To Seek a Master Read Free Page A

Newmarket Road.
    Mr Henderson had begun on another of his pet peeves, other road users, who he assumed were all out merely to pass the time of day, while he alone had important business. Laura had heard it all before and made the appropriate comments at the appropriate junctures, meanwhile working through the order in which to present the virtues of their 24,000 volt SF6 switchgear system. Mr Henderson knew it by heart, but would expect the papers handed to him at exactly the right moments and in the right sequence, thus demonstrating efficiency. Only when he’d got up to speed on the duel carriageway did he turn back to the task in hand.
    ‘The meeting is at Setchal Manor.’
    The name meant nothing to Laura, but she responded politely. Presently he turned north, into the flat fen country, and again, following the instructions of his satnav down a narrow straight lane raised above the level of the fields. After a mile the scenery changed to carefully landscaped ridges and hollows set with clumps of trees, small lakes, bunkers and carefully manicured greens. Mr Henderson gave a satisfied nod, stating the obvious.
    ‘A golf club.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘An expensive one, too, unless I’m greatly mistaken. This Mr Drake has taste.’
    ‘I hope he doesn’t expect us to play.’
    ‘Nothing was mentioned, but if he does, we’ll have to. Be prepared for the unexpected, Laura.’
    It was another of his pet maxims, and one she’d always felt was particularly silly. After all, if you had prepared for something then it wasn’t really unexpected, while it was impossible to prepare for everything unless you were going to carry around an impossible amount of stuff, including, in this case, a full set of golf clubs. Not that it would have done her much good, as her sole experience of golf was being told off by a man who looked like a retired Colonel, while enjoying a hasty fumble with an ex-boyfriend on the links near Cromer.
    Setchal Manor was a large house of red brick and flint, fronted by mature cedars and a weather-beaten stone colonnade, all of which gave it an air of prestige and made Laura feel small and nervous. An impressive set of double doors stood open, exposing a smaller, glass set within and the reception area beyond. Mr Henderson announced them and they were shown into the bar, a great panelled room hung with trophies and boards listing past luminaries of the club from a date well back in the nineteenth century.
    Mr Drake was already there, a man even taller than Mr Henderson, also younger and with an open yet assertive manner Laura found simultaneously appealing and intimidating. His PA was worse, a Miss Manston-Jones, whose public school accent, tailored clothes and air of friendly condescension gave the impression that she was really only there because Daddy thought it would do her good to mix with the proles for a while.
    Despite feeling well out of her depth, Laura did her best to remain businesslike and efficient, or at least to look businesslike and efficient. That meant following Mr Henderson’s rules, which included never refusing a drink from a client. After two large gin and tonics she was feeling a little more confident and a lot less steady, neither of which helped when Mr Drake made the suggestion she’d been dreading all morning.
    ‘I think that takes care of the business end of things. How about nine holes before lunch?’
    Mr Henderson responded without batting an eyelid. ‘An excellent idea.’
    Laura knew better than to object, but clung to the hope that she and Miss Manston-Jones might not be expected to play. After all, they were hardly dressed for the part, in tight skirts and heels, with Miss Manston-Jones’ skirt inevitably that little bit tighter and her heels that little bit higher. The hope was short lived. Mr Drake drained his Scotch before adding a fresh horror to the experience as well as dashing her hopes.
    ‘How about fifty pounds a hole, just to make it interesting? No handicap,