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“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”
* * *
The ship’s purser could not have been more helpful. He was able to supply Sebastian with an address for Miss Samantha Sullivan: 2043 Cable Street, Georgetown, Washington, DC, although he couldn’t be sure if she was still living there, as she hadn’t traveled on the ship since the maiden voyage. Seb hoped 2043 would turn out to be a small apartment where she lived alone or with one of her female colleagues.
He thanked the purser, walked up a couple of flights of stairs to the Grill Room, and joined his father for dinner. It wasn’t until the steward had cleared away the main course that Seb raised the subject of Virginia’s writ.
“Quite dramatic stuff, or at least we all thought so at the time,” said Harry, lighting a Havana cigar, which he couldn’t have purchased on an American ship. “Your mother was addressing the company’s AGM, and during questions from the floor Virginia asked if one of the directors of Barrington’s had sold all his shares with the intention of bringing down the company.”
“So how did Mother deal with the question?”
“She turned it to her advantage by asking if Virginia was referring to the three occasions on which Alex Fisher, her representative on the board, had sold an
d then bought back her own shares, while at the same time making a handsome profit.”
“But as that’s no more than the truth,” said Seb, “it’s hardly libel.”
“I agree, but your mother couldn’t resist prodding the snake with a very sharp stick by adding—” Harry put his cigar down, leaned back, and closed his eyes—“‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to succeed…’ no, no,” said Harry, correcting himself, “her exact words were, ‘to be a success.’ The audience cheered, and Virginia stormed out of the room shouting, ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,’ and indeed we did. But that was some time ago, so let’s hope she’s been advised to drop the case and has slithered away into the undergrowth.”
“If she has, she’ll only be curled up waiting to strike again.”
* * *
On the last morning of the voyage, Seb joined his father for breakfast, but Harry hardly said a word. He was always the same just before handing in a manuscript to his publishers. The longest three days of his life, he once told Seb, were while he waited to hear Harold Guinzburg’s opinion of his latest work.
“But how can you be sure he’s being completely honest about how he feels when the last thing he would want is to lose you?”
“I don’t listen to a word he says about the book,” admitted Harry. “I’m only interested in the number of hardback copies he will print for the first impression. He can’t bluff that. Because if it’s over a hundred thousand this time, it means he thinks he’s got a number-one best seller.”
“And under a hundred thousand?” said Seb.
“Then he’s not so sure.”
Father and son walked down the gangway together just over an hour later. One of them was clinging onto a manuscript and heading for a publishing house in Manhattan, while the other took a cab to Penn Station armed with no more than an address in Georgetown.
26
SEBASTIAN STOOD ON the other side of the road clutching a large bunch of red roses. He stared at the front door of a small, single-story redbrick house. In front, a little square of grass that could have been cut with scissors, was surrounded by begonias. A swept path led up to a recently painted front door with a brass knocker that shone in the late morning sun. So neat, so tidy, and so Samantha.
Why was he fearless whenever he took on Adrian Sloane, or crossed swords with someone over a million-pound deal, when knocking on what might not even prove to be Sam’s front door filled him with apprehension? He took a deep breath, crossed the road, walked slowly up the path, and knocked tentatively on the door. When it opened, his immediate reaction was to turn and run. It had to be Sam’s husband.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, eyeing the roses suspiciously.
“Is Samantha in?” Seb asked, wondering if suspicion would quickly turn to anger.
“She hasn’t lived here for over a year.”
“Do you know where she’s moved?”
“No idea. Sorry.”
“But she must have left a forwarding address,” said Seb desperately.
“The Smithsonian,” the man replied, “that’s where she works.”
“Thanks,” said Seb, but the door had already closed.
This encounter made him feel a little bolder, and he quickly returned to the street and hailed the first passing cab. During the journey to the Smithsonian, he must have repeated to himself a dozen times, stop being so feeble and just get on with it. The worst she can do is …
