10 lb Penalty - Dick Francis [73]
Five minutes later my father was putting a seemingly affectionate hand on the defense secretary’s shoulder and saying, “My dear Hud, have you met my wife and my son?”
Love thine enemies ...
I hated politics.
“Hud” had a damp, cold handclasp that I supposed he couldn’t help, and if he had lately had an oiled black ponytail and a black mustache-beard mouth-circling combination, they had very likely been dyed. His present hair color was the dark-lightly-flecked-with-gray that a passing girlfriend had told me couldn’t be faked, and he’d had a cut in a swept-back and duck-tailed style straight from the films of James Bond. Distinguished. Impressive, one had to admit. It inspired trust.
My father’s own mat of natural dark, close curls was cut to display to advantage the handsome outline of his skull. Expert stuff. Ah well.
Hudson Hurst was overpoweringly pleasant to Polly. Smile and smile, I thought, remembering Hoopwestern: smile and smile and shake the hands and win the votes. He flicked me a glance, but I wasn’t important.
Sweet Mrs. Prime Minister appeared at my elbow and asked if I was having a good time.
“Oh, yes. Splendid, thank you.”
“You look a bit lost. Come with me.” She led me across to the far side of the big room and stopped beside a sharply dressed woman who reminded me strongly of Orinda. “Jill, dear, this is George Juliard’s son. Do look after him.”
Jill gave me a comprehensive head-to-toe and stared at Mrs. Prime Minister’s retreating back without enthusiasm.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, “I don’t know your name.”
“Vinicheck. Education.”
“Minister of?”
Her grim lips twitched. “Certainly.”
She was joined by another woman in the simplest and best of current fashion: another Orinda-clone. Secretary of state for social security.
She said bluntly, “Where does your mother get her clothes?”
I followed her gaze across the room and saw Polly talking unselfconsciously to the man with flat white hair and circular eyes: the home secretary. Polly’s clothes, as always, had nothing to do with popular opinion but very clearly revealed her individual character.
Jill Vinicheck (education) kindly said, “Your father may have a bright career in front of him, but your mother will have to change the way she dresses or she’ll be clawed to bits by those bitches who write about fashion in the newspapers.”
The minister of social security agreed. “Every woman in politics gets the hate treatment. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Oh, not really, no.”
“Your mother’s skirt is the wrong length. You don’t mind me telling you? I’m only being helpful. Frankly, it would be the wrong length whatever length it was, according to the fashion bitches. But you can pass on some tips to her from us, if you like.”
“Er . . .”
“Tell her,” Jill Vinicheck said, enjoying herself, “never to buy clothes in shops.”
Social Security nodded. “She must have them made.”
Jill Vinicheck: “Always wool or silk or cotton. Never polyester, or tight.”
“There’s a marvelous man who could make your mother really elegant, with her long, thin figure. He totally changed the way the papers write about us now. They discuss our policies, not our clothes. And he can’t do it only for women. Look at the change in Hudson Hurst! Hud frankly looked a bit of a gangster, but now he’s a statesman.”
“No time like the present,” Jill Vinicheck said with the briskness that had no doubt propelled her up the ladder. “Our wand-waving friend is here somewhere.
Why don’t we introduce him to your mother straightaway?”
“Er ... ,” I said, “I don’t think she ...”
“Oh, there he is,” said Social Security, stepping sideways and pouncing. “Let me introduce you ...”
She had her hand on his arm and he turned towards her, and I came face-to-face with A. L. Wyvern.
Alderney “Anonymous Lover” Wyvern.
No wonder Education and Social Security had reminded me of Orinda. All those years ago his ideas had dressed her, too.
I knew him instantly, but it took him several seconds to add four years to my earlier appearance. Then his face hardened to ill will and