Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

“Giving a dozen bottles of the finest claret serves two purposes,” said Pimkin, his hands resting lightly on his stomach. “First, you can always be assured of a decent wine when you invite yourself to dine.”

“And second?” asked Alexander.

“When the happy couple split up you can feel relieved that they will no longer have your present to quarrel over.”

“Did you give Charles and Amanda a present?” asked Fiona.

“No,” said Pimkin, deftly removing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I felt your return of the bogus Earl of Bridgwater was quite enough for both of us.”

“I wonder where he is now?” said Alexander.

“He no longer resides in Eaton Square,” said Pimkin with the air of one who has divulged a piece of information which can only guarantee further rapt attention.

“Who would want the phony earl?”

“We are not aware of the provenance of the buyer, as he emanates from one of Her Majesty’s former colonies, but the seller...”

“Stop teasing, Alec. Who?”

“None other than Mrs. Amanda Seymour.”

“Amanda?”

“Yes. Amanda, no less. The dear, silly creature retrieved the false earl from the cellar where Charles had buried him with full military honors.”

“But she must have realized it was a fake.”

“My dear Amanda wouldn’t know the difference between a Holbein and an Andy Warhol but she still happily accepted £10,000 for the impersonation. I am assured that the dealer who purchased this fabricated masterpiece made what I think vulgar people in the City describe as’a quick turn.’”

“Good God,” said Alexander. “I only paid £8,000 for it myself.”

“Perhaps you should get Amanda to advise you on these matters in future,” said Pimkin. “In exchange for my invaluable piece of information I’m bound to inquire if the real Earl of Bridgwater is to remain in hiding.”

“Certainly not, Alec. He is merely awaiting the right moment to make a public appearance,” said Fiona, unable to hide a smile.

“And where is Amanda now?” asked Alexander, obviously wanting to change the subject.

“In Switzerland producing a baby, which we can but hope will bear sufficient resemblance to a white Caucasian to convince one of Charles’s limited imagination that he is the father.”

“Where do you get all your information from?” asked Alexander.

Pimkin sighed dramatically. “Women have a habit of pouring their hearts out to me, Amanda included.”

“Why should she do that?” asked Alexander.

“She lives safe in the knowledge that I am the one man she knows who has no interest in her body.” Pimkin drew breath, but only to devour another smoked salmon sandwich.

Charles phoned Amanda every day while she was in Geneva. She kept assuring him all was well, and that the baby was expected on time. He had considered it prudent for Amanda not to remain in England advertising her pregnancy, a less than recent occurrence to even the most casual observer. She for her part did not complain. With £10,000 safely tucked away in a private Swiss account there were few little necessities she could not have brought to her, even in Geneva.

It had taken a few weeks for Charles to become accustomed to Government after such a long break. He enjoyed the challenge of the Treasury and quickly fell in with its strange traditions. He was constantly reminded that his was the department on which the Prime Minister kept the closest eye, making the challenge even greater. The civil servants, when asked their opinion of the new Financial Secretary, would reply variously: able, competent, efficient, hardworking — but without any hint of affection in their voices. When someone asked his driver, whose name Charles could never remember, the same question he proffered the view, “He’s the sort of minister who always sits in the back of a car. But I’d still put a week’s wages on Mr. Seymour becoming Prime Minister.”

Amanda produced her child in the middle of the ninth month. After a week’s recuperation she was allowed to return to England. She discovered traveling with her offspring was a nuisance and by the time she arrived at Heathrow she was more than happy to turn the child over to the nanny Charles had selected.

Charles had sent a car to pick her up from the airport. He had an unavoidable conference with a delegation of Japanese businessmen, he explained, all of them busy complaining about the new Government tariffs on imports. At the first opportunity to be rid of his oriental guests he bolted back to Eaton Square.

Amanda was there to meet him at the door. Charles had almost forgotten how beautiful his wife was, and how long she had been away.

“Where’s my child?” he asked, after he had given her a long kiss.

“In a nursery that’s more expensively furnished than our bedroom,” she replied a little sharply.

Charles ran up the wide staircase and along the passage. Amanda followed. He entered the nursery and stopped in his tracks as he stared at the future Earl of Bridgwater. The little black curls and deep brown eyes came as something of a shock.

“Good heavens,” said Charles, stepping forward for a closer examination. Amanda remained by the door, her hand clutching its handle.

She had a hundred answers ready for his question.

“He’s the spitting image of my great-grandfather. You skipped a couple of generations, Harry,” said Charles, lifting the boy high into the air, “but there’s no doubt you’re a real Seymour.”

Amanda sighed with inaudible relief. The hundred answers she could now keep to herself.

“It’s more than a couple of generations the little bastard has skipped,” said Pimkin. “It’s an entire continent.” He took another sip of christening champagne before continuing. “This poor creature, on the other hand,” he said, staring at Fiona’s firstborn, “bears a striking resemblance to Alexander. Dear little girl should have been given a kinder legacy with which to start her life.”

“She’s beautiful,” said Fiona, picking Lucy up from the cradle to check her nappy.

“Now we know why you needed to be married so quickly,” added Pimkin between gulps. “At least this child made wedlock, even if it was a close-run thing.”

Fiona continued as if she had not heard his remark. “Have you actually seen Charles’s son?”

“I think we should refer to young Harry as Amanda’s child,” said Pimkin. “We don’t want to be had up under the Trade Descriptions Act.”

“Come on, Alec, have you seen Harry?” she asked, refusing to fill his empty glass.

“Yes, I have. And I am afraid he also bears too striking a resemblance to his father for it to go unnoticed in later life.”

“Anyone we know?” asked Fiona, probing.

“I am not a scandalmonger,” said Pimkin, removing a crumb from his waistcoat. “As you well know. But a certain Brazilian fazendeiro who frequents Cowdray Park and Ascot during the summer months has obviously maintained his interest in English fillies.”

Pimkin confidently held out his glass.

James Callaghan’s resignation as Labour party leader in October 1980 took none of the political analysts by surprise. Unlike his predecessor he was over sixty-five, the age at which his party had recommended retirement.

Those same analysts were surprised, however, when Michael Foot, the veteran left-winger, defeated Denis Healey by 139 votes to 129 to become the new leader of the Labour party. The analysts immediately predicted a long spell of opposition for the socialists.

The Conservatives took much pleasure in watching a leadership struggle from the sidelines for a change. When Charles Seymour heard the result it amused him that the Labour party had ended up replacing a sixty-year-old with a sixty-four-year-old, who in turn was being replaced by a sixty-seven-year-old. Lord Shinwell, who at the age of ninety-six was the oldest living former Labour Cabinet minister, declared that he would be a candidate for party leadership when Foot retired.