Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [60]
Henry couldn’t recall when he’d last been invited to anything. He hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. Angela filled the silence. “I’m organizing a ball for African famine relief on Saturday evening. It’s at the town hall. Why don’t you join me?”
Henry heard himself saying, “Yes, thank you, how nice. I’ll look forward to it,” and regretted the decision the moment he had closed the door. After all, on Saturday nights he always watched film of the week on Sky, while enjoying a Chinese takeaway and a gin and tonic. In any case, he needed to be in bed by ten because on Sunday morning he was responsible for checking the church collection. He was also their accountant. Honorary, he assured his mother.
Henry spent most of Saturday morning trying to come up with an excuse: a headache, an emergency meeting, a previous engagement he’d forgotten about, so that he could ring Ms. Forster and call the whole thing off. Then he realized that he didn’t have her home number.
At six o’clock that evening Henry put on the dinner jacket his mother had given him on his twenty-first birthday, which didn’t always have an annual outing. He looked at himself in the mirror, nervous that his attire must surely be out of date—wide lapels and flared trousers—unaware that this look was actually back in fashion. He was among the last to arrive at the town hall, and had already made up his mind that he would be among the first to leave.
Angela had placed Henry on the end of the top table, from where he was able to observe proceedings, while only occasionally having to respond to the lady seated on his left.
Once the speeches were over, and the band had struck up, Henry felt he could safely slip away. He looked around for Ms. Forster. He had earlier spotted her dashing all over the place, organizing everything from the raffle and the heads-and-tails competition to the ten-pound-note draw and even the auction. When he looked at her more closely, dressed in her long red ball gown, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, he had to admit . . . Henry stood up and was about to leave, when Angela appeared by his side. “Hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” she said, touching his arm. Henry couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him. He prayed she wasn’t going to ask him to dance.
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” Henry assured her. “How about you?”
“Run off my feet,” Angela replied, “but I feel confident that we’ll raise a record amount this year.”
“So how much do you expect to make?” asked Henry, relieved to find himself on safer ground.
Angela checked her little notebook. “Twelve thousand, six hundred in pledges, thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and fifty in checks, and just over twenty thousand in cash.” She handed over her notebook for Henry to inspect. He expertly ran a finger down the list of figures, relaxing for the first time that evening.
“What do you do with the cash?” Henry asked.
“I always drop it off on my way home at the nearest bank that has an overnight safe. If you’d like to accompany me, you’ll have experienced the whole cycle from beginning to end.” Henry nodded.
“Just give me a few minutes,” she said. “I have to pay the band, as well as my helpers—and they always insist on cash.”
That was probably when Henry first had the idea. Just a passing thought to begin with, which he quickly dismissed. He headed toward the exit and waited for Angela.
“If I remember correctly,” said Henry as they walked down the steps of the town hall together, “your turnover last year was just under five million, of which over a million was in cash.”
“What a good memory you have, Mr. Preston,” Angela said as they headed toward the High Street, “but I’m hoping to raise over five million this year,” she added, “and I