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  * * *

  Emma had spent the past three months preparing for the “big event,” and nothing had been left to chance. Harry was even made to deliver a dress rehearsal of his speech in their bedroom the night before.

  Three hundred guests beat a path to the Manor House for a black-tie dinner to celebrate Maisie’s seven decades, and when she made her entrance on Harry’s arm, it wasn’t difficult for anyone to believe that she must have been one of the great beauties of her day. Harry sat down beside her and beamed with pride, although he became more and more nervous as the moment approached when he would have to propose his mother’s health. Performing in front of a packed audience no longer troubled him, but in front of his mother …

  He began by reminding the guests of his mother’s formidable achievements, against all the odds. She had progressed from being a waitress in Tilly’s tearoom, to manager of the city’s Grand Hotel—the first woman to hold that position. After she had reluctantly retired at the age of sixty, Maisie had enrolled as a mature student at Bristol University, where she read English, and three years later graduated with honors; something Harry, Emma and Sebastian hadn’t achieved—all for different reasons.

  When Maisie rose to reply, the whole room rose with her. She opened her speech like a seasoned pro, not a note, not a tremor. “Mothers always believe their sons are special,” she began, “and I’m no exception. Of course I’m proud of Harry’s many achievements, not only as a writer but, more importantly, as president of English PEN and as a campaigner on behalf of his less fortunate colleagues in other countries. In my opinion, his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released from a Siberian gulag is a far greater achievement than topping the New York Times bestseller list.

  “But the cleverest thing Harry has ever done was to marry Emma. Behind every great man…” Laughter and applause suggested that the audience agreed with Maisie. “Emma is a remarkable woman in her own right. The first female chairman of a public company, yet she still somehow manages to be an exemplary wife and mother. And then of course there’s my grandson, Sebastian, who I’m told will be the next governor of the Bank of England. That must be right, because it was Sebastian himself who told me.”

  “I’d rather be chairman of Farthings Bank,” Seb whispered to his aunt Grace, who was seated beside him.

  “All in good time, dear boy.”

  Maisie ended with the words, “This has been the happiest day of my life, and I count myself lucky to have so many friends.”

  Harry waited for the applause to subside before he rose again to propose Maisie’s long life and happiness. The assembled guests raised their glasses and continued to cheer as if it was the last night of the Proms.

  “I’m sorry to see you on your own again, Seb,” said Grace once the applause had died down and everyone had resumed their seats. Seb didn’t respond. Grace took her nephew’s hand. “Hasn’t the time finally come for you to accept that Samantha is married and has another life?”

  “I wish it was that easy,” said Seb.

  “I regret not marrying and having children,” Grace confided, “and that’s something I’ve not even told my sister. But I do know that Emma wants so much to be a grandmother.”

  “She already is,” whispered Seb. “And like you, that’s something I’ve never told her.”

  Grace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “Sam has a little girl called Jessica,” Seb said. “I only needed to see her once to know she was my daughter.”

  “Now I begin to understand,” said Grace. “Is there really no chance you and Samantha can be reconciled?”

  “Not while her husband is still alive.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Grace, squeezing her nephew’s hand.

  * * *

  Harry was delighted to see his brother-in-law chatting amiably to Griff Haskins, the Labour Party agent for Bristol Docklands. Perhaps the wily old pro could still persuade Giles to allow his name to go forward, despite Major Fisher’s poisonous intervention. After all, Giles had been able to show that the letter was peppered with half-truths and was clearly an attempt to settle old scores.

  “So have you finally made a decision about the by-election?” asked Harry, when Giles broke away from Griff to join him.

  “I’ve not been left with a lot of choice,” said Giles. “Two divorces and a dalliance with an East German woman, who may even be a Stasi spy, doesn’t make one the ideal candidate.”

  “But the press seem convinced that whoever the Labour candidate is, they’re certain to win by a landslide while this Tory government remains so unpopular.”

  “It’s not the press or even the electorate who will select the candidate but a group of men and women who make up the local selection committee, and I can tell you, Harry, there’s nothing more conservative than a Labour Party selection committee.”

  “I’m still convinced they’d back you now they know the truth. Why don’t you throw your hat in the ring and let them decide?”

  “Because if they asked me how I feel about Karin, they might not like the answer.”

  * * *

  “It was kind of you to include me in such an illustrious occasion, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “Don’t be silly, Hakim, your name was one of the first on the guest list. No one could have done more for Sebastian, and after that rather unpleasant experience with Adrian Sloane I shall be forever in your debt, which I know your countrymen don’t take lightly.”

  “You have to know who your friends are, when you spend so much time looking over your shoulder, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “Emma,” she insisted. “And tell me, Hakim, what exactly do you see when you look over your shoulder?”

  “An unholy trinity that I suspect has plans to rise from the dead and once again try to take control of Farthings—and possibly even Barrington’s.”

  “But Mellor and Knowles are no longer on the board of Barrington’s, and Sloane has forfeited whatever reputation he had in the City.”

  “True, but that hasn’t stopped them forming a new company.”

  “Mellor Travel?”

  “Which I don’t imagine will be recommending that their customers book a holiday on the Barrington line.”

  “We’ll survive,” said Emma.

  “And I presume you know that Lady Virginia Fenwick is considering selling her shares in Barrington’s? My spies tell me she’s a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”

  “Is she indeed? Well, I wouldn’t want those shares to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Emma. I’ve already instructed Sebastian to pick them up the moment they come on the market. Be assured that if anyone even thinks about attacking you again, Hakim Bishara and his caravan of camels will be at your disposal.”

  * * *

  “It’s Deakins, isn’t it?” said Maisie, as a thin, middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair came up to her to pay his respects. He was dressed in the suit he must have graduated in.

  “I’m flattered that you remember me, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “How could I ever forget? After all, Harry never stopped reminding me, ‘Deakins is in my class but, frankly, he’s in a different class.’”

  “And I was proved right, Mother,” said Harry as he joined them. “Because Deakins is now Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. And like myself, he mysteriously disappeared during the war. But while I ended up in jail, he was at a place called Bletchley Park. Not that he ever reveals what went on behind those moss-covered walls.”

  “And I doubt he ever will,” said Maisie, looking more closely at Deakins.

  “‘Did you ever see the picture of “We Three”?’” said Giles, appearing by Deakins’s side.

  “Which play?” demanded Harry.

  “Twelfth Night,” said Giles.

  “Not bad, but which character says the words and to whom?”

  “The Fool, to Sir Andrew Aguecheek.”

  “And who else?”

  “Sir Toby Belch.”

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