First Among Equals

“I should have mentioned it to you before, Mr, Kerslake, a Mr. Nethercote rang.”

“Thank you, I’ve spoken to him already.”

Simon was leafing through an out-of-date copy of Punch when the Chief Whip strode in.

“I can spare you one minute, Simon, one and a half if you are going to resign,” he said, laughing, and marched off toward his office. As Simon followed him down the corridor the phone by Miss Norse’s side rang. “It’s for you, Mr. Kerslake,” she shouted to their retreating backs.

Simon turned and said, “Can you take the number?”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Simon stopped, hesitating. “With you in a moment,” he said to the Chief Whip, who disappeared into his office. Simon walked back and took the phone from Miss Norse’s outstretched hand.

“Simon Kerslake here. Who is it?”

“It’s Ronnie.”

“Ronnie,” said Simon flatly.

“I’ve just had a call from Morgan Grenfell. One of their clients has made an offer of one pound twenty-five a share for the company and they’re willing to take over the current liabilities.”

Simon was trying to do the sums in his head.

“Don’t bother working it out,” Ronnie said. “At one pound twenty-five your shares would be worth £75,000.”

“It won’t be enough,” said Simon, as he recalled his overdraft of £108,712, a figure etched in his memory.

“Don’t panic. I’ve told them I won’t settle for anything less than one pound fifty a share and it has to be within seven days, which will give them ample time to check the books. That would bring you in £90,000 but you would still be £18,000 down the Swanee, which you’ll have to team to live with. If you sell the wife as well as the second car you should just about survive.”

Simon could tell by the way his friend was speaking that Ronnie already had a cigar between his lips.

“You’re a genius.”

“Not me—Morgan Grenfell. And I bet they’ll make a handsome profit in the long run for their unnamed client who seemed to have all the inside information. If you’re still on for lunch next Tuesday, don’t bring your luncheon vouchers. It’s on me.”

Simon put the phone down and kissed Miss Norse on the forehead. She was completely taken aback by a situation for which she had no set reply. She remained silent as the Chief Whip put his head round the door. “An orgy in the Chief Whip’s office? You’ll be on page three of the Sun next, Miss Norse.” Simon laughed. “I’ve got a crisis on over tonight’s vote. The Government are reneging on our agreement for pairing, and I have to get a delegation back from Brussels in time for the ten o’clock division. Whatever it is, can it wait, Simon?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you come to my office, Miss Norse—if I can drag you away from James Double-O-Seven Kerslake?”

Simon left and almost bounced to the nearest phone. First he called Elizabeth and then Archie Millburn at his office. Archie didn’t sound all that surprised.

“Don’t you think it might be wise for us to stop seeing each other?”

“Why?” said Raymond. “Palmerston had a mistress when he was seventy, and he still beat Disraeli come the election.”

“Yes, but that was before the days of a dozen national newspapers and investigative journalism. Frankly it wouldn’t take a Woodward or Bernstein more than a few hours to discover our little secret.”

“We’ll be all right. I’ve destroyed all the tapes.”

“Do be serious.”

“You’re always telling me I’m far too serious.”

“Well, I want you to be now. Very.”

Raymond turned to face Kate. “I love you, Kate, and I know I always will. Why don’t we stop this charade and get married?”