The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

“All right,” Stone said finally. “Another week, and that’s it.”

“It’s all I ask. How about a drink, now, and some dinner downstairs? Have you ever visited this club? Know anything about it?”

Then Bartholomew/Hedger, who was suddenly not such a bad guy after all, launched into a history of the Garrick Club and a list of its famous members.

Stone was charmed, a little, and he accepted Hedger’s dinner invitation.

24

STONE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING with a hangover, the result, he was sure, of the great quantity of port that he and Hedger had shared at the Garrick Club. They had dined in the club’s main dining room, a long, tall hall with acres of walls filled with fine portraits, the room’s red paint browned by decades of tobacco smoke. Stone had spotted a former American secretary of state and half a dozen well-known actors, and Hedger had pointed out government officials, barristers, and journalists among the crowd. Stone had been impressed.

Now he was depressed. He made a constant effort not to overindulge; he had failed, and the result was worse than jet lag. The phone rang—more loudly than usual, he thought. “Hello?”

“Good morning, it’s Sarah,” she said brightly. It was the first time they had spoken since the funeral.

“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.

“You sound hungover.”

“It’s jet lag.”

“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.

“All right, I’m hungover.”

“And how did this happen?”

“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”

“And in whose company?”

“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”

“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”

Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”

“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”

Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”

“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”

“Do I need a dinner jacket?”

“Always a good idea at an English country house.”

“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”

“Of course you will.” She hung up.

Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”