The Way You Look Tonight by Richard Madeley

be a good moment to call time on the grand chefs so we can all actually get
something to eat.’
    Jeb peered over his wife’s shoulder at the griddle behind the three women. ‘Those steaks look done to me, guys. I’m pretty sure the cow’s dead.’
    Bobby turned round gratefully. ‘Now that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to say, Jeb. Hear that, Jack? You’ve been outvoted and you’ve chargrill-filibustered
yourself into the bargain.’ He clapped his hands and called out to the nearest partygoers. ‘Chow down, everyone! We’re serving up here! Get in line, folks! And Jack, take that
ridiculous chef’s hat off. It does nothing for you. You look like Macy’s Chubby Christmas Cook.’

11
    The brothers had been busy for twenty minutes now, serving undeniably blackened T-bone steaks to a line of people clasping paper plates and plastic cutlery. Stella had not been
properly introduced to them yet, other than Jeb’s ‘this is our English rose I was telling you about, guys’, which had elicited friendly waves from both men before they were
swamped by hungry guests.
    She watched them covertly as Jeb stood patiently in the queue for food, clutching plates for himself, Dorothy and Stella.
    She tried and failed to picture the British Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, standing on a beach in bare feet and shorts, laughing and trading friendly insults with a gaggle of barbecue guests
as he served them their lunch.
    In fact, she couldn’t imagine the patrician Macmillan going within a hundred miles of a barbecue. At this very moment, five hours ahead of US Eastern Time, the Prime Minister was probably
in his Pall Mall club, or Downing Street, or perhaps his weekend grace-and-favour country home, Chequers. He’d be comfortable in Sunday tweeds, puffing on his briar pipe, and nursing a
pre-dinner brandy and soda while perusing
The Sunday Times
over half-moon reading glasses.
    Hardly Camelot.
    The President was barely twenty years younger than Macmillan, Stella calculated, yet the American and British leaders belonged to completely different periods. Macmillan still had one foot in a
vanished age. JFK stood squarely in the present, and was stepping confidently into the future.
    He had, as did his brother, what looked to Stella like an all-over tan, a flat stomach and even now, in his mid-forties, a boyish face. He could be, she thought, a sports hero, even a film star.
No wonder women adored him. In fact, if she was honest, she herself could imagine –
    A voice jolted her out of the beginnings of a rather pleasant day-dream.
    ‘Would you just look at those two! For heaven’s sakes, this isn’t even their barbecue!’
    Stella turned to find a pretty, petite woman in jeans and pale blue sweatshirt standing next to her, extending a slim hand.
    ‘Ethel Kennedy,’ she said. ‘I’m Bobby’s wife. You’re Stella, the Rockfairs’ English rose, right?’
    Stella laughed, offering her own hand. ‘Are all English girls described as roses here in America?’
    ‘Hey, don’t go complaining about it. We can call you stinkwort if you’d prefer.’
    Stella laughed again. ‘No, rose is fine with me, Mrs Kennedy.’
    ‘I just told you, it’s Ethel. Dorothy said you were the formal type.’
    The older woman nodded back towards her husband and brother-in-law, who were now arguing about how many fresh steaks should go on the griddle.
    ‘I swear, plant those boys anywhere and they just can’t help themselves trying to take everything over and run it all. But you’ll meet with them later. In the meantime, tell me
about yourself. Jeb says you’re here to study for your Master’s at Smith. What subject?’
    Stella described the specialised research she had been conducting into psychopathy.
    Ethel was intrigued. ‘You mean people like that nutcase in the Alfred Hitchcock movie? What
is
it about you Brits and psychos?’
    Stella laughed. ‘Actually, some of the most interesting front-line research into psychopathic