‘I’d love one,’ she said, and watched him as he went to the drinks cabinet to pour it. ‘This is a very attractive house, you know. Dignified but friendly.’

‘Well, that’s us Hardestys all over,’ smiled Ed, handing Della her drink. He sat down beside her on the sofa.

‘Shearson Jones seems to be very taken with you,’ said Della. ‘He thinks you’ll make an excellent figurehead for this Blight Crisis Appeal.’

‘He does? And what do you think?’

‘I think he’s right. Now I’ve seen you, I can vouch for his intuition. He was a little worried you might look like Quasimodo, but since you clearly don’t – well, I think you’re just the man.’

‘What are his plans?’ asked Ed, sipping brandy, and looking at Della over the shining rim of his glass.

‘He wants you to make a live TV broadcast from Fall River on Saturday afternoon. As far as I know they’ve written the script already. It won’t be anything ridiculous or schmaltzy. All they’ll ask you to say is that you’re a young Kansas wheat farmer, that you’ve dedicated your life to cultivating your farm, and that through no fault of your own you’ve now found yourself flat busted. That’s it.’ Ed sat back. ‘That sounds simple enough. Is it going to be networked?’

‘Coast-to-coast, as far as we know.’

Ed nodded. ‘That sounds okay.’

There was a silence, and then he said: ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing with a character like Shearson Jones anyway? He’s a major-league heavy, isn’t he? And not just politically, either. From what I’ve seen of him on television, he’s not exactly the world’s skinniest man. How come you’re working for someone like that?’

‘I wasn’t, until Wednesday.’

‘But why? I don’t know much about him, but from what I’ve heard he’s pretty hard to g. t near. The only way I got through to him in the first place was because my daddy helped him with some wheat-dumping deal. I don’t understand why you’re hanging around a man like that.’

Della shrugged. ‘It’s the power, I guess. The influence. It’s very intoxicating.’

‘Even more intoxicating than good country air?’

She looked up at him. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want it to mean.’

‘You’re a married man, aren’t you?’ she reminded him. ‘A married man with a young daughter of six.’

‘You want to talk about families?’

Della held her glass of brandy up to the light. An amber reflection curved across her cheek. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly.’

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes and then Ed said, ‘What does Shearson Jones want out of this fund? Can you tell me that?’

‘Prestige,’ said Della. ‘Votes. It’s all very good for the public image.’