HERBERT IN MOTION
IAN RANKIN
My choices that day were twofold: kill myself before or after the Prime Minister’s cocktail party? And if after, should I wear my Armani to the party, or the more sober YSL with the chalk stripe?
The invitation was gilt-edged, too big for the inside pocket of my workaday suit. Drinks and canapes, six p.m. till seven. A minion had telephoned to confirm my attendance, and to brief me on protocol. That had been two days ago. He’d explained that among the guests would be an American visiting London, a certain Joseph Hefferwhite. While not quite spelling it out – they never do, do they? – the minion was explaining why I’d been invited, and what my role on the night might be.
“Joe Hefferwhite,” I managed to say, clutching the receiver like it was so much straw.
“I believe you share an interest in modern art,” the minion continued.
“We share an interest.”
. . .
