‘I’ll be there,’ she promised, then lapsed back into French. Using French with him had always been one of the ways in which she reminded him that they were both foreigners in this very English environment, the City of London, the dull, the formal, the grey sea of English business, so different to the glamour and civilised wit of their homeland. When he dined with Chantal they ate French or Vietnamese food. She liked to go with him to concerts given by visiting French musicians, to French opera or ballet. It made their relationship special, excluded everyone around them.
Now she said, ‘Why don’t we have lunch first, to talk it over, Paul? There’s a new French restaurant I’m dying to try. I hear it is fabulous and has a great wine list. Not the usual old plonk. Some really good stuff.’
He knew he should accept, keep her sweet, but he couldn’t do it and tried to sound really regretful as he refused. ‘I’d love to. Some other time, Chantal – but I’m very pressed for time at the moment with my father-in-law coming over tomorrow. I’m trying to wrap up as much as possible before he arrives. I’ll see you in the board room at three, OK?’
‘OK, Paul,’ she said, but the sweetness had a tart edge to it.
Up in the Penthouse Suite, Don Gowrie’s campaign team were in session, brainstorming ideas for the coming days in Europe. The room they sat in was crowded with chairs arranged in a circle.
His speechwriters listened to everything that was said, industriously scribbling notes, his PR people talked about the press coverage they had achieved since he got to New York and discussed the media people who were going with them to Europe to make sure the coverage continued. His campaign manager, Jim Allgood, discussed the travel and hotel arrangements for the first leg of the tour with a harrassed woman in a blue jersey suit.
The researchers passed round pages of background information on the places they would be visiting, the people they would be seeing, the issues paramount in London, Dublin, Paris, Bonn and Rome at the moment, issues he should address during his visits to those capital cities, issues which would also have an impact back home among the Americans with roots back in those countries who still kept an eye on what happened in Europe. That was the vital point to concentrate on – the reaction back home to what you said abroad. Foreigners had no vote. They didn’t count.
‘How do we deal with the Irish problem?’ asked a speechwriter, and Jim Allgood looked up impatiently.
‘For God’s sake, Jeff, read your background notes once in a while! Why do you think we give them out? He has an Irish family connection, way back – ancestor left during the Famine, joined the British army and went to India, did well, got married, had a son who emigrated here in 1878. It’s a good story: go big on that while we’re in Dublin, don’t mention while we’re in London. As we go to London first, no problem. On balance the Irish vote back here is more important than the Brits, though, don’t forget.’
‘What about this Nato stuff the British press is banging on about?’ asked a researcher, looking up from a snowstorm of press cuttings, and Jim Allgood frowned, shook his head.
‘Don’t touch it. We’re keeping our options open on that one. If he gets hassled for some statement, he’ll go for a standard response. America stands beside her friends, always has, always will, along those lines.’
‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’ scribbled Jeff, the speechwriter, and Allgood gave him a cold glance.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll make it sound good, but keep it vague. Very high-minded, very serious, but no firm commitment on budget, or promises that can be thrown back at him later, OK? The world keeps changing, you never know where we’ll be in a couple of years. He doesn’t want to be saddled with any promises he has to break.’
A lanky, tousle-haired young man in jeans and a T-shirt which read in bright orange lettering ‘Put Gowrie in the White House and Get the Job Done’ said drily, ‘God forbid we should do that. We wouldn’t want anyone to think the man has principles or believes in what he’s saying, would we?’
The other speechwriter, Jeff, grinned. Allgood didn’t.
‘Don’t get clever, Greg,’ Allgood said. ‘Unless you’re tired of writing for us and want to go back to writing novels that don’t sell?’
‘I’ve got too used to eating,’ Greg Blake said mournfully. ‘Sad, isn’t it? And I don’t think I’m ready to go back to sleeping in the park, either.’
‘Zip it, then,’ Allgood said.
Greg Blake silently mimed pulling a zip across his mouth. Jeff, beside him, zipped, too, his eyes full of amusement.
‘You guys slay me,’ Allgood said with no amusement whatever.
Next door Elly Gowrie was eating rainbow jelly; sunshine from the window made it flash and glisten as she carefully spooned it into her mouth with the serious concentration of a four-year-old. She watched the shimmer of it and laughed.
‘Jelly,’ she said.
‘You love jelly, don’t you?’ her nurse said.
She was in one of her happy moods for the moment; she beamed. ‘Elly loves jelly,’ she said, and began to giggle. ‘Elly loves jelly, Elly loves jelly,’ she chanted, banging her spoon on the side of her bowl.
The nurse gave her a wary look, recognizing the symptoms of over-excitement which could turn into a violent rage any minute. She had had an emotional day; that always made her volatile.
She had cried earlier when her father visited her, clinging to him sobbing, ‘Daddy, Daddy . . . take me home, I want to go home, I don’t like it here, don’t leave me with them, take me home.’
The old man had been very upset. They had had to pull her away from him; she was surprisingly strong, her arms like tentacles winding round him.
‘Look, let me take her home with me. Why not let me take her home?’ Eddie Ramsey had said shakily, almost in tears himself, when she had been taken away.
Don Gowrie had soothed him down. ‘She’ll be fine, Eddie. She was just upset, seeing you again. She’ll enjoy the trip, she badly wants to see Cathy and I promised Cathy she would come with me. Cathy hasn’t seen her mother for months.’
Pale and distressed, Eddie Ramsey had said, ‘I know, I know, but she’s always happiest at Easton. She doesn’t look at all well to me. She has deteriorated since I last saw her.’