This Was A Man

24

‘I’m surprised you didn’t see that one coming, Pops,’ said Jessica as she joined her father for breakfast.

‘And of course you did,’ said Sebastian. Jake began tapping a spoon on his high chair to gain attention. ‘And I don’t need your opinion, young man.’

‘He’s just preparing to take over as chairman of Farthings Kaufman.’

‘I was rather hoping I might be the next chairman.’

‘Not if Lady Virginia continues to run circles around you.’

‘You seem to forget, young lady, that Virginia had the inside track. She was regularly visiting Mellor in prison, and we now know she’d not only read the letter he wrote to his daughter, but had been in touch with her long before my plane touched down in Chicago.’

‘But you had a chance to get control of the company for a pound before that, and you turned it down.’

‘At the time, if I remember correctly, you were against me even visiting Mellor in prison, and made your position very clear.’

‘Touché,’ said Samantha, picking up the spoon Jake had cast on the kitchen floor.

‘You should have realized that if there was even a chance of Virginia making some money on the side,’ pressed Jessica, ignoring her mother, ‘she wasn’t to be trusted.’

‘And may I ask when you worked all this out? During one of your O level economics classes, no doubt?’

‘She didn’t have to,’ said Samantha, placing a rack of toast on the table. ‘She’s been eavesdropping on our breakfast conversations for the past six months. It’s nothing more than hindsight, so don’t rise, Seb.’

‘Plus a little female intuition,’ insisted Jessica.

‘Well, in case you didn’t notice, young lady, Thomas Cook did take over Mellor Travel, and their shares continue to rise, despite your misgivings.’

‘But they had to pay far more than you’d originally intended. And what I’d like to know,’ continued Jessica, ‘is how much of the extra money ended up in Virginia’s pocket.’

Sebastian didn’t know, though he suspected it was more than the bank was paid, but he took Samantha’s advice and didn’t rise to the bait.

‘Not a bad return for half a dozen prison visits,’ were Jessica’s parting words, after giving Jake a huge hug.

Samantha smiled as her daughter left the room. She had told Seb soon after Jake’s birth that she was anxious about how Jessica might respond to the new arrival, having been the centre of attention for so long. But the exact opposite turned out to be the case, because Jake immediately became the centre of Jessica’s life. She was happy to babysit whenever her parents wanted to go out in the evening, and at weekends she would wheel him around St James’s park in his pram, before putting him to bed. Elderly matrons cooed over him, not sure if Jessica was an attentive older sister or a young unmarried mother.

Jessica had settled down quickly in her adopted country, after finally bringing her parents to their senses, and now she rejoiced not only in their happiness, but in the joy of having a baby brother. She adored her new extended family. Pops, who was tolerant, kind and amusing, Grandpops who was wise, thoughtful and inspiring, and Grandma who the press often dubbed ‘the Boadicea of Bristol’, which made Jessica feel Boadicea must have been one hell of a woman.

However, settling into her new school hadn’t proved quite as easy. While some of the girls called her the Yank, others less generously described her as a stick insect. Jessica concluded that the Mafia and the Ku Klux Klan combined could have learnt a great deal about intimidation from the pupils of St Paul’s Girls’ School, and by the end of her first year, she only had one close friend, Claire Taylor, who shared most of her interests, including boys.

During her final year at St Paul’s, Jessica hovered around the middle of the class, regularly beaten by Claire in every subject except art, where she remained unassailable. While most of her classmates were anxious about being offered a university place, no one doubted where Jessica was heading.

Jessica did, however, confide in Claire a fear that if she was offered a place at the Slade, she might discover that Avril Perkins, who came second in art, was right when she remarked within Jessica’s hearing that she was just a big fish in a small pool, who was about to be cast into the ocean where she would undoubtedly sink without trace.

Claire told her to dismiss Avril for the little creep she was, but Jessica still spent her final term at St Paul’s wondering if she might be right.

When the high mistress announced at prize-giving that Jessica Clifton had been awarded the Gainsborough Scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art, Jessica seemed to be the only person in the hall who was surprised. In fact, she took as much pleasure in Claire being offered a place at University College to read English as she did in her own triumph. However, she wasn’t pleased to learn that Avril Perkins would be joining her at the Slade.

‘The chairman would like a word with you, Mr Clifton.’

Sebastian stopped signing letters and looked up to see the boss’s secretary standing in the doorway. ‘I thought he was in Copenhagen?’

‘He came back on the first flight this morning,’ said Angela, ‘and asked to see you the moment he walked into his office.’

‘Sounds serious,’ said Seb, raising an eyebrow, but receiving no response.

‘All I can tell you, Mr Clifton, is that he’s cleared his diary for the rest of the morning.’

‘Perhaps he’s going to sack me,’ said Seb, hoping to tempt Angela into an indiscretion.

‘I don’t think so, because that usually only takes him a couple of minutes.’

‘Not even a clue?’ whispered Sebastian as they left his office and walked along the corridor together.

‘All I’m willing to say,’ said Angela, ‘is that you can’t have missed the fact that Mr Bishara has travelled to Copenhagen six times in the last month. Perhaps you’re about to find out why,’ she added before knocking on the chairman’s door.

‘Has he taken over Lego or Carlsberg?’ said Seb as Angela opened the door and stood aside to allow him to enter.

‘Good morning, chairman,’ said Seb. But he couldn’t work out from the sphinx-like expression on Hakim Bishara’s face if it was good news or bad.

‘Good morning, Sebastian.’ First clue, thought Seb. The chairman only ever called him Sebastian when he was about to discuss something serious. ‘Have a seat.’ Second clue, this wasn’t going to be a short meeting.

‘Sebastian, I wanted you to be the first to know that I got married on Saturday.’

Seb had considered half a dozen possible reasons the chairman would want to see him, but marriage wasn’t among them, and to say he was taken by surprise would have been an understatement. For a moment he couldn’t think of what to say. Hakim leant back in his chair and enjoyed the unusual experience of a silent CEO.

‘Do I know the lady in question?’ Seb eventually managed.

‘No, but you’ve seen her from a distance.’

Sebastian decided to join in the game. ‘In London?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the City?’

‘Yes,’ Hakim repeated, ‘but you’re heading down the wrong road.’

‘Is she a banker?’

‘No, a landscape architect.’

‘So she must have worked on one of our projects,’ suggested Seb.

‘Yes and no.’

‘Was she for or against us?’

‘Neither,’ said Hakim. ‘I would describe her as neutral, but not helpful.’

Another long silence followed before Sebastian said, ‘Oh my God, it’s the woman who gave evidence in your trial. Mrs, um, Mrs...’

‘Bergström.’

‘But she was the Crown’s key witness, and she certainly didn’t help our cause. I remember everyone regretting that Mr Carman had tracked her down.’

‘Everyone except me,’ said Hakim. ‘I spent endless nights in prison regretting that I hadn’t spoken to her when we sat next to each other on that flight back from Lagos. So a few days after I was released, I flew to Copenhagen.’

‘I’ve never thought of you as the romantic type, Hakim, and I suspect most of our colleagues in the City would agree with me. May I ask what Mr Bergström had to say about your proposed takeover bid?’

‘I wouldn’t have boarded the plane if there’d been a Mr Bergström. It only took Barry Hammond a couple of days to discover that Kristina’s husband died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-two.’

‘Don’t tell me, he was a banker.’

‘Head of the loans division at the Royal Bank of Copenhagen.’

