“What? Rupert never told me,” said Charles. “Neither did you.”
“True, but things have changed since—”
“Nothing has changed except my estimation of the value of your word,” said Charles, suddenly realizing that Spencer had never intended he should return to the board. “You gave me your assurance—”
“I won’t be spoken to like this in my own office.”
“If you’re not careful, the next place I shall do it will be in your boardroom. Now, will you honor your undertaking or not?”
“I don’t have to listen to threats from you, Seymour. Get out of my office before I have you removed. I can assure you that you will never sit on the board again as long as I’m chairman.”
Charles turned and marched out, slamming the door as he left. He wasn’t sure with whom to discuss the problem and returned immediately to Eaton Square to consider a plan of campaign.
“What brings you home in the middle of the afternoon?” asked Fiona.
Charles hesitated, considered the question, and then joined his wife in the kitchen and told her everything that had happened at the bank. Fiona continued to grate some cheese as she list
ened to her husband.
“Well, one thing is certain,” she said, not having spoken for several minutes but delighted that Charles had confided in her. “After that fracas, you can’t both be on the board.”
“So what do you think I ought to do, old girl?”
Fiona smiled; it was the first time he had called her that for nearly two years. “Every man has his secrets,” she said. “I wonder what Mr. Spencer’s are?”
“He’s such a dull middle-class fellow I doubt if—”
“I’ve just had a letter from Seymour’s Bank,” interrupted Fiona.
“What about?”
“Only a shareholder’s circular. It seems Margaret Trubshaw is retiring after twelve years as the board secretary. Rumor has it she wanted to do five more years, but the chairman has someone else in mind. I think I might have lunch with her.”
Charles returned his wife’s smile.
Andrew’s appointment as Minister of State at the Home Office came as no surprise to anyone except his three-year-old son, who quickly discovered how to empty any red boxes that were left unlocked, refilling them with marbles or sweets, and even managing to fit a football into one. As Robert didn’t fully understand “For Your Eyes Only,” it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference that Cabinet committee papers were sometimes found glued together with old bubble gum.
“Can you remove that latest stain in the red box?”
“Good heavens, what caused it?” asked Louise, staring down at a jelly-like blob.
“Frog spawn,” said Andrew, grinning.
“He’s a brainwashed Russian spy,” warned Louise, “with a mental age about the same as most of your colleagues in the House. Yes, I’ll remove the stain if you sit down and write that letter.”
Andrew nodded his agreement.
Among the many letters of commiseration Simon received when he did not return to the House was one from Andrew Fraser. Simon could imagine him sitting in his old office and implementing the decisions he had been involved in making just a few weeks before.
There was also a letter from Ronnie Nethercote inviting him to return to the board of Nethercote and Company at £5,000 a year, which even Elizabeth acknowledged as a generous gesture.
It was not long before Ronnie Nethercote had made Simon an executive director of the company. Simon enjoyed negotiating with the trade unions at a level he had not experienced before. Ronnie made it clear how he would have dealt with the “Commie bastards” given half a chance. “Lock them all up until they learn to do a day’s work.”
“You would have lasted about a week in the House of Commons,” Simon told him.
“After a week with those windbags I’d have been only too happy to return to the real world.”
Simon smiled. Ronnie, he felt, was like so many others—imagining all Members of Parliament were unemployable except the one they knew.