credit card and the minister will reimburse. Olivia, the
diary secretary, phones the canteen and confirms that two bottles and two jars, contents
unstated, can be kept on ice till seven provided it’s all right with Security.
Grudgingly, it is. The canteen will supply an icebucket and pepper.
Only when all this is achieved may the remaining staff go home.
Alone at his desk, Toby affects to work. At
6.35 he descends to the canteen. At 6.40 he is back in the anteroom spreading foie gras
and smoked salmon pâté on crispbread. At 6.55 the minister emerges from his
sanctum, inspects the display, approves it and places himself before the anteroom door.
Toby stands behind him, on his left side, thus leaving the ministerial right hand free
to greet.
‘He’ll be on the dot. Always
is,’ Quinn promises. ‘So will she, the darling. She may be who she is, but
she’s got his mindset.’
Sure enough, as Big Ben strikes he hears
footsteps approach down the corridor, two pairs, the one strong and slow, the other
light and skittish. A man is outstriding a woman. Punctually at the last stroke, a
peremptory rap resounds on the anteroom door. Toby starts forward but is too late. The
door is thrust open and Jay Crispin enters.
The identification is immediate and definite
and so expected as to be anticlimactic. Jay Crispin, in the flesh at last, and high time
too. Jay Crispin, who caused an unsung scandal at Defence and will never grace the
corridors of Whitehall and Westminster again; who spirited Quinn from the lobby of his
grand hotel in Brussels, sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroën sedan that
took him to La Pomme du Paradis, breakfasted with him in the ministerial suite and
orated from the lectern in Prague: not a ghost, but himself. Just a trim,
regular-featured, rather obviously pretty man of no depth: a man, in short, to be seen
through at a glance; so why on earth hasn’t Quinn seen through him?
And halfway down Crispin’s left arm,
clinging to it with one bejewelled claw, trips a tiny woman in a pink chiffon dress with
matching hat and high-heeled shoes with diamanté buckles.Age?
It depends which parts of the lady we are talking about, monsieur
.
Quinn reverently takes her hand and ducks
his heavy boxer’s head over it in a crude half-bow. But Quinn and Crispin are old
buddies reunited: see the rugged handshake, the manly shoulder-patting of the
Jay-and-Fergus show.
It’s Toby’s turn to be
acknowledged. Quinn lavishly to the fore:
‘Maisie, allow me to present my
invaluable Private Secretary,
Toby Bell
. Tobe, kindly pay your respects to Mrs
Spencer Hardy of Houston, Texas, better known to the world’s elite as the one and
only
Miss Maisie
.’
A touch like gauze drawn across Toby’s
palm. A Deep South murmur of ‘Why
hullo there, Mr Bell
!’ followed
by a vampish cry of ‘Hey, now listen, Fergus, I’m the only
belle
around here!’ to gusts of sycophantic laughter in which Toby obligingly joins.
‘And Tobe, meet my old friend Jay
Crispin. Old friend since –
when
, for God’s sake, Jay?’
‘Good to meet you, Toby,’
Crispin drawls in upper-end English of the very best sort, taking Toby’s hand in a
kinsman’s grasp and, without releasing it, vouchsafing him the sort of sturdy look
that says: We’re the men who run the world.
‘And good to meet
you
’
– omitting the ‘sir’.
‘And we do
what
here,
exactly?’ – Crispin, still gripping his hand.
‘He’s my Private Secretary, Jay!
I told you. Bound to me body and soul and assiduous to a fault. Correct,
Tobe?’
‘Pretty new to the job, aren’t
we, Toby?’ – finally letting his hand go, but keeping the ‘we’ because
they’re these two blokish chaps together.
‘Three months,’ the
minister’s voice chimes in again excitedly. ‘We’re twins. Correct,
Tobe?’
‘And where were we before, may one
enquire?’ – Crispin,
diary secretary, phones the canteen and confirms that two bottles and two jars, contents
unstated, can be kept on ice till seven provided it’s all right with Security.
Grudgingly, it is. The canteen will supply an icebucket and pepper.
Only when all this is achieved may the remaining staff go home.
Alone at his desk, Toby affects to work. At
6.35 he descends to the canteen. At 6.40 he is back in the anteroom spreading foie gras
and smoked salmon pâté on crispbread. At 6.55 the minister emerges from his
sanctum, inspects the display, approves it and places himself before the anteroom door.
Toby stands behind him, on his left side, thus leaving the ministerial right hand free
to greet.
‘He’ll be on the dot. Always
is,’ Quinn promises. ‘So will she, the darling. She may be who she is, but
she’s got his mindset.’
Sure enough, as Big Ben strikes he hears
footsteps approach down the corridor, two pairs, the one strong and slow, the other
light and skittish. A man is outstriding a woman. Punctually at the last stroke, a
peremptory rap resounds on the anteroom door. Toby starts forward but is too late. The
door is thrust open and Jay Crispin enters.
The identification is immediate and definite
and so expected as to be anticlimactic. Jay Crispin, in the flesh at last, and high time
too. Jay Crispin, who caused an unsung scandal at Defence and will never grace the
corridors of Whitehall and Westminster again; who spirited Quinn from the lobby of his
grand hotel in Brussels, sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroën sedan that
took him to La Pomme du Paradis, breakfasted with him in the ministerial suite and
orated from the lectern in Prague: not a ghost, but himself. Just a trim,
regular-featured, rather obviously pretty man of no depth: a man, in short, to be seen
through at a glance; so why on earth hasn’t Quinn seen through him?
And halfway down Crispin’s left arm,
clinging to it with one bejewelled claw, trips a tiny woman in a pink chiffon dress with
matching hat and high-heeled shoes with diamanté buckles.Age?
It depends which parts of the lady we are talking about, monsieur
.
Quinn reverently takes her hand and ducks
his heavy boxer’s head over it in a crude half-bow. But Quinn and Crispin are old
buddies reunited: see the rugged handshake, the manly shoulder-patting of the
Jay-and-Fergus show.
It’s Toby’s turn to be
acknowledged. Quinn lavishly to the fore:
‘Maisie, allow me to present my
invaluable Private Secretary,
Toby Bell
. Tobe, kindly pay your respects to Mrs
Spencer Hardy of Houston, Texas, better known to the world’s elite as the one and
only
Miss Maisie
.’
A touch like gauze drawn across Toby’s
palm. A Deep South murmur of ‘Why
hullo there, Mr Bell
!’ followed
by a vampish cry of ‘Hey, now listen, Fergus, I’m the only
belle
around here!’ to gusts of sycophantic laughter in which Toby obligingly joins.
‘And Tobe, meet my old friend Jay
Crispin. Old friend since –
when
, for God’s sake, Jay?’
‘Good to meet you, Toby,’
Crispin drawls in upper-end English of the very best sort, taking Toby’s hand in a
kinsman’s grasp and, without releasing it, vouchsafing him the sort of sturdy look
that says: We’re the men who run the world.
‘And good to meet
you
’
– omitting the ‘sir’.
‘And we do
what
here,
exactly?’ – Crispin, still gripping his hand.
‘He’s my Private Secretary, Jay!
I told you. Bound to me body and soul and assiduous to a fault. Correct,
Tobe?’
‘Pretty new to the job, aren’t
we, Toby?’ – finally letting his hand go, but keeping the ‘we’ because
they’re these two blokish chaps together.
‘Three months,’ the
minister’s voice chimes in again excitedly. ‘We’re twins. Correct,
Tobe?’
‘And where were we before, may one
enquire?’ – Crispin,
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