‘They nearly went under a couple of years ago.’

‘On his watch, I’m afraid,’ said Hakim quietly.

‘So will Mrs Bergström—’

‘Mrs Bishara.’

‘Be moving to London?’

‘Not immediately. She has two children who are still at school, and she doesn’t want their lives disrupted, so I had to make a deal.’

‘Which you’re usually very good at.’

‘Not when it’s personal. Something I’ve always warned you about. We plan to live in Copenhagen for the next couple of years, until Inge and Aksel are settled at university. After that, Kristina has agreed to come to England.’

‘In the meantime, you’ll be living on an aeroplane.’

‘Not a chance. Kristina has made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t need a second husband to die of a heart attack. Which is why I needed to see you, Sebastian. I want you to take over as chairman of the bank.’

This time Seb was stunned into a far longer silence, which Hakim again took advantage of.

‘I intend to call a board meeting early next week so I can brief the directors on my decision. I shall propose that you replace me as chairman, while I become president of the bank. All you’ll need to decide is who will be your CEO.’

Seb didn’t need to spend much time thinking about that, but he waited to hear Hakim’s opinion.

‘I assume you’ll want Victor Kaufman to take your place,’ said Hakim. ‘After all, he’s one of your oldest friends, and owns twenty-five per cent of the bank’s stock.’

‘That doesn’t qualify him to be in charge of the day-to-day operations of a major financial institution. We’re running a bank, Hakim, not a local sports club.’

‘Does that mean you have another candidate in mind?’

‘John Ashley would be my first choice,’ said Seb without hesitation.

‘But he’s only been with the bank a couple of years. He’s hardly got his feet under the table.’

‘But what a pedigree,’ Seb reminded him. ‘Manchester Grammar School, the London School of Economics, and a scholarship to Harvard Business School. And let’s not forget how much we had to pay to tempt him away from Chase Manhattan. And how long will it be before one of our rivals offers him a golden hello? Sooner rather than later, would be my guess, especially if Victor ends up as CEO of Farthings. No. If you want me to be chairman, Hakim, appointing John Ashley to that position is the deal maker.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Jessica.

‘What’s a chairman?’ demanded Jake.

‘Someone who’s in charge of everything and everybody, rather like a high mistress.’

‘I’d never thought of it quite like that,’ admitted Sebastian, as Samantha burst out laughing.

Jessica walked around the table and gave her father a hug. ‘Congratulations,’ she repeated.

‘Hakim seems far too young to retire,’ said Samantha, as she sliced the top off Jake’s egg.

‘I agree,’ said Seb, ‘but he’s fallen in love.’

‘I hadn’t realized that if you were the chairman of a bank and fell in love, you were expected to resign.’

‘It’s not compulsory,’ said Seb, laughing, ‘but banks generally prefer their chairman to reside in the same country, and the lady in question lives in Copenhagen.’

‘Why doesn’t she come and live in England?’ asked Jessica.

‘Kristina Bergström is a very successful landscape architect with an international reputation but she has two children by her first marriage and she doesn’t want to move them while they’re still at school.’

‘But how will Hakim occupy his time, given he has the energy of ten men?’

‘He plans to open a new branch of Farthings in Copenhagen, and Kristina’s company will be his first client. She’s already agreed that once the children leave school, she’ll set up a practice in London.’

‘And when Hakim returns, will he resume the role of chairman?’

‘No. He couldn’t have made his position clearer. On September first, Hakim will become president of Farthings Kaufman, before I take over as chairman in the new year, with John Ashley as my CEO.’

‘Have you told Victor?’ asked Samantha.

‘No, I thought I’d wait until it’s official.’

‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that meeting,’ said Samantha. ‘Have you ever met Ms Bergström?’

‘No, I only saw her in the witness box when she gave evidence at Hakim’s trial. As he was in custody at the time, it must have been love at first sight.’

‘Men often fall in love at first sight,’ declared Jessica, who had remained silent until then. ‘Women rarely do.’

‘I’m sure we are both grateful, Jessica, for your considerable insight on the subject of love,’ said Seb, ‘as we were for your grasp of macroeconomics.’

‘It’s not my opinion,’ said Jessica, ‘but D. H. Lawrence’s. It’s a quote from Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which although it wasn’t one of the English set texts at St Paul’s, Claire thought I ought to read anyway.’

Sebastian and Samantha glanced at each other.

‘Perhaps this is as good a time as any,’ said Jessica, ‘to tell you I’m planning to move out.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Jake.

While Seb might have agreed with his son, he didn’t interrupt his daughter.

‘Claire and I have found a small flat just off Gower Street, only half a mile from the Slade.’

‘Sounds ideal,’ said Samantha. ‘When will you be leaving us?’

‘In about a fortnight’s time. If that’s all right with you, Pops.’

‘Of course it’s fine,’ said Samantha.

‘No, no, no,’ repeated Jake, pointing his spoon at Jessica.

‘Don’t point, Jake,’ said his mother.

25

‘Today’s life drawing class has been cancelled,’ said Professor Howard. A groan went up around the room when the professor added, ‘Our model has once again failed to turn up.’

The twelve students were beginning to gather up their equipment, when a young man Jessica had never seen before rose from his seat, strolled into the middle of the room, stripped off and sat down on the dais. A round of applause followed, as the first-year students returned to their easels and set about their work.

Paulo Reinaldo was the first man Jessica had ever seen naked, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was like a Greek god, she thought. Well, a Brazilian god. She sketched a charcoal outline of his body with a few sweeping movements, an exercise that would take her fellow students considerably longer, and without the same results. Next, she concentrated on his head, which she began to capture in greater detail. Long curly dark hair that she wanted to run her hands through. Her eyes travelled down his body and she began to wish she was a sculptor. His torso rippled, and his legs looked as if they were built to run a marathon. She tried to concentrate as her tutor looked over her shoulder.

‘You’ve caught him,’ said Professor Howard. ‘Most impressive. But I need you to think about shadow and perspective, and never forget, less is more. Have you ever seen the drawings Bonnard did of his wife climbing out of a bath?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll find some excellent examples in the academy library. They are the proof, if proof is needed, that if you want to know just how great an artist is, you should study their preliminary drawings before you even consider their masterpieces. By the way, try not to make it quite so obvious how much you fancy him.’

During the next week, Jessica didn’t come across Paulo again. He was never to be found in the library and didn’t seem to attend lectures. After Professor Howard’s remarks, she made no attempt to find out more about him from her fellow students. But whenever his name came up, she stopped talking and started listening.

‘He’s the son of a Brazilian industrialist,’ said a student from the year above her. ‘His father wanted him to come to London and brush up on his English, among other things.’

‘I think he only intends to hang around for a couple of years, then go back to Rio and open a nightclub,’ offered another, while a third said, somewhat testily, ‘He only comes to figurative drawing to scout out his next victim.’

‘You seem well informed,’ said Avril Perkins.

‘I ought to be, I slept with him half a dozen times before he dumped me,’ the girl said casually. ‘That’s how he spends most of his time, except the evenings.’

‘What does he do in the evenings?’ asked Jessica, unable to remain silent any longer.

‘Makes a close study of English nightclubs, rather than English watercolours. He claims that’s the real reason he’s over here. But he did tell me he plans to have slept with every female student at the Slade by the end of his first year.’

They all laughed except Jessica, who was rather hoping to be his next victim.

