Pramila perfectly. It might never occur to her that they were being patronised, though with his greater experience Jayanti had no doubt that he would encounter prejudice and would feel it keenly when it came.
At last Pramilaâs prattle penetrated his consciousness. âNo, no,â he corrected her testily. âI am not available on Thursday morning. You know that; I have accepted an invitation from Prima CableCorporation for a business breakfast. At the Metropole Hotel. It is an important meeting and wives are not permitted. That morning if you are shy without me you should have breakfast in the room.â
âCould I go shopping, perhaps?â Pramila turned silkily towards her husband, so that, although he kept his eyes on the road, he was aware of her coquettish expression.
He suppressed a sigh. As she began to pout he knew he was beaten. If his wife exacted her price for being left to fend for herself it could be a costly breakfast.
Â
In the third Jaguar George Horrocks listened with increasing dismay to the faint rattle behind the polished wood dashboard and cursed the time before Ford took over the ailing luxury car-maker. That would mean a full service and oil change after the Conference with a big bill to follow.
Maybe he could charge it to the company. After all, he had only agreed to attend in order to host the Prima breakfast, as its senior non-executive director. Party conferences were not his style usually but the chairman was in Hong Kong. The guest list was distinguished and would allow plenty of opportunity for lobbying â a couple of Ministers including, discreetly, the Industry Minister and the PPS to the Home Office, and the junior man at the Department of National Heritage. In London ever-vigilant civil servants guarded their charges like Victorian chaperones with precious virgins. The more sway a chap had, the harder it was usually to meet him. Other countries understood far better than the British the obligation to co-operate with businessmen. This was not corruption, as the Ministerâs staff would fear; this was legitimate lobbying, and George had no qualms about it.
The guest list contained several other intriguing or useful people â potential and actual investors, especially. He was not yet acquainted with Jayanti Bhadeshia but the name was increasingly quoted in the financial and gossip columns. Guessing that he might be a Conservative supporter, George had taken a chance in inviting him and had been gratified at the prompt response. He would make a point of seating Mr Bhadeshia next to a PPS or a Minister; then heâd watch, with detached amusement, to see which gentleman impressed the other more.
A couple of ladies had accepted. Dr Mary Archer â in fact, she was Lady Archer since her husband was a peer, but with justifiable pride in her own remarkable career the lady had a right to the label she preferred. She would grace any table. And another Lady, Elspeth Howe, wife of the former Foreign Minister. If her husband had been soporific, the âdead sheepâ of legend, she was the opposite: headmistressy, kind and vigorous. He paused, then allowed his thoughts to rest on the last woman on the guest list, whose biography he knew, now, almost by heart.
In truth Elaine Stalker had nothing to do with Prima or telecommunications or the challenge of cabling every street in the nation to bring thirty-channel television into each home. She might have little to contribute to the discussion and was an unlikely investor. Yet when various MPsâ names had been mooted it was the work of a moment to comment that there ought to be at least one woman MP at their table, and that Elaine Stalker was probably the most worthwhile. She had a reputation for asking intelligent questions. Male Ministers and their acolytes would be kept on their toes.
Most of all, George thought with anticipation, he simply wanted to see her.
Â
âMuch better here than at
At last Pramilaâs prattle penetrated his consciousness. âNo, no,â he corrected her testily. âI am not available on Thursday morning. You know that; I have accepted an invitation from Prima CableCorporation for a business breakfast. At the Metropole Hotel. It is an important meeting and wives are not permitted. That morning if you are shy without me you should have breakfast in the room.â
âCould I go shopping, perhaps?â Pramila turned silkily towards her husband, so that, although he kept his eyes on the road, he was aware of her coquettish expression.
He suppressed a sigh. As she began to pout he knew he was beaten. If his wife exacted her price for being left to fend for herself it could be a costly breakfast.
Â
In the third Jaguar George Horrocks listened with increasing dismay to the faint rattle behind the polished wood dashboard and cursed the time before Ford took over the ailing luxury car-maker. That would mean a full service and oil change after the Conference with a big bill to follow.
Maybe he could charge it to the company. After all, he had only agreed to attend in order to host the Prima breakfast, as its senior non-executive director. Party conferences were not his style usually but the chairman was in Hong Kong. The guest list was distinguished and would allow plenty of opportunity for lobbying â a couple of Ministers including, discreetly, the Industry Minister and the PPS to the Home Office, and the junior man at the Department of National Heritage. In London ever-vigilant civil servants guarded their charges like Victorian chaperones with precious virgins. The more sway a chap had, the harder it was usually to meet him. Other countries understood far better than the British the obligation to co-operate with businessmen. This was not corruption, as the Ministerâs staff would fear; this was legitimate lobbying, and George had no qualms about it.
The guest list contained several other intriguing or useful people â potential and actual investors, especially. He was not yet acquainted with Jayanti Bhadeshia but the name was increasingly quoted in the financial and gossip columns. Guessing that he might be a Conservative supporter, George had taken a chance in inviting him and had been gratified at the prompt response. He would make a point of seating Mr Bhadeshia next to a PPS or a Minister; then heâd watch, with detached amusement, to see which gentleman impressed the other more.
A couple of ladies had accepted. Dr Mary Archer â in fact, she was Lady Archer since her husband was a peer, but with justifiable pride in her own remarkable career the lady had a right to the label she preferred. She would grace any table. And another Lady, Elspeth Howe, wife of the former Foreign Minister. If her husband had been soporific, the âdead sheepâ of legend, she was the opposite: headmistressy, kind and vigorous. He paused, then allowed his thoughts to rest on the last woman on the guest list, whose biography he knew, now, almost by heart.
In truth Elaine Stalker had nothing to do with Prima or telecommunications or the challenge of cabling every street in the nation to bring thirty-channel television into each home. She might have little to contribute to the discussion and was an unlikely investor. Yet when various MPsâ names had been mooted it was the work of a moment to comment that there ought to be at least one woman MP at their table, and that Elaine Stalker was probably the most worthwhile. She had a reputation for asking intelligent questions. Male Ministers and their acolytes would be kept on their toes.
Most of all, George thought with anticipation, he simply wanted to see her.
Â
âMuch better here than at
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