Stolen Summer

‘Well, yes. But people are better informed because of it,’ exclaimed Shelley defensively. ‘Do you have any idea how many prospective voters are reached at election time, by the simple formula of networking a politician’s views?’

‘And do you think that’s a good thing?’ enquired Ben sardonically. ‘Do you think it’s fair to expose the ordinary man in the street to a stream of fanatics spouting their own particular brand of insanity?’

‘People are free to choose,’ protested Shelley. ‘They can always turn the set off. They don’t have to listen.’

‘But they do.’ Ben arched one eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you forgetting? Not everyone is mentally capable of deciding what to believe and what not?’

‘That’s a very supercilious statement——’

‘It’s realistic——’

‘It’s intellectual snobbery!’

‘So you’d let anyone hear—or see—anything?’

Shelley flushed. ‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What are you saying then?’

‘I’ve heard that some entertainers refuse to appear on the box because it kills their material,’ put in Charles soothingly. ‘What kind of programming are you involved in, Shelley? Does light entertainment come into your sphere?’

‘Oh, really!’ Jennifer raised her eyes heavenward. ‘I’m sure Shelley didn’t come here to spend her time defending what she does, Ben. She probably finds talking about her work just as boring as I do! This is a dinner party—not a political debate!’

There was a pregnant silence after this pronouncement, and Shelley wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She had not wanted to talk about her work; she never did. But it was difficult to avoid the inevitable interest it inspired.

‘I’m sorry——’ she was beginning awkwardly, when once again Ben came to her rescue.

‘It was my fault,’ he said, giving her a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. I am supercilious.’ He glanced at Marsha. ‘That’s what comes of being my mother’s son.’

‘Don’t involve me in this,’ exclaimed Marsha, glad to use his words to ease the situation, and Sarah’s appearance to clear the plates, provided a welcome diversion.

The conversation moved to the wine, and Marsha’s preference for French vintages. ‘Well, I may not be a purist like you,’ said Charles, ‘but I prefer the German wines myself. Did I tell you I’ve been invited to join a wine-tasting tour of the Rhine valley in October?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

Marsha was fascinated, and Shelley was relieved to be able to apply herself to the slice of lamb on her plate. She would have liked to take no further part in the conversation, but Jennifer decided otherwise.

Apparently sensing her fiancé’s hostility towards her, she leant across the table and said confidingly: ‘I hope I didn’t offend you just now. But you did come up here to get away from your work, didn’t you? Mrs Seton says you need a complete rest, that you haven’t to do anything at all for at least three months!’

Shelley laid down her knife and fork. Put like that, it sounded as if she was on the verge of enforced retirement. She supposed Jennifer meant well, but she couldn’t help the unwilling suspicion that the girl was using every opportunity to point out the differences between them—not least, the fact that she was young and energetic, while Shelley was old and wearing out fast.

‘Not quite that,’ Shelley said now, cradling her glass between her fingers. ‘I just have to take things easy for a while. I’ve been—overworking.’

‘She’s not an invalid!’ said Ben shortly, regarding his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘Mental stress involves the brain, not the body!’