One door shuts: another opens. The harder the slam, the greater the gust of air and the more dramatic the new opening.
‘There’s a phone call for you, Lady Rice,’ said the bellboy, even as the letter went in the box. ‘Would you care to take it in the booth? We couldn’t find you in your room.’
The call was from Una. She had seen Lady Rice in The Claremont bar the night before, when drinking with friends. Una had recognised Lady Rice as Brian Moss’s departing secretary, had learned that she was a guest at The Claremont and had taken the liberty of contacting her this morning. It was nothing to do with Una what was going on, but if Lady Rice, or whoever, was in need of a job, she might have one to offer her.
Angelica agreed to call on Una in her Whitehall offices. She had no recollection of being in the bar the previous evening. So far as she could remember, she’d stayed in her room watching television. On the other hand, she could not remember the programmes she’d watched.
‘Angel,’ said Angelica in alarm, ‘we’re not just perforated any longer. We’ve split.’
But there was no reply.