A Delicate Truth by John le Carré

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,