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“No MP will touch me,” she complained to one of her regulars, a shy, young financier named Edward De Vere. “It’s like I’ve got the plague or something. That fucker Leinster must have poisoned the well.”
“I can ask a few questions at the Carlton Club, if you like. See if there are any rumors knocking around.”
“You’re a member of the Carlton?” It was the first time Alexia had realized that Edward De Vere must be well connected. Politically well connected, that is. The Carlton Club was an exclusive—the exclusive—Tory Party members club in St. James’s. Like all would-be Conservative politicians, Alexia would have sold her soul to have access there, but there were no women allowed. Even if there had been, unknown barmaids with no family or connections to recommend them were probably not at the top of the Carlton membership committee’s wish list.
Two nights later, Edward De Vere was back in the bar.
“So, did you hear anything?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well?” Alexia leaned forward across the bar, accidentally affording her customer an excellent view of her breasts. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I’ll tell you on two conditions.”
“Conditions?” She frowned.
“Actually three conditions.”
“Three?”
“Three.”
“And they are?”
“The first is, don’t shoot the messenger.”
Shit, thought Alexia. He must have heard something bad. Really bad.
“I would never do that. Go on.”
“The second condition is that you call me Teddy. ‘Edward’ makes me sound like such a stiff.”
Alexia laughed. “Okay. Teddy. And the third?”
“The third is that you agree to have dinner with me on Friday night.”
Alexia considered for a moment. She already had a date on Friday night, with a dancer from the Royal Ballet named Francesco. Her gay colleagues at the pub were beside themselves with excitement about it.
“Lucky you,” the Coach and Horses landlord had cooed, staring unashamedly at Francesco’s crotch in the promotional pictures Alexia showed him. “He certainly carries all before him, doesn’t he?”
“It was love at first tights!” Stephane, the bar manager, giggled.
By contrast, Edward De Vere—Teddy—looked like a gauche little schoolboy. Ruddy-cheeked, awkward, and painfully reticent around women, Teddy was the archetypal British upper-class male, and not in a good way. And yet he had plucked up the courage to ask Alexia out. And he was funny. And a member of the Carlton Club. More important than all of this, he knew why Alexia was being blackballed by Westminster MPs and he wasn’t going to tell her unless she agreed to have dinner with him.
“All right, fine. I’ll have dinner with you.”
“On Friday.”
“Yes, on Friday. Now, for pity’s sake, what did you hear?”
Teddy De Vere took a deep breath.
“Clive Leinster told the entire House of Commons bar that he slept with you and you gave him crabs.”
“I . . . he . . .” Alexia spluttered, too outraged for speech. “Fuck! How dare he? The lying little . . .”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Teddy beamed. “We’ll go to Rules.”
