A Parliamentary Affair (11 page)

Or perhaps he had pushed her too far over … the other matter. Ms Stalker was certainly a looker. Splendid figure, not too much of it. Well turned out, clever, understated make-up – though he was uncertain what was real and what artifice. It would be entertaining, if nothing else, to find out. Golden blonde hair, not too stiff or formal, in a great cascade around her earnest pretty face. A few freckles on her nose he wanted to trace with his finger. Enticing, enquiring eyes, with darker long lashes lowered virtuously as she examined her unpainted nails. He suddenly realised she was indeed flirting with him – gently, subliminally almost. Maybe he had not misjudged her. Perhaps she was open to being impressed. Time to show off a little.

‘It’s harder with a big majority, Elaine. In the last Parliament some of our Members got the message they weren’t needed. One chap disappeared altogether. He told us he was in his constituency, and told them the whips were being beastly and keeping him in Westminster. In reality he wasn’t in the country at all.’

Pause for effect. Elaine’s eyes widened. Both had stopped pretending they were staying merely for refreshments. She was on board once more.

‘Where was he?’

‘Oh, in Jersey, running a somewhat shady business. Picking up his salary and allowances here at the same time, naturally. Eventually we tipped off his constituency chairman and he was warned to retire or he’d be deselected. There was another who became known as the Member for Southern California. He’d been here years – had been a minister, in fact, but not got very far: too bone idle. Then he was invited to do a lecture tour of the USA, met up with a pretty woman in Berkeley who just happened to be the dean’s daughter and decided to stay in the sunshine. The inconvenient fact that he was still a Member here was a minor irrelevance, of course.’

Elaine giggled. Roger wondered if she would object if he lit a cigar, since it appeared to be story-telling time, and decided against. He hoped to God nobody was checking up on the two of them, but didn’t dare turn round to look, for fear of breaking the spell. Whatever was happening, the chance was not to be missed, or muffed. This woman was not going home alone tonight. He carried on talking easily, for he had told the tale many times before.

‘He organised himself very well. He’d come back once every six weeks or so to speak or ask an oral question. His secretary handled all the constituency cases – very competently indeed; the locals never guessed. The technique was simple. She put down written questions at his behest and issued a press release as the question appeared on the order paper – “Bloggs MP demands government action”, that sort of thing; and again as the answer came up: “Bloggs MP pleased with government response.” He’d even do interviews for local radio over the phone from the West Coast. They hadn’t the foggiest idea where he was.’

Her mouth opened in disbelief. Roger finished with a flourish:

‘So he was in the local papers all the time, his punters thought he was a jolly good MP and his majority never wavered.’

She was hooked. Now was the time.

‘Look, Elaine, I shouldn’t have kept you. Your voting record so far is fine: there are no votes tonight. You’re free to go.’ He paused, almost imperceptibly – but not to her. ‘If you want.’
She stretched like a cat, keeping her eyes on his face. A woman who wore perfume, no less, even in the Commons tea room on a dead night. A woman who liked being with a man.

‘Just as I was enjoying our conversation, too. You know, Roger, for us new Members this place is a bewildering morass of rules and manners and Spanish practices. I feel I need lessons: it’s like having a musical instrument without instructions. Learn how to play and you’ll produce sweet music – but attack it blindly and the result is cacophony. Teach me to play just a little longer, will you?’

‘Certainly, but not here.’ He felt suddenly apprehensive. He rose to his feet and made gentlemanly motions to hold her chair. She did not object. ‘My home is just round the corner. We’ve finished here. Why don’t you come round for some decent coffee, or a drink? A brandy perhaps?’

‘I’m a malt drinker.’ Archly, a challenge.

‘How about Glenfiddich?’

‘Thank you, that’ll do nicely.’

‘With or without ice?’

‘Without. You don’t spoil good whisky.’

‘Good – that makes my life easier. I think my kids had all the ice. Meet me at Members’ Entrance in ten minutes. I have to tidy away some papers and tell the Chief I’m off. It’s only a few minutes’ walk.’

It was done; the invitation issued. Plus a cooling-off period: Elaine could always excuse herself before they left together. So could he.

