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After dropping into the wastepaper basket a second request from her bank manager for an urgent meeting, she turned her attention to the white envelopes. Several invitations from chums inviting her to spend a weekend in the country, but she’d recently sold her little MGB and no longer had any means of transport. Balls, at which she couldn’t possibly be seen in the same dress twice. Ascot, Wimbledon, and of course the garden party at Buckingham Palace. But it was Bofie Bridgwater’s embossed invitation that intrigued her most.
Bofie was, in her father’s opinion, a waste of space. However, he did have the virtue of being the youngest son of a viscount, which allowed him to mix with a class of people who were only too happy to foot the bill. Virginia read Bofie’s attached letter. Would she care to join him for lunch at Harry’s Bar (which certainly meant he wouldn’t be paying) to meet an old American chum (they’d probably met quite recently), Cyrus T. Grant III, who was visiting London for the first time and didn’t know his way around town?
“Cyrus T. Grant III,” she repeated. Where had she come across that name before? Ah, yes, William Hickey. She picked up the previous day’s Daily Express and
turned to the gossip column, as a gambler turns to the racing pages. Cyrus T. Grant III will be visiting London this summer to take in the season, Hickey informed her. In particular, to watch his filly, Noble Conquest, race in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot. He will be flying to London on his Lear jet, and staying in the Nelson suite at the Ritz. Forbes magazine has listed Grant as the 28th richest man in America. A multimillionaire—Virginia liked the word “multi”—who had made his fortune in the canning industry—she didn’t care for the word “industry.” Hickey went on to say that Vogue had described him as one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet. But how old are you? mumbled Virginia, as she studied the photo of the tycoon below the story. She guessed forty-five, and hoped fifty, and although he wasn’t what you might have called handsome, or even presentable, the number 28 stuck in her mind.
Virginia dropped Bofie a handwritten billet accepting his kind invitation, and added how much she was looking forward to meeting Cyrus T. Grant III. Perhaps she could sit next to him?
* * *
“You called, my lady?” said the butler.
“Yes, Morton. I’m sorry to say that I have been left with no choice but to terminate your employment at the end of the month.” Morton didn’t look surprised, as he hadn’t been paid for the past three months. “Of course, I shall supply you with an excellent reference, so you should have no difficulty in finding another position.”
“Thank you, my lady, because I confess these have not been the easiest of times.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Morton.”
“Mrs. Morton is expecting again.”
“But you told me only last year that you felt three children was more than enough.”
“And I still do, my lady, but just let’s say this one wasn’t planned.”
“One must organize one’s life more carefully, Morton, and learn to live within one’s means.”
“Quite so, my lady.”
* * *
Virginia could no longer put off visiting her bank manager after an embarrassed Mayfair hairdresser presented her with a bounced check.
“A clerical error,” Virginia assured her, and immediately wrote out another check. But once she’d left the salon, she hailed a taxi and asked the cabbie to take her to Coutts in the Strand.
Mr. Fairbrother rose from behind his desk as Lady Virginia marched into his office unannounced. “No doubt you have a simple explanation for this?” she said, placing the REFER TO DRAWER check on the manager’s desk.
“I fear, my lady, that you are well above your agreed overdraft limit,” said Fairbrother, not commenting on the fact that she hadn’t made an appointment. “I have written to you several times requesting a meeting to discuss the present situation, but you have clearly been very busy.”
“I rather assumed that as my family has banked with Coutts for over two hundred years, I might be given a little more latitude.”
“We have been as obliging as we felt able in the circumstances,” said Fairbrother, “but as there are several other transactions pending, I’m afraid you left us with little choice.”
“If that is the case, you have left me with no choice but to make arrangements to move my account to a more civilized establishment.”
“As you wish, my lady. And perhaps in the fullness of time you would be kind enough to let me know to which bank we should transfer your overdraft. Meanwhile, we will, I fear, be unable to honor any of your current outstanding checks until we have received his lordship’s monthly payment.”
“That’s fortunate really,” said Virginia, “as I’ve recently visited my father in Scotland, and he agreed to raise my allowance to three thousand pounds a month.”
“That is indeed good news, my lady, and will unquestionably help to alleviate your current short-term problem. However, I should point out that following that meeting with your father, his lordship wrote to inform the bank that he was no longer willing to guarantee your overdraft. And he made no mention of any increase in your monthly allowance.”
13
VIRGINIA SPENT THE morning at a new hairdresser, had her nails manicured and picked up her favorite Chanel outfit from the dry cleaners before returning to Cadogan Gardens.
As she stared at herself in a full-length mirror, she felt she didn’t look too bad for forty-two, well, forty-three … well … She took a taxi to Harry’s Bar just before 1 p.m., and when she mentioned the name Cyrus T. Grant III to the concierge, she was immediately accompanied to the private dining room on the second floor.
“Welcome, my darling,” said Bofie as she entered the room. He quickly took her to one side and whispered, “I know Cyrus is just dying to meet you. I’ve already told him you’re a member of the royal family.”
