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“If you mean Giles, he sent me a Christmas card for the first time in years, but I didn’t return the compliment.”
“I see he’s back on the front bench.”
“Yes, he’s been pitched against his sister. But he’s so wet, I expect he regularly lets her off the hook,” Virginia added as she took a sip of coffee.
“And now she’s a baroness.”
“She’s a life peer,” said Virginia. “Anyway, she only got her place in the Lords because she backed Margaret Thatcher when she stood for the leadership of the Tory party. It’s almost enough to make one consider voting Labour.”
“To be fair, Virginia, the press all seem to agree that she’s doing a rather good job as a health minister.”
“She’d be better off spending her time worrying about the health of her own family. Drink, drugs, three in a bed, assaulting the police, and her granddaughter ending up in jail.”
“It was only for one night,” Priscilla reminded her. “And she was back at the Slade the following term.”
“Someone must have pulled some very long strings to make that possible,” said Virginia.
“Probably your ex-husband,” suggested Priscilla. “He may be in opposition, but I suspect he still has a lot of clout.”
“And what about your husband?” asked Virginia, wanting to change the subject. “I hope all’s well with him,” she added, hoping to hear otherwise.
“He’s still producing a hundred thousand jars of fish paste a week, which allows me to live like a duchess, even if I’m not one.”
“And is your son still doing the PR for Farthings Kaufman?” asked Virginia, ignoring the barb.
“Yes, he is. In fact, Clive’s hoping it won’t be long before they ask him to join the main board.”
“It must help with Robert being an old friend of the chairman.”
“And how’s your son?” asked Priscilla, trading blow for blow.
“Freddie is not my son, as you well know, Priscilla. And when I last heard, he’d run away from school, which would have solved all my problems, but unfortunately he returned a few days later.”
“So who takes care of him during the holidays?”
“My brother Archie, who lives off the income from the family distillery, which Father promised to me.”
“You haven’t done too badly, duchess,” said Priscilla, looking back down at the Sotheby’s catalogue.
“You may well be right, but I’m still going to make certain it’s me who has the last laugh,” said Virginia as a waiter appeared by their side, unsure who he should present the bill to. Although Virginia had invited Priscilla to join her for lunch, she was painfully aware that if she wrote a check it would bounce. Still, all that was about to change.
“My turn next time,” said Virginia. “Annabel’s on Thursday night?” she added, looking
the other way.
* * *
When Priscilla Bingham returned to her home in the Boltons, she left the Sotheby’s catalogue on the hall table.
“Quite magnificent,” said Bob when he spotted the cover. “Are you considering bidding for them?”
“Nice idea,” said Priscilla, “but you’d have to sell an awful lot more fish paste before we could consider that.”
“Then why are you interested?”
“They belong to Virginia, and she’s having to put them up for sale because the Hertford family have found a way of cheating her out of her monthly allowance.”
“I’d like to hear the Hertfords’ side of the story before I make a judgment on that,” said Bob, as he flicked through the catalogue looking for Lot 43. He let out a low whistle when he read the estimate. “I’m surprised the family were willing to part with them.”
