The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”

“Perfect; see you then.”

Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.

“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”

“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”

“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”

“Know much about him?”

“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”

“Oh.”

“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.

Stone nodded.

“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”

Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.

“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”

“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.

“Get in!”

The doorman held the door open for him.

“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.

Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.

Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.

“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.

“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”

“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.

Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.

“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”

“Port.”

“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”

“All too easily.”