Virginia had never entered a second-class carriage and, despite her father’s admonition, had no intention of doing so. However, during the long journey back to King’s Cross, she did give considerable thought to her current predicament, and what choices had been left open to her if she was not to further exhaust the old man’s patience.
She had already borrowed small amounts from several friends and acquaintances, and one or two of them were beginning to press her for repayment, while others seemed resigned to the fact that she hadn’t considered the money a loan, more of a gift.
Perhaps she could learn to live without a butler and a cook, visit Peter Jones more often than Harrods, and even board the occasional bus, rather than hail a taxi. However, one thing she could never agree to do was to travel on the tube. She didn’t care to go underground, unless it was to visit Annabel’s. Her weekly visit to the hair salon was also nonnegotiable, and white wine in place of champagne was unthinkable. She also refused to consider giving up her box at the Albert Hall, or her debenture seats at Wimbledon. She’d been told by Bofie Bridgwater that some of his friends rented them out when they weren’t using them. So vulgar, although she had to admit it would be marginally better than losing them altogether.
However, Virginia had noticed recently that she’d been receiving more brown envelopes through the letterbox. She left them unopened in the vain hope that they would go away, whereas in truth they were often followed by a solicitor’s letter warning of an impending writ if their client’s bills were not paid within fourteen days. As if that wasn’t enough, she had that morning opened a letter from her bank manager asking to see her ladyship at her earliest convenience.
Virginia had never met a bank manager, and it certainly wasn’t convenient. But when she returned to Cadogan Gardens and opened her front door, she discovered that the brown envelopes on the hall table now outnumbered the white. She took the letters through to the drawing room, where she divided them into two piles.
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.”