Never Tell. Claire Seeber

make the party.’

      James took my hand and squeezed it so hard I winced. I glanced into the driver’s mirror as I sat back. Danny Callendar looked at me inscrutably.

      ‘I’m not quite sure where she is, Mrs Miller,’ he answered easily. ‘Perhaps she’s gone up to London for a few days. She often does.’

      ‘Why?’ I wondered who the man driving her silver Porsche had been. I wondered if I dared ask.

      ‘I wouldn’t know.’ His tone told me I would get no further tonight. He offered us a paper bag over his shoulder. ‘Lemon sherbet?’

      We both declined.

      Silence fell across the car. One thing was certain: I knew for sure I couldn’t do Xav’s story now. However much my appetite was whetted, I had to stay home with the children. I’d sworn for their sake I’d never do anything risky again; motherhood had to come first now, and the atmosphere in the manor didn’t bode well at all.

      Leaning my head against the glass, I watched the tall hedgerows slide by in the dark, listening to the hiss of the tyres on the road. I was sitting beside my husband, but I was lonelier than I ever remembered being before I was married. I felt a strange longing for something I could not describe.

      As we pulled into our drive, James’s mobile rang. ‘Cheers, mate,’ he thanked Danny Callendar as he picked up the call, sliding out of his side. ‘Good news, Liam. New backer in the offing, I do believe.’ My husband disappeared through the studio gate.

      Before I could open it, Danny was already at the door.

      ‘I’m fine, really,’ I insisted quietly, but he held out a hand. Eventually I took it and looked up at him as I jumped down. I found I couldn’t smile.

      ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. My skin felt like it was burning where his hand touched me. For a split second his hand seemed to linger on mine, and then he was back in the car. I saw a flame through the dark window as he lit his roll-up, and then he was gone.

      THE POST ON SUNDAY,

      DECEMBER 1991

       THE GENTLEMAN’S DIARY: UP THE CREEK?

      We hear that Dalziel St John, eldest son of Lord Higham, our current Home Secretary and John Major’s great golfing buddy, has been living it up again of late. We all remember that St John Jnr went somewhat off the rails during his gap year: this kindly columnist will draw a veil over the episode. Suffice it to say that young Dalziel may have taken the ‘high’ in living the high life a little too literally down in North Cornwall’s elitist Rock. Now in his third year at Magdalen College, St John Jnr had apparently worried his parents again during the last summer holidays with talk of dropping out to model for Versace – amongst other ‘keen’ parties (homosexual French designer Gaultier famously called him ‘truly divine inspiration’, the fashion-conscious amongst you might remember). However, under the steadying influence of new girlfriend and sometime Sapphist Lena Holt (this lady is for turning obviously!), daughter of the late Marquis of Gloucester and opera singer Constantia Latzier, all has seemed well for a while: Dalziel has been safely ensconced back at Magdalen finishing his theology degree, after which he is expected to fly straight out to Argentina to manage the family polo farm for a while.

      So could the rumours be true that Dalziel has just this weekend been caught defecating at the altar of Christ Church, the ancient cathedral? Yes you did indeed read correctly: defecating, not desecrating, though some might argue they are one and the same. It may yet turn out to be fortunate that his father is second cousin of the Bishop himself, although my sources tell me both men are very far from amused. Indeed, Lady Higham is so mortified that she has retired to Barbados for a sojourn at the Sandy Lane spa, citing ‘nervous exhaustion’ (something the poor lady has suffered much of, apparently, for one so young).

       We shall, of course, keep our trusty readers posted of further developments – but let us just surmise for now that young Dalziel is well and truly up the creek and in the ‘proverbial’ with his folks …

      ‘Have you seen this?’ James threw the newspaper on the café table, spilling my tea. ‘I can’t believe that rag’s got hold of it.’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’ I pushed the paper away and finished my poached egg as James sat down. ‘Me and the whole of college. I can’t believe you’d buy that rag, James.’ I was only half joking. I’d been discovering yet more political principles this term. ‘I’m shocked.’

      ‘You’re too liberal for your own good.’ He shook his dark head sorrowfully. ‘Dalziel’s old man did such a wicked job of keeping it quiet. He’s going to go ballistic. White coffee, please, love,’ James winked at the pretty waitress, who tossed her hair and immediately turned her back on him.

      ‘Who’ll go ballistic?’ I mopped up the last of the yolk. ‘Dalziel’s dad?’

      ‘No, stupid. Dalziel.’ James pinched a chip. ‘He’s done a deal with his dad to keep this kind of stuff out of the paper.’

      ‘How can he do that?’ I was intrigued. ‘Keep it out? He’s not God. Or royalty.’ I considered that last statement for a second. ‘Or is he?’

      ‘Not quite, but he’s pretty well connected.’

      ‘I never realised his dad was a lord. Or Home Secretary.’ I wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous, given that St John Senior was such a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. My new worst enemies.

      ‘Anyway, Lord Higham owns half of Wapping. And,’ James lowered his voice, ‘Dalziel’s got stuff on his dad that would blow the government out of the water – and his dad knows it.’

      ‘God,’ I leaned forward, ‘like what?’ I was really curious now.

      ‘I’m not at liberty to say, petal.’ James stroked my cheek as the waitress brought the coffee. ‘He’d have my guts for garters if I breathe a word. Let’s just say it’s in Daddy’s interest – Daddy who likes lots of girls – it’s in his interest to cover Dalziel’s tracks. And anyway, he didn’t do it. Dalziel. The shitting thing.’

      I felt inordinately relieved. It seemed so crass somehow; below Dalziel. The young waitress was staring at James’s fingers on my skin and shoved the cup down so hard boiling coffee slopped out, burning my arm.

      ‘Ouch!’ I looked at her reproachfully. She looked vaguely familiar, her hair pulled back tightly from her cross, freckled face.

      ‘Bloody students,’ she muttered, and slammed back into the kitchen.

      ‘Friend of yours?’ I raised an eyebrow at my some-time boyfriend.

      ‘Possibly,’ he grinned. ‘Are you jealous?’

      I thought about it. ‘A little bit,’ I said, truthfully.

      ‘Don’t be. She’s just a skivvy.’

      ‘James!’ I was shocked.

      ‘A bit of rough can be a laugh, I guess.’ He raised his eyebrows at me, all arch. ‘An experience.’

      ‘For God’s sake, James.’ I took the bait. ‘You sound just like him.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Who do you think?’ I blew gently on my burned skin. ‘Your great lord and master.’

      ‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ James bristled. ‘I’m my own man.’

      ‘Boy,’ I teased.

      ‘Man. No one tells me what to do.’

      ‘Oh, really?’

      ‘Yes, really.’ James ladled sugar in his coffee, spoons and spoons of it. ‘He’s started talking about us all meeting again, actually.’ He was casual as he stirred his drink.

      ‘Oh.’