When Jessica turned up for life drawing the following Thursday, two other girls were already seated on either side of Paulo. One of them was Avril Perkins. Jessica sat opposite him on the other side of the semi-circle of students, trying to concentrate on the model, a middle-aged woman who looked bored and cold, unlike Avril.

Her eyes eventually returned to Paulo, to find he only needed one hand for drawing, while the other rested on Avril’s thigh.

When Professor Howard suggested a mid-morning break, Jessica waited for Avril to leave before she strolled around the circle of drawings, pretending to study her fellow students’ efforts. Paulo’s wasn’t bad, it was dreadful. She wondered how he could ever have been offered a place at the Slade.

‘Not bad,’ said Jessica as she continued to look at his drawing.

‘I agree,’ said Paulo. ‘It’s awful, and you know it, because you’re so much better than any of us.’

Was he flirting, or did he really believe what he’d just said? Jessica didn’t care.

‘Would you like to come out for a drink tonight?’ he asked.

‘Yes please,’ she said, immediately regretting the ‘please’.

‘I’ll pick you up around ten and we can go clubbing.’

Jessica didn’t mention that by that time she was normally in bed with a book, not out clubbing.

She rushed home straight after her final class, and spent over an hour deciding what she would wear for her ‘losing her virginity date’, constantly seeking Claire’s opinion. She ended up with a short pink leather skirt, Claire’s, a leopard-print top, hers, black patterned stockings and gold high heels.

‘I look like a tart!’ Jessica exclaimed when she looked in the mirror.

‘Believe me,’ said Claire, ‘if you’re hoping to finally get laid, that’s the perfect outfit.’

Jessica gave in to Claire’s superior knowledge on the subject.

When Paulo turned up at the flat thirty minutes late (evidently that was also fashionable), two things happened that Jessica hadn’t been prepared for. Could anyone be that good-looking and own a Ferrari?

‘Tell him I’m available tomorrow night,’ Claire whispered as they left the flat.

The third surprise was just how charming and sophisticated Paulo was. He didn’t immediately jump on her, as her fellow students had claimed he would. In fact, he couldn’t have been more solicitous. He even opened the car door for her, and on their way into the West End, chatted about the impact she was making at the Slade. She was already regretting her choice of clothes, and kept trying to pull down her skirt.

When he parked his Ferrari outside Annabel’s, a doorman took the keys and drove the car away. They descended the stairs to a dimly lit nightclub, where it quickly became clear that Paulo was a regular, as the maître d’ stepped forward and greeted him by name, before guiding them to a discreet corner table.

Once they had selected two courses from the largest menu Jessica had ever seen — it was almost a book — Paulo seemed keen to find out all about her. Although she didn’t raise the subject herself, he seemed well aware who her grandparents were, and said he always saved the latest William Warwick for the long flight back to Rio.

The moment he’d finished his meal, Paulo lit a cigarette and offered her one. She declined but took an occasional puff of his. It didn’t taste like any cigarette she’d ever smoked before. After coffee, he led her on to the crowded dance floor where dimly lit became black. She quickly realized that, unlike drawing, dancing was a skill Paulo had mastered, and she also noticed that several other women were no longer paying much attention to their partners. However, it wasn’t until Chaka Khan was replaced by Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’, that Paulo’s hands strayed below her waist. She made no attempt to resist.

Their first kiss was a little clumsy, but after the second, all she wanted to do was go home with him, even though she had already accepted that she probably wouldn’t still be on the menu the following evening. They didn’t leave Annabel’s until just after one a.m., and once they were back in the car, Jessica was impressed by Paulo’s ability to steer a Ferrari with one hand, while the other moved up her stockinged thigh. The car never moved out of first gear.

It continued to be a night of surprises. His Knightsbridge apartment was stylish and elegant, filled with pictures and antiques she would have liked to spend more time admiring, had he not taken her by the hand and led her straight to the bedroom, where she was greeted by the largest bed she’d ever seen. The black silk cover was already folded back.

Paulo took her in his arms, and Jessica discovered another of his skills, undressing a woman while he was kissing her.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, after her top and skirt had been deftly removed. She would have replied, but he’d already fallen to his knees and was kissing her again, this time on her thighs, not her lips. They fell back on to the bed, and when she opened her eyes, he was already naked. How had he managed that, she wondered. She lay back, and waited for what Claire had told her would happen next. When Paulo entered her, Jessica wanted to cry out, not from pleasure, but pain. A few moments later he withdrew, slumped back on his side of the bed and mumbled, ‘You were fantastic,’ which made her wonder if anything else he’d whispered to her that evening could be believed.

She waited for him to put his arms around her and tell her some more lies, but instead he turned his back on her, and within moments he was fast asleep. Jessica waited until she heard steady breathing, before she slipped out from under the sheet, tiptoed across to the bathroom and didn’t turn the light on until she’d closed the door. She took some time tidying herself up, noticing she was still wearing her black stockings. Claire would no doubt explain the significance of that when she got home. She returned to the bedroom, wondering if he was actually wide awake and just hoping she would go home. She picked up her discarded clothes and got dressed quickly, crept out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her.

Jessica didn’t even stop to admire the paintings, as she couldn’t wait to get out of the apartment, fearing that Paulo might wake up and expect her to repeat the whole dreadful experience. She tiptoed along the corridor and took the lift to the ground floor.

‘Would you like a taxi, miss?’ asked the doorman politely. He was clearly not surprised to see a scantily dressed young woman appearing in the lobby at three in the morning.

‘No, thank you,’ said Jessica, giving the Ferrari one last look before she took off her high heels and set out on the long walk back to her little flat.

26

No one was more surprised than Jessica when Paulo asked her out on a second date. She had assumed he would have already moved on, but then she remembered the girl who claimed to have slept with him half a dozen times before he dumped her.

She told Claire that she liked being driven around in a Ferrari, dining at Annabel’s and sampling the finest premier cru champagnes, and even admitted to her friend that she rather enjoyed Paulo’s company, and was grateful to him for solving her ‘virgo intacta’ problem, even if she hadn’t been overwhelmed by the experience.

‘It gets better,’ Claire assured her, ‘and let’s face it, not all of us are wined and dined by a Brazilian god before we lose our virginity. I’m sure you remember my experience behind the school pavilion with Brian, the second eleven wicket keeper?’ she added. ‘It might have been more enjoyable if he hadn’t left his pads on.’

The only thing that changed on the second date was the nightclub. Annabel’s was replaced by Tramp, and Jessica felt far more relaxed mixing with a younger crowd. She and Paulo went back to his flat around two in the morning, and this time she didn’t leave the moment he fell asleep.

She was woken in the morning to find Paulo gently kissing her breast, and he continued to hold her in his arms long after they’d made love. When she saw the clock on the bedside table, she shouted, ‘Help!’, jumped out of bed and took a hot shower. Paulo clearly didn’t believe in breakfast, so she gave him a kiss and left him in bed. During her still-life class, Jessica found she wasn’t able to concentrate, her mind continually returning to Paulo. Was she falling in love?

Professor Howard frowned when he took a closer look at her drawing of a bowl of oranges, and even checked to make sure it was Jessica sitting there. Although her drawing was still superior to those of her fellow students, her tutor continued to frown.

During the week, Jessica visited three other nightclubs, where each time, Paulo was welcomed as a regular. Over the next few weeks she began to develop a craving for his favourite brand of cigarettes, which didn’t seem to come from a packet, and to enjoy the brandy Alexanders that always appeared moments after they’d drained their second bottle of wine.

