Peter is exclaiming angrily to his friends. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
Ignoring him, I hurry toward the burgundy smoking jacket, which is inhabited by a man with a purple face. (He should really choose a different-colored jacket.)
“Hello!” I greet him. “Are you Leonard? May I buy five raffle tickets, please?”
At last! At last! I’m already pulling the notes from my purse—when Leonard shakes his head.
“My dear, I’m sorry, but the raffle’s closed,” he says comfortably.
“Closed?” I freeze, my money in my fingers.
“I’m about to draw the numbers in the hall,” he explains. “The raffle will be drawn in two minutes!” he calls out loudly, and all the members start heading out of the room.
For a moment I stand still in disbelief—but then I rouse myself. It’s fine. I can still do this. I’ll just see who wins and persuade them to sell the portmanteau to me. As I go to replace the cue in the rack, I see Simon grinning at me.
“Nice speech,” he says. “You’ve really struck a blow today. What’s the hurry?” he adds as I thrust the cue away.
“I need to go and watch the raffle,” I say distractedly. “I need to buy the portmanteau from whoever wins it.”
“You’re still on that?” he says, shaking his head.
“Of course I’m still on that! It’s why I’m here. It’s the whole point.”
Something odd passes across Simon’s face as he surveys me.
“ ‘Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present,’ ” he says. “D’you remember saying that? It kind of stuck with me.”
“Yes.” I lift my chin defensively, wondering where he’s going with this. “And it’s true.”
“I’d call this about a hundred miles.” His expression is suddenly kind. “If not more. I hope your hubby appreciates it.”
“Well.” I give a slightly awkward shrug. “You know. I don’t like giving up on things.”
“Good for you.” With a flourish, he pulls a fan of tickets from his pocket and proffers them. “I bought these earlier. They’re yours, all ten of them. Hope you win.”
“Oh my God!” I gasp. “Thanks so much!” I hurry out along the landing and onto the wide carpeted staircase, which is full of members gathered to hear the raffle.
In the hall below, Leonard is holding a big silver bowl. Sidney is next to him in his waistcoat and chalk-stripe trousers, poised to draw the tickets.
“And for the portmanteau, the top prize in this year’s raffle…” Leonard is announcing. “Sidney, please do the honors.”
Sidney thrusts a hand into the silver bowl, rummages around, and pulls out a folded ticket.
“Number 306,” he reads aloud. “Bought by…Simon Millett.”
For a moment I can’t quite process what I’m hearing. Simon Millett? Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf?
“That’s me!” I squeal. “Me! Me! I won!”
In utter euphoria, I push my way down the stairs, squeezing between all the scratchy jackets and walking sticks. I won! I can give Luke the portmanteau for Christmas!
“Hi!” I say, arriving breathlessly in the hall, brandishing all the tickets. “It’s me! It’s my ticket! I’m so thrilled, thank you so much—”
“Wait!”
The stentorian voice of Sir Peter Leggett-Davey interrupts me, and he steps forward on the patterned tiles, a look of utmost hostility on his face.
“Mrs. Brandon, I fail to see how you can be the winner,” he says in clipped tones. “The name on the ticket is Simon Millett.”
“Yes, but he gave me his ticket,” I explain eagerly.
“It’s true, I gave it to her,” comes Simon’s voice from the stairs, and I give him a grateful wave. But Sir Peter’s expression doesn’t shift an iota.
“Leonard,” he says coolly. “Did you sell this raffle ticket to Simon Millett? He is not a member; therefore, he cannot enter.” As he speaks, Sir Peter rips the ticket into tiny pieces. “Please refund Mr. Millett his money. All his tickets are null and void.”
“What?” comes Simon’s irate voice from the stairs. “That’s bollocks! I’m here as a proxy—”
“There are no proxy raffle tickets,” Sir Peter cuts him off, unmoved. “Draw again.”
No. No. He can’t do this.
“But I won the prize!” I say desperately. “It’s not fair! I’m a member. I won.”
“For shame!” Edwin’s voice comes loyally from the back of the crowd, but no one else seems at all bothered.
“Draw again,” repeats Sir Peter to Sidney.
“With pleasure, Sir Peter,” says Sidney, shooting me a totally needless look of triumph. He pulls out another ticket, unfolds it, and reads in a loud throaty voice, “Number 278. Sir Peter Leggett-Davey.”