Because, amid all this, I’ve got to give a speech about bloody billiards.
I’m walking up St. James’s Street in a smart dress and carefully blow-dried hair, giving myself a last-minute test on random billiards facts. The stick thing is called a cue. I already knew that. But everything else about the game is gibberish. There’s “balk” and “winning hazard” and “cannon.” If you play a seventy-sixth consecutive cannon it’s a foul, I know that. Only I can’t remember what a cannon is.
I keep telling myself they won’t actually quiz me on billiards facts. And I’ve prepared a few remarks to make in conversation, so I’ll sound like a pro. Like, “I was double-balked the other day, total nightmare.” But on the whole, I’m hoping I can just slip in, make my speech, and slip out again with the portmanteau. Anyway, Edwin will look after me. He can make conversation about double balks or whatever.
And, yes, it has occurred to me to give up on the idea. What Luke said last night is true: You can’t do everything. I know sod-all about billiards. Luke doesn’t even know about the portmanteau. I could buy him an aftershave gift set and he’d be delighted and life would be easier.
But all this Christmas hassle has made me even more resolute. Maybe I can’t reconcile Mum and Janice right now. Maybe I can’t make my garlands stay up. But I can give a speech about billiards to a load of men with elbow patches.
As I arrive at the club, it’s all lit up with extra candles in brass holders, and members are milling around with glasses in their hands. It looks almost alive and kicking. I approach the ninety-three-year-old behind the desk, and he gives me his familiar “go away” look.
“Hello,” I say politely. “I believe Lord Edwin Tottle is expecting me?”
“Lord Tottle has been delayed,” replies the man, reaching for a note on a piece of paper and surveying it. “He will arrive presently.”
My heart sinks in dismay. Edwin’s not here? I thought he would usher me around and tell me what to do.
“No problem!” I reply, trying to sound assured. “Did he have any other message?” I add, seeing that the note is full of writing.
“Yes,” says the man reluctantly. “He asked me to relay the following: ‘Give ’em hell, I know you can do it, Becky. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ ”
“Thank you,” I say. “So…can I go in?”
“Special dispensation has been granted to you,” says the man in tones of supreme disapproval. “By Sir Peter Leggett-Davey himself.”
He hands me a cardboard slip reading Guest Pass, and I put it in my pocket.
“Thanks!” I say, feeling a bit more bouncy. “Well, here’s to a lovely evening. What’s your name?” I add.
“Sidney,” says the man distantly.
“Hi, Sidney! I’m Becky, but you knew that. And what time is the AGM?”
“The AGM commenced at four o’clock this afternoon,” says Sidney, pointing at the wooden double doors. “I believe your…item is number fifty-six on the agenda. Please help yourself to sherry.”
I collect a drink and head through the double doors to find that the massive room with the fireplace has been rejigged for the AGM. There’s a big long table, at which five ninety-three-year-olds sit facing the audience. Then there are rows of chairs, mostly empty, with a few ninety-three-year-olds sitting here and there, sipping sherry and listening. Or sleeping, in some cases.
As I sit down, I’m not surprised. Some guy with a white beard is intoning in the most boring voice I’ve ever heard, “Item fifty-four: the works in the lower middle dining room. The Works Committee has reported back on the quotation, and I would like to draw attention to the following points….”
He drones on a bit about woodworm and I tune out, looking around the room. I suddenly notice that the prizes for the raffle have been arranged on a table. There’s the portmanteau and a case of sherry and a book about billiards. As soon as I become a member, I’m buying my tickets, I resolve. That very minute.
My eye moves along the row I’m sitting in and I blink in astonishment at a familiar face. It’s…Who is that? A dad from school? I rack my brains for a moment, till it comes to me. It’s the guy! It’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf from Selfridges! What’s he doing here? He’s not ninety-three!
As he sees me looking at him, his face registers astonishment, too, and he moves along the