“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?”
“Oh, no reason, no reason. I think of the Home Office as the government’s mother ship, that’s all. Just checking that things are steady belowdecks.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“No reason at all. Honestly. You’re reading too much into it. I simply want to make sure that you have the support you need. If that’s Sir Edward Manning, then fine.”
“It is Sir Edward Manning.”
“Fine!” The PM laughed. “Then there’s no problem.”
“No problem at all, Henry.”
Five minutes later, once Alexia had left the building, Henry Whitman made a phone call.
“It’s me. She just left. I think we have a problem.”
Michael De Vere bounced down the Broad in Oxford with a spring in his step, whistling happily.
It was strange, but in the two years he’d spent at Balliol, Oxford’s glorious baroque architecture and fabled “dreaming spires” had completely passed him by. All Michael remembered were dry-as-dust lectures, rain, and a lot of dreary nights at the Old Boar Inn, with girls who talked too much and didn’t believe in shaving their armpits. But now that he was a free man—Kingsmere Events was thriving, so much so that even his father had finally started to come around—Michael appreciated all that the city had to offer. Today, with the sun out and the cherry trees in bloom, the feeling of optimism and energy on the streets was palpable. Like all university towns, Oxford belonged to the young. As he walked past Exeter and University colleges, Michael felt all the joy of being in his twenties and successful, building a business that he loved and was good at. When they started the company, Michael and Tommy had rented office space in Oxford to avoid paying London rents. Now, with eight full-time employees and big-money assignments rolling in, they could easily have afforded to move, but neither of them wanted to. Life didn’t get any better than this.
Michael checked his watch. Twelve-fifteen.
Mustn’t be late.
He was headed to San Domingo’s, probably the most expensive restaurant in Oxford, for a lunch date with his mother. Michael would pay, then bill it back later under Client Expenses Misc. Having one’s parents as clients had its advantages. To Michael’s shock and delight, Alexia had persuaded Teddy to let him and Tommy organize the Kingsmere summer party. They’d put the event together on the cheap, slashing their usual rates—Teddy De Vere would have had a coronary had Michael charged him the sort of fees he charged wealthy London clients for similar dos—but the PR for Kingsmere Events would be priceless.
Michael’s partner, Tommy, had marveled at the updated entertainment list only this morning.
“Have you seen this? Mick Hucknall’s coming out of retirement to perform a live solo, Princess Michael of Kent’s proposing the toasts, and Nigel Kennedy’s just given a yes to a violin recital on the terrace during the predinner drinks. And we have your mother to thank for all of it.”
“Actually, I got Kennedy,” said Michael. “We hit it off last year at the book launch for his autobiography.”
But he took Tommy’s point. The Three Hundred Years of Kingsmere celebrations might have been Teddy’s idea, but it was Alexia’s social and political pulling power that was going to make this a major media event. Thanks to Michael’s mother, the guest list read like the love child of Vanity Fair’s “100 most powerful” and Debrett’s, with just a splash of Hello! magazine glamour thrown in for good measure. Henry Whitman and his wife would be rubbing shoulders with the French president and the crown prince of Spain. At another table, Simon Cowell, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Sir Bob Geldof would be sharing after-dinner coffee with the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire, Nicola Horlick, and Sir Gus O’Donnell, former head of the Civil Service in Whitehall and popularly known by his initials: GOD. Michael thought it a safe bet that if Jesus Christ were alive today, He would make room in His miracle-working schedule for the Kingsmere summer party. After all, if it was good enough for Matthew Freud and Elizabeth Murdoch . . .
San Domingo’s was full—San Domingo’s was always full—but Michael was shown to a spacious table by the window, overlooking the river and the famous Magdalen College deer park. He’d just had time to sit and order a bottle of sparkling water when Alexia swept in, looking powerful and glamorous in a dark green Prada pantsuit and cream silk blouse, a ministerial briefcase in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other.
“Darling. Have you been waiting long?”
“Not at all. You look fabulous as ever, Mum.”
She gave him an “oh, this old thing” eye roll, kissed him on both cheeks, and sat down, ordering the steamed monkfish and a green salad without so much as glancing at the menu. Michael plumped for his usual steak and fries. “Sorry to seem so rushed,” Alexia said. “But unfortunately—”
“You are so rushed.”
“Yes. I’ve got this bloody Paris trip tomorrow with the trade secretary, who loathes me. I’ve barely had a second to read the brief, and now your father’s insisting I spend the night in Oxfordshire before I leave.”
“Why?”
“He feels your sister and I must spend more time together. As if time’s going to solve anything.”
Michael had been so busy working this year, he’d seen very little of Roxie, which he felt guilty about. On the rare occasions when he took a break from the business, he tried to spend as much time as possible with Summer, although even that was difficult, what with Summer finishing her journalism degree at NYU and Michael based three thousand miles away in Oxford.
“Are things no better on the Roxie front, then?”
“Things are the same. I open a door, your sister slams it.” Alexia smiled thinly, but Michael could see the pain behind the smile.
“Are you really opening doors, though, Mummy?” he asked cautiously. “You can be pretty short with Rox at times, you know.”
“I know.” Alexia sighed. “She frustrates me so much, sometimes it’s hard to keep my temper. But I am trying. I don’t want to give up on her, Michael, but it’s as if she’s given up on herself.”
“I know.” Michael sighed.
“Anyway, enough of that nonsense. How are you, my darling? How are things going with Daddy’s party?”
“Wonderfully, thanks.”
“Anything you need from me?”
“Nope.” Michael sipped his water. “You’ve done more than enough already. Tommy says to tell you if you ever tire of running the country, there’s a guaranteed job for you with us.”
Alexia laughed loudly. “How sweet of Tommy. Do give him my best.”
“You mustn’t give up hope with Rox, you know,” Michael said abruptly. “Look how much better things are with Dad and me now, versus a year ago.”
“That’s hardly the same.”
“It is in some ways.”
“Your sister’s never going to get over Andrew Beesley leaving her. I don’t know if she even wants to get over it, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I think she’s more comfortable being a victim than she is being happy.” Alexia took a bite of her fish. “Does that sound terribly harsh?”
It did sound harsh, although Michael had had the same thought himself, many times. Roxie liked being a victim and Teddy liked having a victim to care for. In some sick, twisted way, tragedy suited the two of them.
Michael’s face darkened. “I hate Andrew Beesley. I hate him so much it’s like a pain in my chest.”
Alexia looked at her son intently. “Do you?”
“Yes. I think how different things would be if Roxie had never met him. Don’t you?”
“No,” Alexia said truthfully. “I never think about the past. What happened, happened. It can’t be changed.”
“So you don’t hate Andrew Beesley?” Michael sounded disbelieving.
“No, I don’t hate him.”
“Because it would be okay to hate him, you know. It would be normal.”
Alexia laughed, more from nerves than amusement. Something about Michael’s tone disturbed her. “Would you like me to hate him?”
“No. All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t judge you if you did. Some people are just bad people. They deserve to suffer. They deserve to die.”
The mood at the table had shifted. Michael had been all sunshine and smiles when she walked in. Now suddenly he was so cold, Alexia felt a shiver run through her. She’d had the same feeling at Number Ten, when Henry Whitman had been so cryptic about her relationship with Sir Edward Manning.