashionably late. Seb watched as he disappeared into the shop. The next twenty minutes felt like an hour, with Seb continually glancing at his watch. He was sweating profusely. Thirty minutes. Had Priya lost her nerve? Forty minutes. Could she have changed her mind? Fifty minutes. Much longer and they’d miss their flight. And then suddenly, without warning, there she was, running out onto the pavement on her own. She paused briefly, before anxiously looking up and down the road.

Seb switched on the ignition and revved the engine, but he was only at the side of the lorry by the time the second guard stepped out of the Mercedes and began walking toward the boss’s daughter. The chauffeur was opening the rear door as Seb pulled up by the car. He waved frantically at Priya, who ran out into the street, jumped onto the back of the bike and clung onto him. The guard reacted immediately and charged toward them. Seb was trying to accelerate away when he lunged at him, causing Seb to swerve and almost unseat his passenger. The guard narrowly avoided being hit by a passing taxi and landed spread-eagled in the street.

Seb quickly recovered and maneuvred the bike into the center lane with Priya clinging on. The guard leapt up and gave chase, but it was an unequal contest. Once he had seen which way the bike turned at the end of the street, Seb’s fourth mistake, the guard immediately changed direction and ran into the shop.

When Mrs. Ghuman was told the news, she screamed at a petrified shop assistant, “Where’s the nearest phone?” Before she could reply, the manager, hearing the outburst, reappeared and led Mrs. Ghuman into her office. She closed the door and left her alone, while her customer dialed a number she rarely phoned. After several rings a voice said, “Ghuman Enterprises.”

“It’s Mrs. Ghuman. Put me through to my husband immediately.”

“He’s chairing a board meeting, Mrs. Ghuman—”

“Then interrupt it. This is an emergency.” The secretary hesitated. “Immediately, do you hear me?”

“Who is this?” demanded the next voice.

“It’s Simran, we have a problem. Priya has run off with Clifton.”

“How can that be possible?”

“He was waiting for her on a motorbike outside the shop. All I can tell you is that they turned left at the end of Altamont Street.”

“They must be heading for the airport. Tell the chauffeur to take both guards to the international terminal and await my instructions.” He slammed down the phone and quickly left the room, leaving twelve bewildered directors sitting around the boardroom table. As he swept through to his office he shouted at his secretary, “Find out the time of the next flight to London. And quickly!”

Ghuman’s secretary picked up the phone on her desk and called special services at the airport. A few moments later she pressed the intercom button that connected her to the chairman’s desk.

“There are two flights out of Bombay today, both of them Air India.” She glanced down at her pad. “One in forty minutes’ time, at 12:50, so you couldn’t possibly make it to the airport in time, and one—”

“—but a man on a motorbike could,” said Ghuman without explanation. “Get me the duty controller at the airport.”

Ghuman paced around the room as he waited to be put through. He snatched at the phone the moment it rang.

“It’s Patel, in accounts, sir. You asked me to—”

“Not now,” said Ghuman. He slammed the phone down and was just about to ask his secretary what was taking so long when it rang again.

“Who is this?” he demanded as he picked the phone up.

“My name is Tariq Shah, Mr. Ghuman. I am Air India’s senior controller at Santacruz airport. How may—”

“I have reason to believe that a Mr. Sebastian Clifton and my daughter, Priya, are booked on your 12:50 flight to London. Check your manifest immediately and let me know if they’ve already boarded the plane.”

“Can I call you back?”

“No, I’ll hold on.”

“I’ll need a couple of minutes, sir.”

Two minutes turned into three, and as Ghuman could no longer pace around his office while he held onto the phone, he grabbed the letter-opener on his desk and began stabbing his blotting pad in frustration. Finally a voice said, “Neither Mr. Clifton nor your daughter are on that flight, Mr. Ghuman, and the boarding desk has already closed. Do you want me to check the 18:50 flight?”

“No, they won’t be on that one,” Ghuman said before adding, “What a clever young man you are, Mr. Clifton.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Shah.

“Listen carefully, Shah. I want you to check every other flight that’s leaving India for London tonight, whatever the airport, and then ring me straight back.”

Seb and Priya pulled up outside the domestic terminal just before one o’clock, to find Vijay standing on the pavement looking out for them.

“Take the bike back to the garage, Vijay, then go home and stay put for the rest of the day. Don’t report back to work until tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said Vijay.

Seb handed him the keys to the bike and another five hundred rupees.

“But you have already given me more than enough money, sir.”

“Nowhere near enough,” said Seb. He took Priya by the hand and led her quickly into the terminal and straight to Gate 14B, where some passengers were already boarding. He was glad he’d carried out two dress rehearsals, but it didn’t stop him continually looking over his shoulder to check if anyone was following them. With a bit of luck, Ghuman’s thugs would be heading for the international terminal.

They joined the queue of passengers boarding the flight to New Delhi, but Seb didn’t feel safe even when the stewardess asked everyone to fasten their seatbelts. Not until the wheels had left the ground did he breathe a sigh of relief.

“But we won’t be safe even when we’re back in London,” said Priya, who was still shaking. “My father won’t give up while he thinks there’s the slightest chance of getting me to change my mind.”

