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“To the skin. I don’t know what it is with me and women, because I don’t seem to have the same pulling power as the other lads in the bank.”
“I’ll tell you about the other lads,” said Cedric. “Once they’ve got a couple of pints in them, they’d have you believe they give James Bond lessons. And I can tell you, with most of them, it’s all talk.”
“Did you have the same problem when you were my age?”
“Certainly not,” said Cedric. “But then I met Beryl when I was six, and I haven’t looked at another woman since.”
“Six?” said Sebastian. “You’re worse than my mother. She fell for my dad when she was ten, and after that the poor man never had a chance.”
“Neither did I,” admitted Cedric. “You see, Beryl was the milk monitor at Huddersfield primary, and if I wanted an extra third of a pint … bossy little thing. Still is, come to think of it. But I’ve never wanted anyone else.”
“And you’ve never even looked at another woman?”
“Looked, yes, but that’s as far as it goes. If you’ve struck gold, why go in search of brass?”
Sebastian smiled. “So how will I know when I’ve struck gold?”
“You’ll know, my boy. Believe me, you’ll know.”
* * *
Sebastian spent the last two weeks before Mr. Morita’s plane was due to touch down at London Airport attending every lecture Professor Marsh had on offer, never once so much as glancing back at his wife. In the evening, he returned to his uncle Giles’s home in Smith Square, and after a light supper, when he abandoned his knife and fork in favor of chopsticks, he would return to his room, read, listen to tapes and regularly bow in front of a full-length mirror.
The night before the curtain was due to go up, he felt he was ready. Well, half ready.
* * *
Giles was becoming accustomed to Sebastian bowing every morning when he entered the breakfast room.
“And you must acknowledge me with a nod, otherwise I can’t sit down,” said Sebastian.
“I’m beginning to enjoy this,” said Giles, as Gwyneth walked in to join them. “Good morning, my darling,” he said, as both men rose from their places.
“There’s a smart Daimler parked outside the front door,” said Gwyneth, taking a seat opposite Giles.
“Yes, it’s taking me to London airport to pick up Mr. Morita.”
“Ah, of course, today’s the big day.”
“That’s for sure,” said Sebastian. He drained his orange juice, jumped up, ran out into the corridor and took one more look in the mirror.
“I like the shirt,” said Gwyneth, buttering a piece of toast, “but the tie’s a little … old school. I think the blue silk one you wore at our wedding would be more appropriate.”
“You’re right,” said Sebastian, and immediately dashed upstairs and disappeared into his bedroom.
“Good luck,” said Giles as he came bounding back down the stairs.
“Thank you,” Sebastian shouted over his shoulder as he headed out of the house.
Mr. Hardcastle’s chauffeur was standing by the back door of the Daimler.
“I think I’ll join you in the front, Tom, as that’s where I’ll be sitting on the way back.”
“Suit yourself,” said Tom, climbing in behind the wheel.
“Tell me,” said Sebastian as the car turned right out of Smith Square and on to the Embankment, “when you were a young man—”
“Steady on, my lad. I’m only thirty-four.”