The next few minutes were like an hour, as Dickson found pretexts for dawdling. In truth he had no clear idea what he expected to do, apart from vaguely getting to know Elaine Stalker better. Such an approach, unplanned, unpremeditated, was reasonably safe on a quiet night with no curious observers. Nothing would come of it, of course, but even if something did happen they were both sophisticated adults. No one was about to jump off Westminster Bridge if either had made a mistake. On an impulse he quickly phoned his home in the constituency. Just to check.

Dickson might not have been surprised that much the same considerations were running through Elaine’s head. She made her way immediately towards the Lady Members’ room on the bottom corridor, stood in front of the long mirror, straightened her skirt, brushed her hair, applied lipstick, blotted it carefully, picked a stray golden hair from her jacket and struggled with herself. She was reasonably sure she was not about to be made a fool of; some reserve in Dickson told her that whatever might occur he would keep tonight strictly private. Had she any doubts on that point it would be best to abort the mission right now. He had not touched her in the tea room, not been crude or leered or peeped at her legs, nor made any inappropriate remarks. The quiet thoughtful man in the garden had asked her to come to his home, that was all. She trusted him. She had no choice. She was not about to insult him by turning down an innocent invitation to a drink. Male MPs had drinks with each other all the time: perhaps Roger was conscious that she felt excluded from that camaraderie. It was kind of him to ask.

Dickson appeared at Members’ Entrance exactly on time with a curt ‘Ready?’ and opened the side door for her. He had a folder in his hand but no box or briefcase. She shook her head as he offered to carry hers, for it was empty.

Outside it was still daylight, just, as the late sun caught the western face of Big Ben. As the two crossed over by St Stephen’s Entrance she glanced back. Sir Charles Barry’s great clocktower was quite beautiful, its carved gilded stone gleaming and tranquil. Starlings wheeled and squabbled over roosts for the night. A few tourists straggled, taking photographs. It was a few minutes after nine. Roger led her down towards Millbank and turned right at Great Peter Street. They were in an area of eighteenth-century speculative development, houses which would be on offer at £600,000 or less, but which fetched up to a million at the height of the 1980s boom. Teresa Gorman owned two such properties in Lord North Street near Jonathan Aitken’s, Alan Duncan one in Gayfere Street, in the basement of which the most recent bid for the Leadership had been successfully plotted. At 4 Cowley Street the Liberal Democrats had their headquarters. Conservative Central Office was round the corner in an ugly modern building in Smith Square, with Transport House, erstwhile home of the Labour Party, right opposite: the concentrated political hinterland of Westminster.

Roger Dickson stopped at a black-painted fence and unlocked a small door. He felt his mouth go dry.

‘I’m lucky to have this house,’ he explained. ‘I hope it’s not too much of a mess. During school holidays with three kids running round it gets to be a bit of a pigsty. You’re not to start tidying up.’

‘I won’t. I’m not that kind of lady.’

He chuckled. ‘No, I can see you’re not.’

She felt a twinge of disappointment, then guilt. It sounded as if the family were in residence. It would be easy to misread the signs with someone you’d only just met. The back garden was tiny and untidy, but full of old climbing roses, lilies and tubs of pink and red geraniums and fuchsia. There was a woman’s hand here, casual about appearances but full of natural life. The sun fell on the garden all afternoon; walls and terracotta pots were warm to the touch. On a pocket-handkerchief patio stood white-painted wrought-iron chairs and a table, while a ragged hammock was slung between an old tree and the wall. Dickson walked past and unlocked the french window, standing aside to let her in.
‘These are the children’s quarters. The kitchen is just here. We can make coffee and then have drinks up in the living room – that’s on the first floor.’

He was right – the kitchen was a mess. Used crockery filled the sink. Judging from the gummed-up remains, nothing had been moved since breakfast hours earlier. A dirty tea towel graced the draining board. His wife was not a keen housekeeper, Elaine noted primly. Roger fished out a small pan, rinsed it under the tap and started heating milk. The coffee machine was half full of cold, black liquid, but short of covering all the dirty dishes in old coffee there was nowhere to empty it. Roger looked helpless.

Elaine laughed and came to his rescue. ‘Just put on the kettle. I’m perfectly happy with Nescafé.’

