The flight from Bombay to New Delhi landed a couple of hours later, leaving Seb and Priya with almost two hours to kill before they could board their connecting flight. They didn’t waste any time making their way over to the international terminal, where they joined the queue at BOAC’s booking desk.
“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” asked the clerk.
“I’d like two seats on your flight to Glasgow.”
“Certainly, sir. First or economy?”
“First,” said Seb.
“Economy,” said Priya. They tossed a coin. Priya won.
“Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our married life?” said Seb.
“Are you on your honeymoon?” asked the booking clerk.
“No,” said Seb. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”
“Then I shall be delighted to upgrade you to first class.”
“Thank you,” said Priya.
“But first I need to see your passports.” Sebastian handed them over. “Do you have any bags to check in?”
“None,” said Seb.
“Fine. And could I have a credit card please?”
“Do we also toss for that?” asked Seb, looking at Priya.
“No, I’m afraid you’re about to marry a girl who comes without a dowry.”
“You’re in seats 4A and 4B. The flight is scheduled to leave on time, and the gate opens in forty minutes. You might like to take advantage of our first-class lounge, which is on the other side of the hall.”
Seb and Priya held hands as they nervously nibbled nuts and drank endless cups of coffee in the first-class lounge, until they finally heard the announcement they had been waiting for.
“This is the first call for BOAC flight 009 to Glasgow. Will all passengers please make their way to Gate number eleven.”
“I want us to be the first on the plane,” said Seb, as they walked out of the lounge. He had always known that this would be the only unscripted moment, but he was confident that once they’d boarded the plane, even Mr. Ghuman wouldn’t be able to have them taken off a British carrier. In the distance he spotted two armed policemen standing by the departure gate. Were they always there, or were they on the lookout for him? And then he remembered the police car that had been stationed outside Mr. Ghuman’s house and had then continuously followed him and Vijay. Ghuman was a man with political influence and power, especially in his own country, the High Commissioner had warned.
Seb slowed down, looking first to his right and then his left as he searched for an escape route. The two policemen were now staring at them and, when they were just a couple of yards from the barrier, one of the officers stepped forward as if he’d been waiting for them.
Seb heard a commotion behind him and swung, around to see what was going on. He immediately knew that he’d made the wrong decision and should have kept on walking. His fifth mistake. He stood, mesmerized, as Ghuman’s two bodyguards charged toward them. How could they have got there so quickly? Of course, Ghuman had a private jet — something else the High Commissioner had warned him about. Seb was surprised how calm he felt, even when one of them pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at him.
“Drop that gun and get on your knees!” shouted one of the policemen. The crowd scattered in every direction, leaving the six of them stranded in their own no-man’s land. Seb realized that the police had always been on his side. Barrington v. Ghuman — no contest. One of Ghuman’s guards immediately fell to his knees and slid his gun across the floor toward the two policemen. The other thug, the one who’d failed to dislodge Priya from the motorbike, ignored the order, never taking his eyes off his quarry.
“Move away, black swan,” said Seb firmly, pushing Priya to one side. “It’s not you he’s after.”
“Put down your weapon and get on your knees or I will fire,” said one of the policemen standing behind them.
But the man didn’t lower his gun and didn’t fall on his knees. He squeezed the trigger.
Seb felt the bullet hit him. As he stumbled back, Priya shouted, “No!” and threw herself between Seb and the gunman. The second bullet killed her instantly.
Lady Virginia Fenwick
1972
22
When the money began to dry up, Virginia wondered if she could return to the same watering hole a second time.
Without informing her father, she had employed a new butler and housekeeper and returned to her old way of life. £14,000 might have seemed like a lot of money at the time, but that was before she checked her recent dress account, spent a month at the Excelsior Hotel in Tenerife with a totally unsuitable young man, made a foolish loan to Bofie that she knew he’d never repay and backed a string of fillies at Ascot that never had any intention of entering the winners’ enclosure. She had refused to place a bet on Noble Conquest for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, and then watched her romp home at 3/1. Her owner, Cyrus T. Grant III, was inexplicably absent, so Her Majesty presented the cup to his trainer.
Virginia opened yet another letter from Mr. Fairbrother, a man she had sworn never to speak to again, and reluctantly accepted that she was facing the same temporary embarrassment as she’d experienced six months previously. Her father’s monthly allowance had put her bank balance temporarily back in the black, so she decided to invest a hundred pounds seeking the advice of Sir Edward Makepeace QC. After all, it wasn’t his fault she’d lost her libel case against Emma Clifton. Alex Fisher was to blame for that.
“Let me try to understand what you’re telling me,” said Sir Edward after Virginia had come to the end of her story. “You met a Mr. Cyrus T. Grant III, a Louisiana businessman, at a lunch party at Harry’s Bar in Mayfair hosted by the son of Lord Bridgwater. You then accompanied Mr. Grant back to his hotel—” Sir Edward checked his notes — “the Ritz, where you had tea in his private suite, and later both of you drank a little too much... presumably not tea?”
“Whisky,” said Virginia. “Maker’s Mark, his favorite brand.”
“And you ended up spending the night together.”
“Cyrus can be very persuasive.”
“And you say that he proposed to you that evening, and when you returned to the Ritz the following morning he had, to quote you, ‘done a runner.’ By which you mean he had settled his account with the Ritz and taken the first flight back to America.”
“That is exactly what he did.”
“And you are seeking my legal opinion as to whether you have a claim for breach of promise against Mr. Grant that would stand up in a court of law?” Virginia looked hopeful. “If so, I have to ask, do you have any proof that Mr. Grant actually proposed to you?”
“Such as?”
“A witness, someone he told or, even better, an engagement ring?”
“We had planned to go shopping for a ring that morning.”
“I apologize for this indelicacy, Lady Virginia, but are you pregnant?”
“Certainly not,” said Virginia firmly. She paused for a moment, before adding, “Why? Would it make any difference?”
“A considerable difference. Not only would we have proof of your liaison but, more importantly, you could seek a maintenance order, claiming that Mr. Grant had an obligation to bring up the child in a style and manner commensurate with his considerable wealth.” He looked at his notes again, “As the twenty-eighth richest man in America.”
“As reported in Forbes magazine,” confirmed Virginia.
“That would have been good enough for most courts of law in both countries. However, as you are not pregnant, and have no proof that he proposed to you other than your word against his, I cannot see any course of action open to you. I would therefore advise you not to consider suing Mr. Grant. The legal expense alone could prove crippling and, after your recent experience, I suspect that isn’t a road you’d want to travel down a second time.”