As the months went by, Jessica started to turn up later and later at the Slade, occasionally missing classes and lectures, and then whole days. She didn’t notice herself drifting out of her old world and becoming a part of Paulo’s.

When the first letter came towards the end of term, it should have been a wake-up call, but Paulo convinced her to ignore it.

‘I had three of those in my first term,’ he said. ‘After a while they just stop sending them.’

Jessica decided that once he became bored with her, which she feared couldn’t be too long now, as she’d already passed the statutory half-dozen dates, she would return to the real world, although she was beginning to wonder if that would now be possible. It so nearly did end after she’d attended a lecture on the art of the English watercolour, and found herself falling asleep. When she woke, the other students were already leaving the lecture theatre. She had decided that rather than head back to the flat, she would go straight to Paulo’s apartment.

She took a bus to Knightsbridge, then ran all the way to Lancelot Place. The doorman opened the door with one hand and saluted with the other as she got into the lift. When she reached the fourth floor, she tapped lightly on Paulo’s door, which was opened by his Brazilian maid. She looked as if she was about to say something, but Jessica brushed past her and headed for the bedroom. She began to tear off her clothes, leaving them in a trail on the floor behind her, but when she entered the room she stopped in her tracks. Paulo was in bed, smoking hash with Avril Perkins.

Jessica knew that was the moment she should have turned around, marched out and never looked back, but instead she found herself walking slowly towards them. Paulo grinned as she crawled up on to the bed. He pushed Avril aside, took Jessica in his arms and pulled off the only garment she was still wearing.

The next letter Jessica received from the Slade was signed by the principal, and had the words ‘second warning’ boldly underlined.

Mr Knight pointed out that she had missed her last six drawing classes, and had also failed to attend any lectures for over a month. If this continued, he wrote, the board would have to consider withdrawing her scholarship. When Paulo set fire to the letter, Jessica burst out laughing.

During the following term, Jessica began sleeping at Paulo’s apartment during the day and spending most of her waking life accompanying him to nightclubs. On the rare occasions she and Paulo dropped into the Slade, few people recognized them. She became used to a string of different girls coming and going during the day, but she was the only one who spent the night with him.

The third letter, which Professor Howard handed to Jessica personally on one of the rare occasions she did get up in time to attend a morning drawing class, could not be ignored. The principal informed her that as she had been caught smoking marijuana on the college’s premises, her scholarship had been rescinded and would be awarded to another student. He added that she would be allowed to remain as a pupil for the present, but only if she attended classes and her work greatly improved.

Professor Howard warned her that if she still hoped to graduate and be offered a place at the Royal Academy to study for an MA, she would have to build a portfolio of work for the examiners to consider, and time was slipping away.

When Jessica went home that afternoon, she didn’t show the letter to Claire, who rarely missed a lecture, and had a steady boyfriend called Darren, who considered a visit to Pizza Express a treat.

Jessica made sure that whenever she visited her parents or grandparents, which was becoming less and less frequent, she was always soberly dressed and never smoked or drank in their presence.

She made no mention of her lover, or the double life she was leading, and was relieved that Paulo had never once suggested he would like to meet her family. Whenever one of her parents raised the subject of the Royal Academy, she assured them that Professor Howard was delighted with her progress, and remained confident that the academy would offer her a place the following year.

By the beginning of her second year at art school, Jessica was conducting two lives. Neither of them in the real world. This might well have continued if she hadn’t bumped into Lady Virginia Fenwick.

Jessica was standing at the bar of Annabel’s when she turned at the same moment as an elderly lady with her back to her and spilled some champagne on her sleeve.

‘What are the young coming to?’ said Virginia, when Jessica didn’t even bother to apologize.

‘And it’s not just the young,’ said the duke. ‘One of those new life peers Thatcher has just appointed had the nerve to address me by my Christian name.’

‘Whatever next, Perry?’ said Virginia as the maître d’ guided them to their usual table. ‘Mario, do you by any chance know who that young lady is standing at the bar?’

‘Her name is Jessica Clifton, my lady.’

‘Is it indeed? And the young man she’s with?’

‘Mr Paulo Reinaldo, one of our regular customers.’

For the next few minutes Virginia made only monosyllabic replies to anything the duke said. Her gaze rarely left a table on the far side of the room.

Eventually she got up, telling the duke she needed to go to the loo, then took Mario to one side and slipped him a ten-pound note. As Lady Virginia wasn’t known for her generosity, Mario assumed this could not be for services rendered, but for services about to be rendered. By the time her ladyship returned to the duke and suggested it was time to go home, she knew everything she needed to know about Paulo Reinaldo, and the only thing she needed to know about Jessica Clifton.

When Paulo took Jessica to Annabel’s to celebrate her nineteenth birthday, neither of them noticed the elderly couple seated in an alcove.

Virginia and the duke usually left the club around eleven, but not tonight. In fact the duke dozed off after a third Courvoisier even though he had suggested on more than one occasion that perhaps they should go home.

‘Not yet, darling,’ Virginia kept saying, without explanation.

The moment Paulo called for the bill, Virginia shot out of the stalls and made her way quickly across to the private phone booth discreetly located in the corridor. She already had a telephone number and the name of an officer she had been assured would be on duty. She dialled the number slowly and the phone was answered almost immediately.

‘Chief Inspector Mullins.’

‘Chief inspector, my name is Lady Virginia Fenwick, and I wish to report a dangerous driving incident. I think the driver must be drunk, because he almost hit our Rolls-Royce as he overtook us on the inside.’

‘Can you describe the car, madam?’

‘It was a yellow Ferrari, and I’m fairly sure the driver wasn’t English.’

‘You didn’t by any chance get the registration number?’

Virginia checked a slip of paper in her hand. ‘A786 CLC.’

‘And where did the incident take place?’

‘My chauffeur was driving around Berkeley Square when the Ferrari turned right down Piccadilly and drove off towards Chelsea.’

‘Thank you, madam. I’ll look into it immediately.’

Virginia put the phone down just as Paulo and Jessica passed her in the corridor. She remained in the shadows as the young couple made their way up the stairs and out on Berkeley Square. A liveried doorman handed Paulo his car key in exchange for a five-pound note. Paulo jumped into the driver’s seat, eased the gear lever into first and accelerated away as if he was in pole position on the starting grid at Monte Carlo. He’d only gone a few hundred yards when he spotted a police car in his rear-view mirror.

‘Lose them,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s only a clapped-out Sierra.’

Paulo moved into third and began to dodge in and out of slow-moving traffic. Jessica was screaming obscenities and cheering him on, until she heard the siren. She looked back to see the traffic moving aside to allow the police car through.

Paulo glanced in his rear-view mirror as the traffic light in front of him turned red. He shot through it, turned right and narrowly missed a bus as he careered down Piccadilly. By the time he reached Hyde Park Corner, two police cars were in pursuit and Jessica was clinging on to the dashboard, wishing she’d never encouraged him.

As he swerved around Hyde Park Corner and on to the Brompton Road, he ran another red light, only to see a third police car heading towards him. He threw on the brakes and skidded to a halt, but was too late to avoid crashing head on into the squad car.

Jessica didn’t spend her nineteenth birthday in the arms of her lover in his luxury Knightsbridge apartment, but alone on a thin, urine-stained foam mattress in cell number three of Savile Row police station.