They carried two milky mugs of coffee carefully up the uneven narrow stairs, negotiating a way around toys and a pram. Roger opened a door into what was evidently a smarter living room where the children were not admitted. A dark-red Wilton carpet made it immediately comfortable. By the window an elegant chaise-longue upholstered in deep-yellow silk offered a friendly invitation. Books lined the walls; a red leather Chesterfield looked well used; an untidy pile of weekly Hansards and hunting magazines gathered dust by its side.

Roger poured drinks and motioned her to the chaise longue. Elaine thought for a moment. She had other ideas. She sat down on the floor with her back to the window, so that she could gaze up at her host. If his wife came in at least they would not be sitting on the sofa side by side.

When Roger turned round from the drinks cabinet he caught his breath. The woman was curled up, legs tucked under her, in a posture which could be interpreted as wanting to sit at one’s feet, to drink in wisdom, to look up and
admire
. It was so unbelievably flattering. Sensual, too. Making clear who was to be the dominant animal in this room, as the dust danced in the warm air and the sunbeams meandered across the glowing carpet.

‘Are you the hunter?’ She pointed to the magazines, realising how little she knew about this man.

‘No, not my scene. That’s my wife’s passion. She went up this morning and no doubt will have been out riding twice by the time I get home tomorrow night.’

The news hung between them, floated softly from the man to the woman. She sipped the dry whisky as he sat on the chaise longue and watched her.

‘Aren’t they home? I was hoping I might meet your … children.’

‘Oh, you will, no doubt. But not tonight. Caroline took them and the nanny up to the constituency first thing this morning; much better for them in July, though as you can see I have to fend for myself when I’m on my own, and I’m not very good at it.’

So he was alone, and he had invited her here knowing his wife was absent. The mess downstairs indicated that he was no Lothario making a habit of casual liaisons when his wife was away. His evident inability to master the disorder made him vulnerable, endearing.

She did not move, except to incline her head so the blonde hair engaged the lazy sun, and sipped her drink. She held the glass up and watched the light swirl through the liquid, break and scatter, bronze and golden and yellow.

Roger was rolling a tumbler slowly in his hands. She could hear the crystal click against his signet ring. Somewhere in the room a clock was ticking softly.

‘I’ve often thought it must be even harder for the women Members. You have a child, haven’t you, Elaine?’

‘I had two, but one was handicapped and died.’ That was not the reply she usually offered. Her
Who’s Who
entry did not mention two children, only one. Jake had lived two years. The child’s jerky smile swam into her thoughts but she pushed the memory back down again. Her face darkened sadly. ‘He was one reason why I was determined to go into politics. I was so appalled at the way we
were treated as if his disability were all our fault, and we were nuisances for insisting on reasonable facilities for him. But we have a daughter, Karen. She’s now fourteen, taller than me! If your question is who looks after her while I’m busy prancing around being an MP, the answer’s that she’s at boarding school. During holidays I have exactly the same problem as you. At the moment she’s at her grandmother’s in Hereford and not enjoying it very much.’

‘And Mr Stalker? There is a Mr Stalker, I gather.’

I gather
. Been checking up. Was this just his style, to know everything possible about his charges?

‘Mike? Right now? Somewhere over the Atlantic, at a guess. Otherwise at home. In the Midlands. He’s an airline pilot. We have always had to check our diaries to figure out when we could get together, so I don’t expect any extra difficulty.’

Her glass was empty. She giggled.

‘I think you gave me a double.’

‘And would you like another?’

‘Yes, but not quite so much.’

Roger obliged, the bottle neck clinking on the glasses. Hidden from her his hand was shaking. The coffee, hopelessly bland, stood forgotten on a side table. Then he asked:

‘Are you warm enough? Would you mind if I take off my jacket?’

‘Go ahead. It’s your house: you can do what you like.’ He looked at her sharply, took the suit jacket off, hung it over a chair and sat down again. She had moved closer to the chaise longue and was leaning against it, pretending to be a little drunk, playing with her shoe, demure. Slowly she took off her shoes and placed them to one side. Her feet and legs were silky and bare. She was extraordinarily beautiful. He leaned forward.

‘I can do what I like in my own house, can I? Now what exactly does that mean?’