“That will be pretty difficult, if we’re already married.”

“But we both know that won’t be possible for some time.”

“Have you ever heard of Gretna Green?” said Seb, not letting go of her hand. “It’s like Vegas without the gambling, so by this time tomorrow, you will be Mrs. Clifton. Which is why we’re taking a plane to Glasgow this evening, and not London.”

“But even if we do that, my father will only take some other kind of revenge.”

“I don’t think so. Because when he returns to London he’s going to have a visit from Mr. Varun Sharma, the Indian High Commissioner, as well as a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I didn’t. But when you see my uncle Giles again, you can thank him.”

The airport controller was back on the line forty minutes after Ghuman had put the phone down.

“There are five other flights scheduled for London this evening, Mr. Ghuman. Three out of New Delhi, one from Calcutta and the other from Bangalore. Neither Mr. Clifton nor your daughter are booked on any of them. However, there’s a BOAC flight to Manchester and another to Glasgow that are leaving New Delhi later this evening, and the booking desks for both are still open.”

“Clever, Mr. Clifton, very clever indeed. But there’s one thing you’ve overlooked. Mr. Shah,” said Ghuman, “I need to know which of those flights they’re booked on. Once you’ve found out, make sure they don’t board the plane.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Ghuman, because they are both British carriers, and I have no way of checking their manifests, unless I can show a crime has been committed.”

“You can tell them Clifton is attempting to kidnap my daughter, and that you’ll hold the flight up if they allow them to board the plane.”

“I don’t have the authority to do that, Mr. Ghuman.”

“Listen carefully, Mr. Shah. If you don’t do it, by this time tomorrow you won’t have any authority at all.”

The flight from Bombay to New Delhi landed a couple of hours later, leaving Seb and Priya with almost two hours to kill before they could board their connecting flight. They didn’t waste any time making their way over to the international terminal, where they joined the queue at BOAC’s booking desk.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” asked the clerk.

“I’d like two seats on your flight to Glasgow.”

“Certainly, sir. First or economy?”

“First,” said Seb.

“Economy,” said Priya. They tossed a coin. Priya won.

“Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our married life?” said Seb.

“Are you on your honeymoon?” asked the booking clerk.

“No,” said Seb. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

“Then I shall be delighted to upgrade you to first class.”

“Thank you,” said Priya.

“But first I need to see your passports.” Sebastian handed them over. “Do you have any bags to check in?”

“None,” said Seb.

“Fine. And could I have a credit card please?”

“Do we also toss for that?” asked Seb, looking at Priya.

“No, I’m afraid you’re about to marry a girl who comes without a dowry.”

“You’re in seats 4A and 4B. The flight is scheduled to leave on time, and the gate opens in forty minutes. You might like to take advantage of our first-class lounge, which is on the other side of the hall.”

Seb and Priya held hands as they nervously nibbled nuts and drank endless cups of coffee in the first-class lounge, until they finally heard the announcement they had been waiting for.

“This is the first call for BOAC flight 009 to Glasgow. Will all passengers please make their way to Gate number eleven.”

“I want us to be the first on the plane,” said Seb, as they walked out of the lounge. He had always known that this would be the only unscripted moment, but he was confident that once they’d boarded the plane, even Mr. Ghuman wouldn’t be able to have them taken off a British carrier. In the distance he spotted two armed policemen standing by the departure gate. Were they always there, or were they on the lookout for him? And then he remembered the police car that had been stationed outside Mr. Ghuman’s house and had then continuously followed him and Vijay. Ghuman was a man with political influence and power, especially in his own country, the High Commissioner had warned.

Seb slowed down, looking first to his right and then his left as he searched for an escape route. The two policemen were now staring at them and, when they were just a couple of yards from the barrier, one of the officers stepped forward as if he’d been waiting for them.

Seb heard a commotion behind him and swung, around to see what was going on. He immediately knew that he’d made the wrong decision and should have kept on walking. His fifth mistake. He stood, mesmerized, as Ghuman’s two bodyguards charged toward them. How could they have got there so quickly? Of course, Ghuman had a private jet — something else the High Commissioner had warned him about. Seb was surprised how calm he felt, even when one of them pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at him.

“Drop that gun and get on your knees!” shouted one of the policemen. The crowd scattered in every direction, leaving the six of them stranded in their own no-man’s land. Seb realized that the police had always been on his side. Barrington v. Ghuman — no contest. One of Ghuman’s guards immediately fell to his knees and slid his gun across the floor toward the two policemen. The other thug, the one who’d failed to dislodge Priya from the motorbike, ignored the order, never taking his eyes off his quarry.

“Move away, black swan,” said Seb firmly, pushing Priya to one side. “It’s not you he’s after.”

“Put down your weapon and get on your knees or I will fire,” said one of the policemen standing behind them.

But the man didn’t lower his gun and didn’t fall on his knees. He squeezed the trigger.

Seb felt the bullet hit him. As he stumbled back, Priya shouted, “No!” and threw herself between Seb and the gunman. The second bullet killed her instantly.