“Hello again,” he says in an interested undertone. “You must be the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman trying to change two hundred years of tradition.”
“Oh,” I say proudly. “Yes, I am, actually. Are you a member?”
“No, I’m here as a proxy,” he says. “My father sent me along to vote against you.”
Against me?
“You haven’t even heard my case!” I hiss indignantly, because we’re getting some looks from a few nearby ninety-three-year-olds. “How do you know you want to vote against me?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought.” He shrugs. “It’s my father’s club, not mine. I’m only here to do him a favor.”
“Well, think now!” I snap. “I’ve come here in the spirit of modernity. The spirit of fellowship. The spirit of billiards.” I eye him significantly, just as the white-bearded guy at the front says, “Item fifty-five: members’ news. Any information for the London Clubs’ newsletter should be submitted to Alan Westhall by this Friday. Item fifty-six: membership of Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood.”
It’s me! I’m up! My heart gives an almighty bound of nerves and I get to my feet, scrabbling for my speech.
My speech.
Where the hell is my speech?
“Something wrong?” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, as I delve furiously in my bag.
“Nothing,” I say, looking up, my face hot. I know my speech is in my bag. I know it. But I’ve tried every compartment and I can’t find it. I should never have bought a bag with compartments, I think murderously. It’s much better when it’s all just one giant mess.
Suddenly I notice the double doors opening and a surge of ninety-three-year-olds appears, all holding glasses of sherry and chatting. They start to fill the seats, most of them giving me some sort of pointed glance.
“What’s going on?” I say, bewildered. “Why are they all arriving now?”
“They’ve all come here to vote on you,” says Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf. “You’re the only item of interest. Good luck,” he adds casually. “Knock ’em dead.”
My legs are a bit wobbly, but I can’t give up now. I make my way to the front, and a ninety-three-year-old in a velvet smoking jacket claps me on the shoulder.
“Becky!” he says. “I was looking out for you! I’m Edwin’s friend John. I’m one of the chaps who seconded you. Best of luck. Edwin says you’ll do splendidly.”
“Oh, well, let’s hope so,” I say, with my most confident smile. “Thanks!”
At least I have some support. I approach the man with the white beard and lift my chin.
“How do you do,” I say politely. “I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood. First of all, I think your club is fabulous—”
“Thank you,” says the man, cutting me off coldly. “I am Sir Peter Leggett-Davey. You’ll have your turn to speak. Sit there, please.”
He points at a chair to the side, and I sit down on it, prickling with resentment. He doesn’t have to be so snooty. I feel all the more determined to get into this stupid club. I might even learn billiards.
“Good evening, to those who have just arrived,” says Sir Peter, surveying the audience. “Now we come to the most contentious item of the day: the application of this female person to join the club, supported by several members with us here today. This membership would, of course, require a change in our constitution, which has been proposed by Lord Edwin Tottle; please see the document now being circulated. And may I start by saying I think this a disgraceful idea.”
Disgraceful?
I feel a surge of indignation as he carries on talking about how special the club is and how females would ruin it and how Lord Edwin Tottle has always had a grudge against him, Sir Peter, as members will recall from the painful incident in 2002 regarding the sherry trolley.
OK. He really needs to get a life.
At last he stops speaking, and one after another of the ninety-three-year-olds stands up, saying all the same stuff, about tradition and sanctity and “facilities,” by which they mean loos. After a while I give up listening and google billiards cannon what is it?—although I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to work it into my speech.
“Mrs. Brandon, would you like to make a reply?” Sir Peter’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and my head bobs up. Shit. It’s my turn already.
“Yes!” I say in dignified tones. “Thank you so much. I am yours, et cetera.”
I make one more hopeless thrust into my bag, hoping I’ll find my speech—but it’s not there. I’ll have to