27

Samantha was woken just before seven the following morning by a telephone call from Chief Inspector Mullins. She didn’t need to wake Seb, who was in the bathroom shaving. When he heard his wife’s anxious voice, he put down his razor and walked quickly back into the bedroom. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Sam crying.

A cab pulled up outside Savile Row police station just after 7.30 a.m. Sebastian and Sam stepped out, to be met by flashing bulbs and shouted questions, which reminded Seb of when Hakim was on trial at the Old Bailey. What he couldn’t understand was who could have alerted the press at that time in the morning.

‘Is your daughter a drug addict?’ shouted one.

‘Was she driving?’ Another.

‘Did she take part in an orgy?’ Yet another.

Seb recalled Giles’s golden rule when facing a pack of hacks: if you’ve got nothing to say, say nothing.

Inside the police station, Seb gave the duty sergeant at the front desk his name.

‘Take Mr and Mrs Clifton down to cell number three,’ the sergeant instructed a young constable, ‘and I’ll let the chief inspector know they’ve arrived.’

The constable led them along a corridor and down some steep steps into the basement. He inserted a large key into a heavy door and pulled it open, then stepped aside to allow them to enter the cell.

Sebastian stared at the dishevelled girl hunched up on the corner of the bed, her face smeared with mascara from crying. It took him a few moments to realize it was his daughter. Samantha crossed the room quickly, sat down beside Jessica and wrapped her arms around her.

‘It’s all right, my darling, we’re both here.’

Although Jessica had sobered up, the smell of stale alcohol and marijuana still lingered on her breath. A few moments later they were joined by the case officer, who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Mullins and explained why their daughter had spent the night in a police cell. He then asked if either of them knew a Mr Paulo Reinaldo.

‘No,’ they both said without hesitation.

‘Your daughter was with Mr Reinaldo when we arrested him this morning. We’ve already charged him with drink-driving, and possession of three ounces of marijuana.’

Seb tried to remain calm. ‘And my daughter, chief inspector, has she also been charged?’

‘No, sir, although she was drunk at the time and we suspect had been smoking marijuana and later assaulted a police officer, we will not be pressing charges.’ He paused. ‘On this occasion.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ said Samantha.

‘Where is the young man?’ asked Sebastian.

‘He will appear before Bow Street magistrates later this morning.’

‘Is my daughter free to leave, chief inspector?’ Samantha asked quietly.

‘Yes she is, Mrs Clifton. I’m sorry about the press. Someone must have tipped them off, but I can assure you it wasn’t us.’

Seb took Jessica gently by the arm and led her from the cell, up a well-trodden staircase and out of the police station into Savile Row, where they were once again greeted by flashing bulbs and hollered questions. He bundled his wife and daughter into the back of a taxi, pulled the door closed and told the cabbie to get moving.

Jessica sat cowering between her parents, and didn’t raise her head even after the cab had turned the corner and the press were no longer to be seen.

When they arrived back home in Lennox Gardens, they were met by another group of photographers and journalists. The same questions, but still no answers. Once they were safely inside, Seb accompanied Jessica into the living room, and before she had a chance to sit down, he demanded the truth, and nothing less.

‘And don’t spare us, because I’ve no doubt we’ll read every lurid detail in the Evening Standard later today.’

The self-assured young woman who’d left Annabel’s after celebrating her birthday had been replaced by a stammering, tearful nineteen-year-old, who replied to their questions in a quivering, uncertain voice that neither of her parents had ever experienced before. Between embarrassed silences, Jessica described how she’d first met Paulo and became infatuated by his charm, his sophistication and, most of all, she admitted, the endless flow of cash. Although she told her parents everything, she never placed any blame on her lover, and even asked if she might be allowed to see him one more time.

‘For what purpose?’ asked Sebastian.

‘To say goodbye.’ She hesitated. ‘And to thank him.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise, while the press will be dogging his every step and hoping you’ll do just that. But if you write him a letter, I’ll make sure he gets it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jessie, you have to face the fact that you’ve let us both down badly. However, one thing’s for sure, nothing will be gained by raking over it. It’s now in the past, and only you can decide what you want to do about your future.’

Jessica looked up at her parents, but didn’t speak.

‘In my opinion, you have two choices,’ said Seb. ‘You can come back home and find out if it’s possible to pick up the pieces, or you can leave, and return to your other life.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jessica, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I know what I did was unforgivable. I don’t want to go back, and I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it up to both of you if you’ll just give me another chance.’

‘Of course we will,’ said Samantha, ‘but I can’t speak for the Slade.’

Sebastian left the flat a couple of hours later to pick up an early edition of the Evening Standard. The headline screamed out at him from a poster long before he’d reached the newsagent:

He read the article as he walked slowly back home. It included almost all of the details Jessie had volunteered earlier. A night spent in a police cell, champagne, marijuana, two bottles of expensive wine followed by brandy Alexanders consumed at Annabel’s in Mayfair. A police chase that ended up with a £100,000 Ferrari crashing head on into a squad car, and even the suggestion of four in a bed.

Mr Paulo Reinaldo warranted only a passing mention, but then the reporter was far more interested in making sure the Baroness Emma Clifton, Under Secretary of State for Health, Sir Harry Clifton, popular author and civil rights campaigner, Lord Barrington, former leader of the House of Lords, and Sebastian Clifton, chairman of a leading city bank, all got a mention, despite the fact that they were all fast asleep at the time Jessica Clifton was arrested.

Sebastian let out a deep sigh. He could only hope that his beloved daughter would eventually be able to chalk this down to experience and, given time, not only fully recover but be stronger for it. It wasn’t until he reached the last paragraph that he realized that wasn’t going to be possible.

Virginia also purchased an early edition of the Evening Standard, and couldn’t stop smiling as she read the ‘exclusive’ word for word. Ten pounds well spent, she thought to herself. Her only disappointment was that Paulo Reinaldo had pleaded guilty, and received a fine of £500 after assuring the judge he would be returning to Brazil in the next few days.

However, the smile reappeared on Virginia’s face when she came to the last paragraph of the article. Mr Gerald Knight, the principal of the Slade School of Fine Art, told the reporter he had been left with no choice but to expel both Mr Reinaldo and Miss Jessica Clifton from the college. He added that he had done so reluctantly in the case of Miss Clifton, as she was an extremely gifted student.

‘It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Barrington. I’ve long been an admirer of yours.’

‘That’s kind of you, Sir James, but I had no idea you’d even heard of me.’

‘You taught my wife Helen when she was up at Cambridge,’ said Sir James as they sat down by the fire.

‘Remind me of her maiden name, Sir James?’

‘Helen Prentice. We met when I was reading Law at Trinity.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember Helen. She played the cello in the college orchestra. Does she still play?’

‘Only at weekends when no one is listening.’ They both laughed.

‘Well, do pass on my best wishes to her.’

‘I will indeed, Dr Barrington. But I confess, neither of us could work out why you would want to see me, unless you’re on one of your well-known fund-raising drives, in which case I should remind you that British Petroleum has recently increased its annual grant to the Newnham College scholarship fund.’

Grace smiled. ‘You’re wearing the wrong hat, Sir James. I didn’t come to see the chairman of BP but the president of the Slade School of Fine Art.’

‘I’m still none the wiser.’

‘Try not to think of me as a Barrington, but as being related to several Cliftons, and one in particular, my great-niece Jessica, whose case I come to plead on her behalf.’

Sir James Neville’s warm and relaxed demeanour was quickly replaced with a sullen frown.

