Avalon (32 page)

Typical
, thought Waring;
the man hasn’t a clue
. “When I get around to making my plans, you’ll be the first to know,” he replied.

Oblivious of his chief’s sour mood, Burton took his seat and helped himself to coffee and a croissant. “By the way, there’s a TV crew at the gates.”

The Prime Minister looked pityingly at his minion. “There’s
always
a TV crew outside the gates, Adrian. They live there.”

“Quite a large one.” Burton broke his croissant and dipped one end into his coffee. “Larger than usual, I should have thought. I say, is this going to be a long meeting, PM?”

“Who wants to know?” said Waring.

“Well,” replied Burton, “as it happens, I’m meeting Mildred and the directors of the Children in Need campaign for lunch. We’ve been asked to give out the CIN awards for distinguished service.”

“Oh,” remarked Waring, “we’ll be finished by lunchtime — wouldn’t want to ruin your photo op.”

“Quite,” agreed Burton, munching away happily.

The Deputy Prime Minister arrived next, with a groggy Martin Hutchens in tow. “Good morning, Tom,” said Angela Telford-Sykes, throwing her briefcase onto the long table. “Saw Leonard outside. There’s bad news.”

“What?” said Waring dully.

“Alfred Norris had a heart attack yesterday,” Angela reported. “He’s in the IC unit at St. George’s. It doesn’t look good.”

“Christ almighty,” muttered Waring darkly.

“Excuse me,” said Burton, “who is Alfred Norris when he’s at home?”

“For God’s sake, Adrian,” Waring growled. “He’s one of our loyal backbenchers.”

“Bristol North,” put in Angela.

“If he kicks it,” Waring said, “our majority is down to five.”

“I see,” intoned Burton solemnly. “One would think you cared more about the majority than you did about poor old Norris.”

Waring rolled his eyes. He was already at the end of his tether, and the meeting had not yet begun. “Keep me posted,” he said to Angela, then asked: “Anybody seen Dennis?”

“Spoke to him ten minutes ago,” Telford-Sykes replied. “He may be late, but he’s on his way. Shah likewise.”

Waring glanced at his watch, then looked down the table at his inner circle of advisors. He fastened on his press secretary. “Heavy date last night, Martin?”

“Heavy enough,” replied Hutchens, already pouring his second cup of coffee. “Someone remind me never to go to Stringfellows again.”

Dispensing with the small talk, Waring said, “I’m going to assume everyone saw the broadcast.”

“The whole world saw the broadcast.” Hutchens sat back, sipped his coffee, and looked at his boss with red eyes. “I think George Bush said it best: ‘We’re in deep doo-doo, guys.’”

“Excuse me,” said Burton. “I feel I’m missing something here. Which broadcast are we talking about exactly?”

Waring glanced at the Deputy PM, who replied, “The King’s press conference. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it, Adrian.”

“The King’s thingy? Course I saw it,” Burton said. “Most of it, anyway.”

“Jesus, Adrian,” Hutchens said, “didn’t it strike you as essential viewing?”

“Actually, no. It didn’t. Don’t watch telly during mealtimes as a rule,” declared Burton indignantly. He glanced around, looking for support for his domestic policy. “I did, however, videotape it for later consumption. Bit of a flap, what?”

At Waring’s behest, Telford-Sykes began a summary description of the broadcast’s salient points, during which the absent Patricia Shah and Leonard DeVries appeared and took their places, followed by Dennis Arnold, carrying a manila folder bursting with bits of scribbled paper.

“Thank you, Angela,” said Waring when his deputy finished. Turning to the latecomers, he said, “Welcome, comrades, glad you could favor us with a few moments of your precious time. The subject of this morning’s tête-à-tête, as you will no doubt have guessed, is last evening’s royal press conference. We’re here to decide what to do about it. Any questions?”

“Can he really do it?” wondered Patricia Shah, fingering the rim of her coffee cup. “That is the pertinent question, certainly.”

“It’s part of the royal prerogative,” replied Dennis Arnold, Royal Devolution Committee Chairman. “And, yes, he can do it.” Addressing the PM, he said, “I rang Cecil Blackmoor as you requested.” Glancing at the others, he said, “Cecil’s the Royal Branch Subcommittee legal eagle. I’ve been working quite closely with him on the legislation for royal devolution —”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Waring impatiently. “We all know who he is. Get on with it, Dennis, for God’s sake. What did he say?”

