Christmas Shopaholic(27)

“His name was Billiard Cleath-Stuart,” I embellish for good measure. “Hence the name Billiards. My next reference is Danny Kovitz, the international designer, also a renowned supporter and campaigner for billiards.”

I’ll get Danny to make a T-shirt with I B Billiards on it. It’ll be fine.

“My third reference—” I begin, but the man lifts a hand. He doesn’t seem to be at all impressed by my list of references; in fact, he seems to be waiting to get a word in.

“Young lady,” he says testily.

“Becky,” I correct him.

“Young lady,” he repeats with emphasis. “The London Billiards and Parlour Music Club is open only to gentlemen members.”

I stare at him, the wind taken out of my sails. Gentlemen members? That is so unfair.

Ooh. Shall I identify as a man? Shall I say, “Actually, it’s not Becky, I forgot for a moment; it’s Geoff”?

No. Because that would let them off the hook. They should let women join. Why can’t women join?

“Well, I would like to dispute that,” I say briskly. “As a woman who is passionate about both billiards and parlour music, I feel it is discriminatory of this club to exclude me. To whom may I write on this matter?”

The man gazes at me frostily for a few moments.

“The chairman is Sir Peter Leggett-Davey,” he allows at last. “You may write to him at this address.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, making a small bow. “I am, sir, yours, et cetera.”

I’m not quite sure what I meant by that, but it just popped out.

“Goodbye,” says the man in final tones.

“Goodbye,” I echo, and whirl round, intending to make an impressive exit, only I bash my bag on his desk by mistake and have to add, “Oh, oops, sorry.”

As I head out onto the street, I’m already composing letters to Sir Peter Leggett-Davey in my head—and I give a most almighty jump when I feel a hand on my arm and hear a voice exclaiming, “Young lady, you were tremendous!”

I wheel round to see an elderly man gazing at me with shining eyes. He’s tall and thin, with liver spots and longish silver hair and a violet paisley cravat tucked into his shirt.

“I heard you speaking and I couldn’t agree more!” he says emphatically. “This club is in the dark ages! I’ve been trying to find some like-minded woman to challenge the rules, only my niece wasn’t interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested,” I say. “Definitely.”

“I’m Edwin,” says the man, clasping my hand and shaking it. “Delighted to meet you. Might I buy you a quick drink and discuss your campaign for membership?”

“You mean…in there?” I point back inside the club.

“Of course! As my guest. Female guests are allowed, at least.”

“Well, OK!” I say, beaming at him. “Thanks. Only it’ll have to be quick, because I’ve got to go Christmas shopping.”

“Oh, just a snifter,” says Edwin, nodding conspiratorially. “Absolutely.”

He leads me back into the club and signs me in under the disapproving gaze of the old man, while I smile smugly. Then he ushers me into the massive grand room with the old chairs and the mantelpiece and the sherry trolley.

“Now, let’s find somewhere nice to sit,” he says, peering around. But the place seems to have filled up. Every chair has a trousered leg poking out from it or a newspaper visible over the top.

“Lord Tottle?” says a man in an apron, coming over to us. “Everything all right?”

“All the chairs are full,” Edwin says fretfully. “No one’s moving. In fact, Baines over there looks quite dead. You must stop the members dying in their chairs, Finch.”

“You come this way, my lord,” says Finch soothingly, and he leads us into another room, where he establishes us by the fire. “Shall I send the sherry trolley over?”

“Good God, no,” says Edwin, looking appalled. “We want the good stuff. Can I tempt you with a gimlet, Becky?”

“Yes!” I say, taken aback. “Fab! Thank you!”

It’s a tad early—but maybe a gimlet will help me do my Christmas shopping. In fact, I’m sure it will.

“Finch is on our side,” murmurs Edwin, as Finch moves away. “We’ve been pushing for a decade, you know. Never managed it. But I have a good feeling this time. I think you’ll make it. I’ll be your proposer, of course, and I’ll find you three seconders from the club, which is what you need.”

“Oh, thanks.” I beam at him again.

“I know the Cleath-Stuart family,” he adds conversationally. “Never knew that about inventing billiards.”

“Oh, it’s just a legend,” I say hastily. “In fact, it’s more of an urban myth.”

Finch deposits our drinks on the table, and Edwin lifts his up in a toast.

“To your membership!” he exclaims. “Now, if it’s not too much to ask, might I draft your letter to Sir Peter? I know exactly what to say to press his buttons, the pompous wretch.”

“Of course! Thank you.”

“And then the matter will go to the AGM in December. The annual general meeting, you know.” Edwin eyes me over the top of his drink, and I notice he has the most amazing pink enameled cuff links. “Could you speak out at a meeting, Becky? I’m very happy to draft your speech, if you could perform it with gusto?”