A Satisfying Read

On a wintry day in the mid 1990s, Brian Mulroney and I lunched in the Mount Royal Club, an imposing pile of grey stone on Sherbrooke Street in Montreal. Sharing lunch with Brian was for me a rare occurrence but always a welcome one. It was the period of his purgatory following his resignation from office, after the publication of a scathing book by an author carrying a grudge, a time when journalists could hardly refer to him without a bruising descriptive—“discredited former prime minister” or “reviled former leader.” For Brian there must have been private demons, but he never spoke of them and, on the surface, was cheerful and full of good humour. He also ruminated on the book he intended to write, and wondered aloud how it would take shape and when. “It’s not time yet,” was his conclusion, to my private but heartfelt relief, but it was not too soon to start planning.

We left the private premises of this club, the heart of the Montreal anglo establishment for...