Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.

‘What do you propose to do with the play, Mr Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.’

‘Good question,’ replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. ‘We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that Cardenio is not for one person or group to exploit, so we in the Whig party propose offering free licences to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.’

There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the right thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed to Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years earlier or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.

There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practised answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper who looked at me oddly for a moment.

‘The Spoon report,’ I told him, handing him the buff-coloured file, ‘about the authentication… we thought you might want to see it.’

‘What? Of course?’

Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn’t even look at me but since I obviously wasn’t going to leave like some message-girl, Volescamper introduced me.

‘Oh yes! Mr Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.’

Kaine looked up from the report. His manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.

‘Ms Next, delighted!’ he enthused. ‘I read of your exploits with great interest and, believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of Jane Eyre considerably!’

I wasn’t impressed by him or his faux charm.

‘Think you can change the Whig party’s fortunes, Mr Kaine?’

‘The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,’ replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. ‘Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England’s political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next—ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.’

‘And Wales?’ I asked. ‘Where do you stand on Wales these days?’

‘Wales is historically part of the greater Britain,’ announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. ‘The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods and this has to stop—but I have no plans whatsoever for forced unification.’

I stared at him for a moment.

‘You have to get into power first, Mr Kaine.’

The smile dropped from his face.

‘Thank you for delivering the report, Miss Next,’ put in Volescamper hurriedly. ‘Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?’

I took the hint and made my way to the front door. I stood and looked at the outside broadcast units thoughtfully. Yorrick Kaine was playing his hand well.

I paid to have my car released with a cheque that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first ‘Les arts modernes de Swindon’ exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half-hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside; all the pews had been moved out and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled among the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog-collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

‘Hello, Doofus!’ he said, hugging me affectionately. ‘Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr Saveloy?’

Without waiting for an answer he propelled me towards where a puffy man stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compere of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

‘Mr Saveloy,’ I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

‘Delighted!’ grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honoured to meet me, just the same.’

‘Quite the reverse,’ I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

‘Ah!’ said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. ‘I have my Rolls-Royce outside. Perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?’

‘I think,’ I replied, ‘that I would sooner eat rusty nails.’

He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said:

‘Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.’

I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

‘Up to your old tricks, Frankie?’

Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

‘Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!’

‘Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.’

Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display

‘You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,’ she said testily. ‘I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!’

‘Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?’

‘He’s performing Richard III at the Ritz—you would have thought he’d never been to Swindon the way he’s carrying on. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

‘So,’ said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, ‘tell us all about it, Mr Duchamp2924.’

‘I call it The id within,’ said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued: