Jeffrey Archer - Sons of Fortune

‘You’d do that?’

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Make sure you finish the holiday assignments before you turn up — then I won’t have to bother double-checking all the facts.’

‘It’s a deal,’ said Nat.

The whistle blew for the third quarter, and after a series of brilliant passes, it was Hotchkiss’s turn to make it over the end zone, putting them back into the lead, which they clung on to until the end of the quarter.

‘Hello, Taft, hello, Taft, you’re back where you belong,’ sang the senator out of tune, while the teams took a timeout.

‘There’s still the final quarter to come,’ Fletcher reminded the senator as his host passed the glasses across to him.

‘Have you decided which side you’re supporting, young man, or have you been ensnared by the Tafties’ Mata Hari?’ Fletcher looked puzzled. He would have to check on who Mata Hari was just as soon as he got back to his room. ‘She probably lives locally,’ continued the senator, ‘in which case it will take a member of my staff about two minutes to find out everything you need to know about her.’

‘Even her address and telephone number?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Even whether she has a boyfriend,’ replied the senator.

‘Wouldn’t you be abusing your position?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Damn right I would,’ replied Senator Gates, ‘but then any politician would do as much if he felt it might ensure two more votes at some future election.’

‘But that doesn’t solve the problem of meeting her while I’m stuck in Farmington.’

‘That can also be solved if you’d come and spend a few days with us after Christmas, and then I’ll make sure that she and her parents are invited to some function at the Capitol.’

‘You’ll do that for me?’

‘Sure will, but at some time you’ll have to learn about trade-offs if you’re going to deal with a politician.’

‘What’s the trade-off?’ asked Fletcher. ‘I’ll do anything.’

‘Never admit to that, my boy, because it immediately puts you in the weaker bargaining position. However, all I want in return on this occasion is for you to make sure Jimmy somehow scrapes off the bottom of the class. That will be your part of the bargain.’

‘It’s a deal, senator,’ said Fletcher, shaking hands.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said the senator, ‘because Jimmy seems only too willing to follow your lead.’

It was the first time anyone had suggested that Fletcher might be a leader. Until that moment it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He thought about the senator’s words, and failed to notice Taft’s winning touchdown until Diane rushed up out of the bleachers and began a ritual that unfortunately resembled a victory ceremony. There would be no extra day off this year.

On the other side of the stadium, Nat and Tom stood outside the locker rooms, along with a multitude of Taft supporters who, with one exception, were waiting to greet their heroes. Nat nudged his friend in the ribs as she came out. Tom stepped quickly forward. ‘Hi, Diane,’ he said and, not waiting for a reply, added, ‘I want you to meet my friend Nat. Actually, the truth is he wanted to meet you.’ Nat blushed, and not just because he thought Diane was even prettier than her photo. ‘Nat lives in Cromwell,’ added Tom helpfully, ‘but he’s coming to spend a few days with us after Christmas, so you can get to know him better then.’

Nat only felt confident of one thing: Tom’s chosen career wasn’t destined to be in the diplomatic corps.

Nat sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the Great Depression. He managed about half a page, but he found his mind kept wandering. He went over the short meeting he’d had with Diane, again and again. This didn’t take long because she’d hardly said a word before his father had joined them and suggested they ought to be leaving.

Nat had cut out her picture from the football programme, and carried it around with him wherever he went. He was beginning to wish he’d picked up at least three programmes, because the little photo was becoming so worn. He’d rung Tom at home the morning after the game on the pretence of discussing the Wall Street crash, and then casually threw in, ‘Did Diane say anything about me after I’d left?’

‘She thought you were very nice.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘What else could she say? You only had about two minutes together before your father dragged you off.’

‘Did she like me?’

‘She thought you were very nice, and if I remember correctly, she said something about James Dean.’

‘No, she didn’t — did she?’

‘No, you’re right — she didn’t.’

‘You’re a rat.’

‘True, but a rat with a telephone number.’

‘You have her telephone number?’ said Nat in disbelief.

‘You catch on quickly.’

‘What is it?’

‘Have you completed that essay on the Great Depression?’

‘Not quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a pencil.’ Nat wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. ‘Do you think she’ll be surprised if I give her a call?’

‘I think she’ll be surprised if you don’t.’

‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.’

‘No, I don’t. Who are you?’

‘I’m the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.’

Nat glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really look like James Dean?

It took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals before Nat had the courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great Depression, he’d prepared a list of questions which varied according to who picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, ‘Good morning, sir, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,’ if it was her mother he would say, ‘Good morning, Mrs Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter.’ If Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath, and carefully dialled the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal. Perhaps she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him? Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again. Still busy. Had another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wanted to put the phone straight back down. He stared at his list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.

‘Hello,’ said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.

Nat dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.

Nat read through his essay before he dialled a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice answered.

‘Diane?’

‘No, it’s her sister Tricia,’ said a voice that sounded older, ‘Diane’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?’

‘Nat,’ he replied, ‘would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?’

‘Sure,’ said the older voice.

‘Thank you,’ said Nat and put the receiver down. He hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.

Nat must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still added another fifteen minutes before he redialled the number. He’d read in Teen magazine — if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The phone was eventually picked up.