“Basically,” Arnold announced grimly, “we’re screwed.”

“Damn!”

“There goes damage control,” remarked Hutchens. “Shot to bloody hell.” Taking the top page from his folder, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room.

“Are you saying,” inquired Patricia Shah, “we have no constitutional recourse?”

“We ain’t got recourse. We ain’t got squat, Jack,” quipped Hutchens. “The King’s got us by the short and curlies, and he knows it. Who is advising this guy anyway?”

“The problem seems to be,” Arnold continued, ignoring the press secretary’s outburst, “that, despite having lapsed under the previous monarch, the ministerial meetings remain entirely —”

“I
know
what the problem seems to be,” growled Waring. “Bloody Christ! I have to meet with the King, and
be seen
to meet with the King. He’s got the fawning attention of the whole world, and the next thing they’re going to see is me, hat in hand, bowing and scraping at his front door.” He glared furiously at the ceiling. “I won’t do it, by God. I won’t.”

“He seems likely to make an issue of it, Tom,” pointed out the Deputy Prime Minister, “if you fail to honor his request.”

“Let him,” replied Waring. “Let him try, the bastard. We’ll fight him every inch of the way.” The PM glanced at the faces around the table, gauging his support for the fight. He saw Dennis Arnold’s frown, and said, “What now?”

“At the very least it might provoke a constitutional crisis.”

Before Waring could reply, the Deputy PM jumped in, “Think about it, Tom. We could easily end up winning the battle and losing the war. I say, why risk it?”

“Who is advising this guy?” wondered Hutchens again.

“I don’t see we have any choice,” Arnold said, “but to comply.”

“We comply,” continued his deputy, “and bide our time. In a few weeks it’ll be over and forgotten.”

“I won’t forget,” muttered Waring. He hated losing. He hated grinning for the cameras and making lame excuses when things went wrong. Most of all, he hated the monarchy — now more than ever.

“The King found a loophole,” Angela suggested. “Big deal. It gains him nothing in the end. He’s on his way out.”

“Then
you
go shake hands with the son of a bitch,” said Waring. “Damn it!” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Why didn’t we revoke royal prerogative first?”

“In hindsight,” agreed Arnold, “perhaps we should have. At the time, you will recall, it wasn’t remotely an issue. Bit of bad luck, is all — hardly fatal.”

“Don’t be too sure,” murmured the Prime Minister.

“We’ll just have to make the best of a bad situation,” observed Chancellor Burton. “Take it on the chin. Roll with the punches. I’m sure it will all work out for the best.”

Unable to stomach any more of Burton’s blithe clichés, Waring stood abruptly. “Meeting adjourned.”

The Government’s best and brightest rose slowly, closing their notebooks and talking among themselves. “Hutch,” ordered the PM as the Press Secretary shoved back his chair, “I want a draft response to the King’s demand on my desk before lunch. Get on it.”

“Just a thought,” said Hutchens, moving towards his boss, “on how we go about this.” He slid into the chair next to the PM’s. “What if we don’t say anything — just do as he wants, and not make any fuss. These meetings are supposed to be confidential, right? Well, we just go along — no fanfare, no statements, no photos or film, right? We just turn up, fulfill our obligation, and, wham, it’s over and done. Like Angela said, no big deal.”

Waring considered the idea. “Downplay it, you mean.”

“I mean,” said Hutchens, warming to his own plan, “if we go crying and carrying on like it’s the end of the world, everybody’s bound to sit up and take notice. On the other hand, if we keep mum, act like it’s just business as usual, they’ll soon lose interest. No smoke, no fire.”

“He could be right,” said Arnold, joining them. “If we don’t issue a statement, the papers have nothing to print.”

Hutchens shrugged. “I figure it’s worth a shot. Either way, we’re no worse off than before.”

“All right,” agreed the Prime Minister, making up his mind at once. “That’s how we’ll play it. No statement. And” — he pointed his index finger at his Press Secretary — “when the media phone up to ask what response we’re going to make, you tell them quite simply that of course we are planning to comply. We’re His Majesty’s loyal subjects; we wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

“You got it, PM,” replied Martin Hutchens, smiling at the wonderful duplicity of it. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Waring. “On your way out, tell DeVries to set up the meeting for the day after tomorrow.”