‘Even if you were Portia, I’m afraid your pleas would fall on deaf ears, Dr Barrington. The board voted unanimously to expel Miss Clifton from the Slade. Not only was she drunk, and possibly under the influence of drugs, when she was arrested, but she assaulted a police officer while in custody. I personally felt she was most fortunate not to have been charged, and even given a custodial sentence.’

‘But that’s the whole point, Sir James. She wasn’t charged, or sentenced.’

‘The young man who was driving the car at the time, if I remember correctly, was charged, given a heavy fine and deported.’

‘An older and much more sophisticated individual, with whom Jessica was unfortunately besotted.’

‘Quite possibly, Dr Barrington. But are you also aware that Miss Clifton’s scholarship was rescinded earlier this year after she was caught smoking marijuana on college premises?’

‘Yes, I am, Sir James. Jessica has told me everything that happened during the past year, and I can assure you she deeply regrets her actions, but if you reinstate her, she will not let you down a second time.’

‘Whose word do we have for that?’

‘Mine.’

Sir James hesitated, before saying, ‘I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Dr Barrington. Did Miss Clifton also mention that she only attended three lectures and seven classes last term, and during that time her work went from excellent to unacceptable?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘And when her supervisor, Professor Howard, raised the matter with her, she told him, and I apologize for my language, to fuck off?’

‘And you’ve never resorted to such language, Sir James?’

‘Not when addressing my tutor, and I doubt if your great-niece has resorted to such language in front of you, Dr Barrington, or any other members of your family.’

‘So you’ve never known a student to rebel against what you and I would consider acceptable behaviour? After all, you have a son and two daughters of your own.’ Sir James was silenced for a moment, which allowed Grace to continue. ‘I’ve had the privilege of teaching many talented young women over the years, but rarely have I encountered one as gifted as my great-niece.’

‘Talent is not an excuse to flout college rules, while expecting everyone else to behave properly, as the principal clearly spelt out in his report on this unhappy state of affairs.’

‘In that same report, Sir James, Professor Howard addressed the board on Jessica’s behalf, and if I recall his words correctly, he said that she possessed a rare talent that should be nurtured, not stamped out.’

‘The board considered Professor Howard’s words most carefully before we came to our decision, and I’m afraid the attendant publicity left us with no choice but to—’

‘The attendant publicity, Sir James, was not caused by Jessica, but my sister Emma, my brother-in-law Harry, and even my brother, Giles Barrington.’

‘That is possibly the case, Dr Barrington, but the privilege of being brought up in such a remarkable family gives one added responsibility.’

‘So if Jessica had been the daughter of a single mother, whose father had deserted her, your whole attitude might have been different?’

Sir James rose angrily from his place. ‘I apologize, Dr Barrington, but I can see no purpose in prolonging this discussion. The board has made its decision, and I do not have the authority to overturn it.’

‘I’m loath to correct you, Sir James,’ said Grace, not rising from her seat, ‘but I think you’ll find, if you check the statutes of the Slade carefully, that rule 73b allows you to do just that.’

‘I don’t recall rule 73b,’ said Sir James, sinking back into his chair, ‘but I have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me.’

‘It is the president’s prerogative,’ said Grace calmly, ‘to overrule a board decision if he believes that there were extenuating circumstances that had not been taken into consideration at the time.’

‘Such as?’ said Sir James, barely able to disguise his irritation.

‘Perhaps it’s time to remind you about another student, who didn’t have the same privileges as Jessica Clifton. A young man who, when he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, took his tutor’s motorbike without permission and in the middle of the night went on a joyride. When he was pulled over by the police for speeding, he claimed he had the owner’s permission.’

‘That was just a harmless prank.’

‘And when he appeared in front of the magistrate the following morning, he wasn’t charged, but was told to return the bike to its owner and apologize. And fortunately, because the young man was not the son of a government minister, the incident didn’t even manage a paragraph in the Cambridge Evening News.’

‘That’s not altogether fair, Dr Barrington.’

‘And when he returned the bike to his tutor and apologized, the undergraduate was not sent down or even rusticated, because his tutor was a civilized fellow, and was well aware that the young man was only a few weeks away from his finals.’

‘That’s below the belt, Dr Barrington.’

‘I cannot disagree,’ said Grace. ‘But I think it worthy of mention that the young man in question graduated with a first-class honours degree, and later became chairman of BP, president of the Slade School of Art, and a knight of the realm.’

Sir James bowed his head.

‘I apologize for resorting to such tactics, Sir James, and can only hope you will forgive me when Dame Jessica Clifton RA is appointed president of the Royal Academy.’

‘Tell me, Grandpops,’ said Jessica, ‘have you ever made a complete fool of yourself?’

‘Do you mean this week, or last week?’ asked Harry.

‘I’m serious. I mean when you were young.’

‘That’s so long ago, I can’t even remember,’ said Harry. Jessica remained silent as she waited for him to answer her question. ‘What about being arrested for murder?’ he finally managed. ‘Does that count?’

‘But you were innocent and it was all a terrible mistake.’

‘The judge didn’t seem to think so, because he sentenced me to four years in jail, and if I remember correctly, you only managed one night.’ Jessica frowned, and didn’t respond. ‘And then there was the time I disobeyed orders and advised a German general to lay down his arms and surrender, when all I had at my disposal was a pistol and an Irish corporal.’

‘And the Americans decorated you for that action.’

‘But that’s the point, Jessie. Often in war you’re hailed as a hero for something that had you done in peacetime, you would have been arrested for and possibly shot.’

‘Do you think my father will ever forgive me?’

‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t. He did something far worse at your age, which was the reason your mother left him and returned to America.’

‘She told me they drifted apart.’

‘True, but what she didn’t tell you was why. And they have you to thank for bringing them back together.’

‘And whom do I have to thank?’

‘Your great-aunt Grace, if you’re asking who made it possible for you to return to the Slade in September.’

‘I assumed it was you or Grandmama who intervened.’

‘No. Although she won’t thank me for telling you, Grace joined forces with Professor Howard, proving that when two people work together, they can become an army.’

‘How can I ever begin to thank them?’

‘By proving they were right. Which leads me to ask how your work’s coming on.’

‘I don’t know, is the honest answer. Can you ever be sure how one of your books is shaping up?’

‘No. In the end I leave it to the critics and the public to make that decision.’

‘Then I guess it will be the same for me. So would you be willing to offer an honest opinion on my latest work?’

‘I could try,’ said Harry, hoping he wouldn’t have to dissemble.

‘Then no better time than now,’ said Jessica, grabbing him by the hand and leading him out of the library. ‘It was kind of you to allow me to come down for the summer and see if I could pick up the pieces,’ she added as they climbed the stairs.

‘And have you?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m hoping you’ll tell me,’ said Jessica, as she opened the door to the old playroom and stood aside.

Harry walked tentatively in and looked at row upon row of preliminary drawings scattered across the floor. They didn’t begin to prepare him for the huge canvas that stood on an easel in the centre of the room. He stared at a painting of the Manor House, which he had thought he knew so well. The lawn, the rose garden, the lake, the folly, the vast oaks that led your eye to the horizon. Every colour was wrong, but when put together...

When Jessica could bear it no longer she said, ‘Well? Say something, Grandpops.’

‘I only hope my latest book is half as good.’

28

‘But it’s a family tradition,’ insisted Emma.

‘Couldn’t we have a year off?’ mocked Sebastian.

