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“Try the chocolate cake,” Henry urged her. “It’s from Daylesford. Tastes like heaven.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Alexia enjoyed being a size eight far too much to indulge her sweet tooth. “You should be careful not to let Ian hear you take his job in vain. He’s doing well at the Foreign Office, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Henry admitted. “But no one’s putting Ian James’s ugly mug on the front page of Le Figaro, let’s put it that way.”
Alexia laughed. It was true that her photogenic looks and brusque, no-nonsense manner had helped make her a popular figure in France and a great ambassador for the British government. But she couldn’t imagine that Henry Whitman had summoned her to Downing Street merely to flatter her.
“Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?”
“Not really.” Whitman sipped his tea. Alexia felt his eyes on her, studying her. There was a distrust there, a wariness that she didn’t understand. What does he want to know? And whatever it is, why doesn’t he just ask me? “Do you have any plans for the summer? You’ll be heading back out to the States, I presume.”
The interview was getting stranger and stranger. Why does Henry Whitman care where I take my vacation? Is he trying to get rid of me?
“Actually no, not this year. We’re staying in England. This ridiculous party Teddy’s organizing at Kingsmere, it’s more work than the G7 Summit.”
“Ah, yes.” Henry nodded. “The party.”
By now the whole of Westminster knew that Alexia De Vere’s charming old duffer of a husband was celebrating three hundred years of De Vere family history with a huge event at Kingsmere, arguably one of the most exquisite houses in England. Anyone who was anyone in European politics would be attending, as well as the great and the good from the entertainment and business worlds. It would be like Elton John’s White Tie & Tiara Ball, minus the vulgarity factor.
“You’re coming, I take it?” Alexia asked.
“Of course.”
“With Charlotte?”
Henry Whitman’s brow knit into a frown. “Naturally with Charlotte. I’m not in the business of attending social events alone, Alexia.”
“Of course not.”
There it was again. The chill.
“We get back from Sicily the night before, but we’ll definitely be there.”
After an awkward silence, the prime minister asked some polite questions about Alexia’s upcoming trip to Paris with Kevin Lomax. As rade secretary, Kevin’s department had also been involved in the Renault deal, although everybody knew it was Alexia who had clinched it.
“How are things between the two of you these days?” Henry Whitman asked.
“Fine,” Alexia lied. “Cordial.” Everybody knew that Kevin Lomax wanted her head on a pike, so much so that she wondered why Henry had even asked the question.
“You don’t foresee any problems on the trip?”
“No, Prime Minister. None whatsoever.”
“Good.”
Henry Whitman stood up, signaling that their awkward interview was over. But as Alexia reached the door, he called after her.
“There was one more thing I wanted to ask.”
Alexia stopped. “Oh?”
“Your PPS. Are you happy with him?”
Alexia looked surprised. “With Edward? Absolutely. He’s fantastic.”
“Good.” Henry Whitman smiled. “Terrific.”
“Why do you ask?”