“so soon?” asked Angela. “Is that wise?”

“I want to keep the bastard on the hop. He’s going to learn very quickly who’s calling the shots.”

“Call her,” urged Cal. “What good is it being King of Britain if you can’t call up a girl when you feel like it?”

“Thanks, Cal,” muttered James. “You’ve certainly put the problem into proper perspective.”

“Go on. Talk to her.”

“Did it ever occur to you that it’s
because
I’m King that I
can’t
talk to her? It wouldn’t be the same now.”

Cal stared at him as if he had begun speaking gibberish. “The same as what? It’s Jenny we’re talking about, not Alice in Wonderland. Jenny! Remember?” He shook his head at James’ stubborn reluctance. “Look, if you don’t call her, I will — and I’ll tell her how you’ve got your knickers in a twist over this.”

“All right,” James conceded. “Point made.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s too late now — I’ll call her in the morning.”

“In the morning is too late. Call her now.”

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m meeting with the Prime Minister the day after tomorrow. I’ve got preparations to make. I can’t —”

“That’s not until the evening.” Cal walked to the phone on the table in the corner of the room, and started dialing. He listened for a moment, and extended the receiver to James. “It’s ringing.”

James crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone out of Cal’s hand as a voice answered on the other end. “Hello?”

“Ah, hello. Is that Agnes?” James said, glaring furiously at Cal, who was moving towards the door.

“Oh, my heavens!” came the reply. “James — I mean, Your Majesty — how good of you to call.”

“I know it’s late, Agnes, and I’m sorry for disturbing you like this —”

“Not at all! We’ve just been watching you on the telly. Just think, you King, and the Prime Minister — coming all the way up here to little Braemar. Whatever next?”

“Yes, we’re definitely living in strange times,” James replied. “I was wondering if I might speak to Jenny for a moment.”

Cal smiled. “You can thank me later,” he whispered, closing the door behind him.

“Is she there, Agnes?” James said.

“She’s here,” Agnes told him, “and I know she’d love to speak to you. I’ll get her.”

There was a clunk as Agnes put the phone down, and James heard her calling for Jenny as she moved from the room. He flopped down in a nearby chair, shoving his feet out in front of him.

“Yes?” The voice on the other end startled him. He sat up.

“Jenny? Listen, I’m sorry for calling you like this,” he blurted, “but I want to see you. I think we should talk.”

“All right,” she said.

“I mean,” he rushed on, “whenever’s convenient. It doesn’t have to be right away. I just thought — the way things are… I mean, I was hoping we could —”

“I already said okay,” Jenny broke in. “If you think we have something to talk about.”

He caught the dark undercurrent of her tone, but sailed on. “How about tomorrow? Lunch, say? Thing is, you’ll have to come here. I can’t actually go anywhere just now without causing an international incident.”

“Tomorrow lunch is fine,” she said, registering neither enthusiasm nor interest at the prospect.

James hesitated. “Good… um, well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then….” He knew there was something more he should say, but could not think what it might be. “Good night, Jenny.”

She rang off without saying good-bye, and James sat looking at the phone for a while, wondering why that had gone so badly. What could he have said that would have made a difference?

She arrived the next day and was conducted straightaway to James’ apartment. He had taken over the old Duke’s rooms on the upper floor — a sitting room, small dining room, and a massive bedroom. The table in the dining room was set for two, and there was chilled white wine on the sideboard.

“Good to see you, Jenny,” he said, welcoming her in with a circumspect kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.” He helped her from her coat. “I thought we’d eat up here — the dining room is so big and formal and all. Would you like something to drink? I’ve got —” He started towards the sideboard.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be King?” She stood in the center of the room facing him.

“Well, it all happened pretty fast,” he said lightly. “It wasn’t anything I planned, exactly.”

“You could have told me at least.”

“I suppose I should have said something. But, truth is, I didn’t believe it myself at first.”

He looked at her, uncertain what to say next.
God, how I’ve missed her
, he thought, drinking in the sight of her.

“What?” she asked, growing suspicious. “Have I got mud on me?”

He grinned. Mud was the occupational hazard of a potter, and she was always asking that. But her long brown sleeveless knitted tunic, deep burgundy skirt, and creamy silk blouse were spotless for a change. Fresh from the winter cold outside, she looked radiant.