‘Certainly not. I promised your great-grandfather that the family would always spend Christmas together, and on New Year’s Eve we would tell each other our New Year’s resolutions. So who would like to start this year?’

‘My father was even worse,’ said Samantha. ‘He made us write down our resolutions, and a year later we had to read them out to remind everyone what we’d foolishly promised.’

‘I’ve always liked your father,’ said Emma. ‘So why don’t you begin?’

‘By this time next year,’ said Samantha, ‘I will have a job.’

‘But you already have a job,’ said Emma. ‘You’re bringing up the next but one chairman of Farthings Kaufman.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Seb, looking down at his son, who was landing a model of Concorde on the floor. ‘I think he plans to be a test pilot.’

‘Then he’ll have to become chairman of British Airways,’ said Emma.

‘Perhaps he won’t want to be chairman of anything,’ suggested Grace.

‘If you had a choice, Sam,’ said Harry, ‘what job would you like?’

‘I’ve applied for a position at the Courtauld Institute, in their research department. The hours are flexible, and now Jake is going to nursery school, it would be ideal.’

‘For the more practical members of our family,’ said Sebastian, ‘it may interest them to know that employing a nanny will cost more than Sam can hope to earn as a researcher at the Courtauld.’

‘A sensible distribution of wealth,’ said Grace. ‘Two people each doing a job they want to do, and both being rewarded accordingly.’

‘What’s your New Year’s resolution, Aunt Grace?’ asked Sebastian.

‘I’ve decided to take early retirement, and will be leaving the university at the end of the academic year.’

‘Come and join us in the House of Lords,’ said Giles. ‘We could do with your wisdom and common sense.’

‘Thank you,’ said Grace, ‘but two Barringtons in the Upper House is quite enough. In any case, like Samantha, I’m also looking for another job.’

‘Dare one ask what?’ asked Harry.

‘I’ve applied for a teaching post at a local comprehensive, in the hope that I can help some bright young girls get into Cambridge, who might not otherwise have considered it possible.’

‘Why not boys?’ demanded Giles.

‘There are quite enough of them at Cambridge already.’

‘You put us all to shame, Aunt Grace,’ said Sebastian.

‘So what do you have planned for this year, Seb?’ retorted Grace. ‘Other than making more and more money?’

‘Let’s hope you’re right, because frankly that’s what my customers, of which you’re one, will be expecting me to do.’

‘Touché,’ said Emma.

‘Your turn, Jessica,’ said Grace. ‘I hope you plan to do something more worthwhile than chairing a bank.’

No one needed to be reminded of Jessica’s resolution a year ago: to be worthy of my great-aunt’s belief in me, and to make the best of being given a second chance.

‘I’m determined to win a scholarship to the Royal Academy Schools.’

‘Bravo,’ said Emma.

‘Not good enough,’ said Grace. ‘We all know you’re going to achieve that. Raise the bar, young lady.’

Jessica hesitated for a moment, before she said, ‘I’ll win the Founder’s Prize.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Grace. ‘And we’ll all be present when you accept the award.’

‘Your turn, Mama,’ said Sebastian, coming to the rescue of his daughter.

‘I’m going to join a gym and lose half a stone.’

‘But that was your resolution last year!’

‘I know,’ said Emma, ‘and now I need to lose a stone.’

‘Me too,’ said Giles, ‘but unlike Emma at least I’ve achieved last year’s resolution.’

‘Remind us?’ said Harry.

‘I swore I’d get back on the front bench and be offered a challenging portfolio now that Michael Foot had finally resigned and made way for someone who actually wants to live in Number Ten.’

‘Which portfolio has Mr Kinnock asked you to shadow?’ asked Grace.

Giles couldn’t help grinning.

‘No,’ said Emma, ‘you wouldn’t dare! I presume you turned him down?’

‘I couldn’t resist it,’ said Giles. ‘So my New Year’s resolution is to frustrate, harass and cause as many problems as possible for the government, and in particular its minister for health.’

‘You’re a rat!’ said Emma.

‘No, to be fair, sis, I’m a rat catcher.’

‘Time out,’ said Harry, laughing. ‘Before you two come to blows, who’s next?’

‘Freddie, perhaps?’ suggested Karin.

It had been Freddie’s first Christmas at the Manor House, and Jessica had mothered him like an only child, while Jake never seemed to be more than a few steps behind his new friend.

‘My New Year’s resolution,’ said Freddie, ‘will be the same this year, and every year, until I have achieved it.’ Freddie may not have intended to, but he’d caught everyone’s attention. ‘I shall score a century at Lord’s, and emulate my father.’

Giles turned away, not wishing to embarrass the boy.

‘And once you’ve done that, what next?’ asked Harry, when he saw his oldest friend close to tears.

‘A double century, Sir Harry,’ said Freddie without hesitation.

‘It won’t be difficult to work out what you’ll want the following year, once you’ve achieved that,’ said Grace.

Everyone laughed.

‘Now it’s your turn, Karin,’ said Emma.

‘I’ve decided to run the London Marathon, and to raise money for immigrants who want to go to university.’

‘How far is a marathon?’ asked Samantha.

‘Just over twenty-six miles.’

‘Rather you than me. But put me down for five pounds a mile.’

‘That’s very generous, Sam,’ said Karin.

‘Me too,’ said Sebastian.

‘And me,’ added Giles.

‘Thank you, but no thank you,’ said Karin, taking a notebook from her pocket. ‘I already had Samantha down for five pounds a mile, and the rest of you will be expected to give the same proportion of your income.’

‘Help,’ said Sebastian.

‘I’ll be coming to you last,’ said Karin, smiling at Seb before consulting her list. ‘Grace is down for twenty-five pounds a mile, Emma and Harry fifty pounds each, and Giles one hundred. And Sebastian, as you’re chairman of the bank, I’ve got you down for a thousand pounds a mile. That adds up to —’ she once again consulted her notebook — ‘thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and eighty pounds.’

‘Can I put in a plea on behalf of an immigrant art student from the new world, who isn’t at all sure who her parents are, and has unfortunately lost her scholarship?’ Everyone laughed. ‘And what’s more, Freddie, Jake and I would each like to give ten pounds a mile.’

‘But that would cost you seven hundred and eighty pounds,’ said her father. ‘So I have to ask, how do you intend to pay?’

‘The bank will be requiring a portrait of its chairman to hang in the boardroom,’ said Jessica. ‘Guess who they’re about to commission, and what her fee will be?’

Harry smiled, delighted that his granddaughter had regained her irreverent streak, along with her acerbic sense of humour.

‘Do I have any say in this?’ asked Seb.

‘Certainly not,’ said Jessica. ‘Otherwise what’s the point of being a father?’

‘Bravo, Karin,’ said Grace, ‘we all applaud you.’

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Seb. ‘There will be a sub-clause attached to the contract. Not a penny will be paid if Karin fails to finish.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Karin, ‘and my thanks to you all.’

‘Who’s left?’ asked Emma.

Everyone turned their attention to Harry, who couldn’t resist making them all wait for a few more moments.

‘Once upon a time there was a remarkable old lady, who, just before she died, wrote a letter to her son suggesting that perhaps the time had come for him to write that novel he had so often told her about.’ He paused. ‘Well, Mother,’ he said, looking towards the heavens, ‘that time has come. I no longer have any excuse not to fulfil your wish, as I’ve just completed the final book in the William Warwick series.’

‘Unless of course your wicked publisher,’ suggested Emma, warming to the theme, ‘were to offer his susceptible author an even larger advance that he found impossible to resist.’

