egotist was making a mess of the whole effort. She kept her mask of smiling attention fixed but switched her mind off, as far away as possibleâsnowâthe Lowryâthe jigsaw, bought that morning en route to the luncheon â¦
Louise was used to the knowledge that at a function like this, and especially with a speaker like this, a good third of the audience would at any given moment be looking not at him but at her. One of the skills Mother had insisted she should acquire, right back in nursery days, was that of opening her handbag, taking out pad and pencil and writing a legible note under the table without moving a muscle that anyone could see. She drooped an arm over the back of her chair with the note between finger and thumb. Constable Evansâjust a spare waiter to anyone else at the mealâcame to her shoulder and seemed to pick up a napkin from beside the chair. She felt his hand take the note. By the time the speeches were over and Louise had evaded the Directorâs attempt to monopolise her and done her best to reverse the receding flow of charity by smiles and nods of admiration for two or three big-wigs (double-starred as likely contributors in the unusually good briefing some dogsbody at the charity had sent Joan) the royal impulse had become a Movement Schedule (revised). Evans would have rung Joan at Quercy. Joan would have told Security that HRH would be back an hour late, and why; she would also have rung Aunt Bea; Security would have alerted the people at Hampton Court, and also told the local police that HRH would be passing through; a route would have been agreed, avoiding road-works, and motor-cycle police posted to ease the passage past other bottle-necksâa perk which Louise still felt mildly guilty about, wishing she could have sat out the traffic-jams like any other citizen. Security wouldnât hear of it. They didnât take her crashing though red lights, of course, behind sirening outriders, but they tried to magic her through as if she wasnât there, because the longer she was out on the road, stationary in a jam, especially in an obviously official car after a publicised function from which she could conceivably have been tailed, the more chance there was that somebody might try something. That was what Security said, and though even after Chester Louise couldnât really believe it, she let them have their way. It was seldom worth fighting them. They could make life just as difficult for her as she could for them.
In fact she barely noticed the journey, spending it discussing with Carrie Crupper what if anything to do about the bloody Director. Carrie was the only child of rich, divorced, dotingly demanding parents. By strength of character she had resisted those pressures, insisted on being educated where she chose, mainly in France, and become fluent in three languages. Rather like Piers she seemed to have chosen her own personality, in her case compiling it from opposing elements, street-cred accent, Laura Ashley clothes, cynico-anarchist politics, Filofax-organised days. Sheâd been making her way up a plush PR firm when Louise had met her. After a couple more meetings, without much hope but because she liked her company, Louise had asked if sheâd do a fill-in stint as lady-in-waiting. That had gone well. Carrie had instantly made the job into much more than most people did, and then, unasked, had offered to take it on as one of the regulars for a couple of years. She said it was a good career move, but that might have been one of her jokes.
Ladies-in-waiting have more function that is usually supposed. They have connectionsâCarrieâs were mainly City, a godfather on this set of boards, cronies of her parents on that and that, members of her own circle scrambling up towards tâother. Wells for the Sahel was very much a glossy-brochure and multi-vice-president charity, so Carrie knew some of the people on its council. She could easily
Louise was used to the knowledge that at a function like this, and especially with a speaker like this, a good third of the audience would at any given moment be looking not at him but at her. One of the skills Mother had insisted she should acquire, right back in nursery days, was that of opening her handbag, taking out pad and pencil and writing a legible note under the table without moving a muscle that anyone could see. She drooped an arm over the back of her chair with the note between finger and thumb. Constable Evansâjust a spare waiter to anyone else at the mealâcame to her shoulder and seemed to pick up a napkin from beside the chair. She felt his hand take the note. By the time the speeches were over and Louise had evaded the Directorâs attempt to monopolise her and done her best to reverse the receding flow of charity by smiles and nods of admiration for two or three big-wigs (double-starred as likely contributors in the unusually good briefing some dogsbody at the charity had sent Joan) the royal impulse had become a Movement Schedule (revised). Evans would have rung Joan at Quercy. Joan would have told Security that HRH would be back an hour late, and why; she would also have rung Aunt Bea; Security would have alerted the people at Hampton Court, and also told the local police that HRH would be passing through; a route would have been agreed, avoiding road-works, and motor-cycle police posted to ease the passage past other bottle-necksâa perk which Louise still felt mildly guilty about, wishing she could have sat out the traffic-jams like any other citizen. Security wouldnât hear of it. They didnât take her crashing though red lights, of course, behind sirening outriders, but they tried to magic her through as if she wasnât there, because the longer she was out on the road, stationary in a jam, especially in an obviously official car after a publicised function from which she could conceivably have been tailed, the more chance there was that somebody might try something. That was what Security said, and though even after Chester Louise couldnât really believe it, she let them have their way. It was seldom worth fighting them. They could make life just as difficult for her as she could for them.
In fact she barely noticed the journey, spending it discussing with Carrie Crupper what if anything to do about the bloody Director. Carrie was the only child of rich, divorced, dotingly demanding parents. By strength of character she had resisted those pressures, insisted on being educated where she chose, mainly in France, and become fluent in three languages. Rather like Piers she seemed to have chosen her own personality, in her case compiling it from opposing elements, street-cred accent, Laura Ashley clothes, cynico-anarchist politics, Filofax-organised days. Sheâd been making her way up a plush PR firm when Louise had met her. After a couple more meetings, without much hope but because she liked her company, Louise had asked if sheâd do a fill-in stint as lady-in-waiting. That had gone well. Carrie had instantly made the job into much more than most people did, and then, unasked, had offered to take it on as one of the regulars for a couple of years. She said it was a good career move, but that might have been one of her jokes.
Ladies-in-waiting have more function that is usually supposed. They have connectionsâCarrieâs were mainly City, a godfather on this set of boards, cronies of her parents on that and that, members of her own circle scrambling up towards tâother. Wells for the Sahel was very much a glossy-brochure and multi-vice-president charity, so Carrie knew some of the people on its council. She could easily
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