“I shall call a board meeting.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
“Then I shall demand an Extraordinary General Meeting,” said Charles.
“And tell the shareholders what? That you had a standing order to return as Chairman when you felt like it? That won’t sound like a former Foreign Secretary.”
“I’ll have you out of this office in twenty-four hours,” Charles continued, his voice suddenly rising.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Seymour. Miss Trubshaw has completed her five years and left us on a full pension, and it won’t take you long to discover that I don’t possess a Swiss bank account or a well-compensated mistress.”
Charles went red in the face. “I’ll get you removed. You don’t begin to understand how far my influence stretches.”
“I hope I’m not removed, for your sake,” said Reynolds calmly.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Seymour, but I would hate to have to explain how Seymour’s lost over £500,000 on the Nethercote account because of your personal wish to ruin Simon Kerslake’s career. It may interest you to know that the only thing the bank gained from that fiasco was goodwill, and we only managed that because I recommended that Morgan Grenfell pick up the pieces.”
Charles couldn’t resist a smile. “When I make that public it will finish you,” he said triumphantly.
“Perhaps,” said Reynolds calmly, “but it would also stop you from becoming Prime Minister.”
Charles turned, picked up his umbrella, put on his gloves, and walked away. As he reached the door, a secretary walked in holding two cups of coffee. Charles passed her without a word and slammed the door.
“I’ll only be needing one, Miss Bristow.”
During the first week after the Queen’s Speech Andrew was pleased to discover that a majority of his colleagues wrote to say that they would support him if he put his name forward for the leadership of the SDP.
At their weekly parliamentary meeting the party Whip asked that names for the post of party leader be submitted to his office within seven days. Each candidate had to be proposed and seconded by Members of Parliament.
For the next week the popular press tried to suggest, conjure up, or even invent a rival for Andrew. Louise, who believed almost everything she read in the papers, took to perusing the Morning Star, the only paper which showed no interest in the outcome. But by five o’clock on the seventh day it had become obvious that Andrew was to be the sole nomination.
At the next parliamentary meeting of the SDP he was not so much elected as anointed. On the following Saturday, having been made a Privy Councillor the day before, Andrew addressed the party faithful at a packed Albert Hall. After a well-received speech, the press unanimously predicted—yet again—an SDP-Liberal revival. One or two journalists were quick to point out that if the balance of power did ever rest in his hands the Right Honorable Andrew Fraser might not know which way to jump: with on the one hand a father who was a distinguished Tory, while on the other having been a member of the Labour party himself for twenty years, which party would he consider the lesser of the two evils? Andrew always told the press that he would worry about that when the problem arose, because the SDP might not even be able to come to an agreement with the Liberals.
Numerous articles on the new SDP leader appeared in newspapers and magazines across the country. They all reported the stories of his attempt to save his son’s life, the gradual recovery of his wife after Robert’s death, the successful adoption of Clarissa, and his reelection to Parliament on the toss of a golden sovereign.
All the publicity made Clarissa feel like a film star, she told her father. She was the most popular girl in school, she added, so he had better become Prime Minister. He laughed but proceeded to lead his party with a determination and energy that caused him to be talked of in the same breath as the leaders of the two main parties.
No sooner had the publicity over Andrew’s election died down than the press started speculating as to whether Mrs. Thatcher would now make way for a younger man.
“Don’t you know any other restaurant?”
“Yes, but they don’t know me,” replied Ronnie Nethercote, as the two men strolled into the Ritz for the first time in a couple of years. Heads turned as people leaned forward and whispered Simon’s name to their guests.
“What are you up to nowadays? I can’t believe Opposition fully occupies you,” Ronnie said as they took their seats.
“Not really. I might also be described as one of the four million unemployed,” replied Simon.
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” said Ronnie, “but first I recommend the country vegetable soup and the …”
“Beef off the trolley,” interjected Simon.
“You remembered.”
“It’s the one thing you’ve always been right about.”
Ronnie laughed more loudly than people normally did in the Ritz before saying, “Now you no longer have the entire armed forces at your disposal or ambassadors to call you Your Eminence or whatever they call you now, why don’t you join the board of my new company?”