‘I’m happy to tell you that won’t be possible,’ said Harry.

‘How come?’ asked Seb.

‘I’ve just sent the final draft to Aaron Guinzburg, and he’s about to discover that I’ve killed off William Warwick.’

Everyone was stunned into silence, except Giles, who said, ‘That didn’t stop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle bringing Sherlock Holmes back to life after his loyal readers thought Moriarty had thrown him off a clifftop.’

‘The same thought did cross my mind,’ said Harry, ‘so I ended the book with William Warwick’s funeral, and his wife and children standing by the graveside watching his coffin being lowered into the ground. As far as I can recall, only one person has ever risen from the dead.’

That silenced even Giles.

‘Are you able to tell us anything about the next novel?’ asked Karin, who, like everyone else, was hearing about the death of William Warwick for the first time.

Once again Harry waited until he had everyone’s attention, even Jake’s.

‘It will be set in one of the Russian satellites, probably Ukraine. The first chapter will open in a suburb of Kiev, where a family, mother, father and child, will be having supper together.’

‘A boy or a girl?’ asked Jessica.

‘Boy.’

‘Age?’

‘Haven’t decided yet. Fifteen, possibly sixteen. All I know for certain is that the family are celebrating the boy’s birthday, and during the meal, not exactly a feast, the reader will learn about the problems they face living under an oppressive regime when the father, a trade union leader, is considered to be a trouble-maker, a dissident, someone who dares to challenge the state’s authority.’

‘If he’d been born in this country,’ said Giles, ‘he would have been the leader of the opposition.’

‘But in his own country,’ continued Harry, ‘he’s treated like an outlaw, a common criminal.’

‘What happens next?’ asked Jessica.

‘The boy is about to open his only present, when an army truck comes to a screeching halt outside the house, and a dozen soldiers break down the door, drag the father out on to the street and shoot him in front of his wife and child.’

‘You kill the hero in the first chapter?’ said Emma in disbelief.

‘This is going to be a story about the child,’ said Grace, ‘not the father.’

‘And the mother,’ said Harry, ‘because she’s an intelligent, resourceful woman, who’s already worked out that if they don’t escape from the country, it won’t be long before her rebellious son will seek revenge, and inevitably end up suffering the same fate as his father.’

‘So where do they escape to?’ demanded Jessica.

‘The mother can’t decide between America and England.’

‘How do they decide?’ asked Karin.

‘On the toss of a coin.’

The rest of the family continued to stare at the storyteller.

‘And what’s the twist?’ asked Seb.

‘We follow what happens to the mother and child, chapter by chapter. In chapter one, they escape to America. In chapter two, England. So you have two parallel and very different stories taking place at the same time.’

‘Wow,’ said Jessica. ‘Then what happens?’

‘I wish I knew,’ said Harry. ‘But it’s my New Year’s resolution to find out.’

29

‘Ten minutes to go,’ said a voice over the loudspeaker. Karin kept jogging on the spot, attempting to get into what the seasoned runners called ‘the zone’. She’d put in hours of training, even run a half marathon, but suddenly she felt very alone on the starting line.

‘Five minutes,’ said the voice of doom.

Karin checked her stopwatch, a recent gift from Giles. 0.00. Get as close to the front as you can, Freddie had told her. Why add unnecessary time or distance to the race? Karin had never considered the marathon to be a race, she just hoped to finish in under four hours. Right now, she just hoped to finish.

‘One minute,’ boomed the starter’s voice.

Karin was about eleven rows back, but as there were over 8,000 runners, she considered that was near enough to the front.

‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!’ the runners all shouted in unison, before a klaxon blared ominously. Karen pressed the button on her stopwatch and set off, swept along by an enthusiastic tide of runners.

Each mile was marked with a thick blue line stretching across the road, and Karin completed the first mile in under eight minutes. As she settled into a steady rhythm, she became more aware of the crowds lining both sides of the course, some cheering, some clapping, while others just stared in disbelief at the mass of human flesh, of all shapes and sizes, which was passing them at different speeds.

Her mind began to drift. She thought about Giles, who’d driven her to the little village of tents earlier that morning to register, and who would now be out there somewhere standing in the cold, waiting for her to appear among the also-rans. Her thoughts turned next to her recent visit to the House of Lords to hear the health minister answering questions from the despatch box. Emma had coped well, and in Giles’s opinion had quickly got into her stride. As Karin passed the halfway mark, she hoped she was also in her stride, although she accepted the winner would already be crossing the finishing line.

Giles had warned them that Karin was unlikely to complete the course in under four hours, so the family had all risen early that morning to make sure they could find a spot where she was certain to see them. The previous evening Freddie had been on his knees preparing a placard that he hoped would make Karin laugh as she staggered past them.

Once Giles had returned to Smith Square after dropping his wife off at the A — D registration tent in Greenwich Park, he led her little band of supporters to the back of the Treasury building and found a front-row place behind the barriers on Parliament Square, opposite the statue of Winston Churchill.

Karin was now approaching what was known by all marathon runners as the wall. It usually came at around 17 to 20 miles, and she’d heard so often about the temptation to try and convince yourself that if you dropped out, no one would notice. Everyone would notice. They might not say anything, but Sebastian had made it clear that he wouldn’t be parting with a penny unless she crossed the finishing line. A deal’s a deal, he’d reminded her. But she seemed to be going slower and slower, and it didn’t help when she spotted a 30 miles per hour road sign ahead of her.

But something, possibly the fear of failure, kept her going, and she pretended not to notice when she was overtaken by a letter box, and a few minutes later by a camel. Go, go, go, she told herself. Stop, stop, stop, her legs insisted. As she passed the 20-mile mark, the crowd cheered loudly, not for her, but for a caterpillar who strolled past her.

When Karin spotted the Tower of London in the distance, she began to believe she just might make it. She checked her watch: 3 hours 32 minutes. Could she still complete the course in under four hours?

As she turned off the Embankment and passed Big Ben, a loud, sustained cheer went up. She looked across to see Giles, Harry and Emma waving frantically. Jessica never stopped drawing, while Freddie held up a placard that declared KEEP GOING, I THINK YOU’RE IN THIRD PLACE!

Karin somehow managed to raise an arm in acknowledgement, but by the time she turned into the Mall, she could barely place one foot in front of the other. With a quarter of a mile to go, she became aware of the packed stands on both sides of the road, the crowds cheering more loudly than ever and a BBC television crew who were filming her while running backwards faster than she was running forwards.

She looked up to see the digital clock above the finishing line ticking relentlessly away. Three hours 57 minutes, and she suddenly began to take an interest in the seconds, 31, 32, 33... With one last herculean effort, she tried to speed up. When she finally crossed the line, she raised her arms high in the air as if she were an Olympic champion. After a few more strides, she collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Within a moment, a race official in a Red Cross smock was kneeling beside her, a bottle of water in one hand, a shiny silver cape in the other.

‘Try to keep moving,’ he said as he placed a medal round her neck.

Karin began walking slowly, very slowly, but her spirits were lifted when in the distance she spotted Freddie running towards her, arms outstretched, with Giles only a few paces behind.

‘Congratulations!’ Freddie shouted, even before he’d reached her. ‘Three hours, fifty-nine minutes and eleven seconds. I’m sure you’ll do better next year.’

‘There isn’t going to be a next year,’ said Karin with considerable feeling. ‘Even if Sebastian offers me a million pounds.’