A Parliamentary Affair (12 page)

She shifted again, just an inch closer. Her hair was almost touching his knee.

‘You must not tempt me, Elaine.’ But the tone was teasing, playful. She turned slowly to him, her lips slightly parted. He looked into her face; her amused, inviting expression mirrored his own – more than meeting him halfway. It was not clear who was leading whom. He had thought he was in charge, but it was obvious that Elaine also knew what she wanted.

‘And you, Mr Whip, should not invite strange women into your house when you are all alone.’ If we are going to do this, she was saying, we’re both equally responsible, equally guilty, making equal choices.

He spoke quietly now. ‘Me? Did I force you against your will, then? I might ask you, what exactly are you doing in my house?’

Elaine finished her drink. Her head was buzzing. Before leaving the Commons she had dabbed her perfume, not demurely on her wrists, but between her breasts, under the soles of her feet, on her belly below her navel. In the warmth its sweetness shimmered delicately in the air, mixed with the powerful masculine aura of the scotch. Dusk was gathering. In a respectable household lights would be going on. But not here.

Her hair lay against his knee. Silently he stroked it, as he might have one of his children. Slowly she ran her right hand up his calf – slowly, yet it was like making electrical contact. Then she kneeled up in a swift smooth movement until she faced him as he sat, legs apart, a dazed look on his face, on the yellow sofa. Holding his gaze as he had held hers over the teacups, she put one hand on each of his thighs and slid her fingers up the inside of his legs to his crotch, as a man might do to a woman. He gasped; his body moved under the fabric, as he caught her hands just in time.

She held her position. ‘Just wanted to make sure you weren’t having me on,’ she whispered.

‘Having me, more like…’

And then he kissed her, bowing towards her from the yellow sofa, taking her in his arms as he had wanted to since the first moment he saw her. She responded joyously, pulling back and laughing. Then he came at her again, more urgently and hungrily, pushing his tongue down far into her mouth, reaching for her, clutching her body. He pressed her hand where it was placed on his crotch and she could feel him growing harder. Her fingers searched for the zip and she slid her hand inside. There was no stopping now. He groaned and whispered her name. The carpet under her knees rubbed and chafed and her thigh muscles ached and still he kissed her with great longing, eyes closed, not daring to know what she was doing. The physical position she had put herself in – kneeling upright between his legs, reversing the traditional male–female roles – made the next step almost inevitable. She moved her face away from his, and bent down.

When it was done, panting, choking a little, she laid her head on his knee, like a faithful dog. He sat back, breathing huskily, stroking her hair.

‘My God! I don’t believe this… Are … you all right?’

Her voice was not under control. This was not quite what she had expected, but he was not to know. The chance had presented itself and she had seized it boldly. She swallowed hard to get rid of the salt taste. ‘I think I could do with another whisky.’

He flopped back in the chair, pulling off his tie, and gestured weakly at the cabinet. ‘Help yourself. Bring the bottle over here. I could too. Merciful heavens!’

The room was almost dark. The drink settled her. He looked down at himself in sheepish appreciation.

‘Well, you made a bloody good job of that, I must say. I think you should know, Elaine, that I don’t make a habit of this. You’ve caught me unawares – with my trousers down, in a manner of speaking.’ Both were giggling now in a conspiracy of illicit enjoyment.

‘Neither do I. But you’re a fine-looking man, and I can now confess I’ve fancied you since I set eyes on you.’

He was startled at her girlish slang. ‘Fancied me! Maybe I should start a new career, as a public heart-throb? How does the adorable Ms Stalker think I would get on?’

‘Extremely well, if that equipment is anything to go by.’ She indicated his untidy crotch. He moved to cover it modestly with a handkerchief, but she stopped him. ‘No, let me have a look. You should be proud of what you’ve got. It certainly gives a different meaning to Honourable Member.’

‘I don’t believe this. My God, I think I’m being raped.’

Obediently he removed the handkerchief, watching her in delight as she ran her fingers over his penis, tenderly but with increasing rhythm. It throbbed back into life as he gasped again with pleasure. With her free hand she undid the nearest shirt button and slipping her hand inside began making little circles on his belly; the small hairs there also began to rise and his skin shivered in anticipation.

Then suddenly he was serious, standing up and pulling her close, warning her not to make too much noise, covering her in kisses. With firm authority he propelled her into an untidy bedroom, tossed slept-in pyjamas on to the floor, pushing her down on to an unmade bed. Afterwards she could not remember undressing, only that it was in haste as if tearing down barriers between them, and that he, struggling out of shirt and trousers and plain blue underpants, was both shy and aggressive and in great need of her…

Burying his face in her, in all of her, as his wife would not let him do; holding on, leaning back and looking at her, exploring her, curving his hands over her breasts to remember their shape, touching her nipples, loving the sweep of her body, tracing the line down from her navel, tentatively at first, then plunging his hand into her, playing with her inner tenderness as her husband never bothered to these days, till she squealed and had to grab a pillow to stop herself shouting out … and
she caught his head and held it and smelled his hair, and held him tightly as he shuddered, and was at last spent.

It was dark. He felt as if he had emerged into a secret place with no name. A place for Elaine and himself, nobody else, which they could create with a landscape entirely of their own making. The prospect filled him with both delight and terror. He said nothing: to put any feeling into words would be instantly to destroy it. He was not about to start declaring undying adoration, not yet. If ever.
Nose to nose, panting and sweating, the man and woman wondered what they had done. There was no undoing it.

‘That,’ she said at last with an air of great satisfaction, ‘that was absolutely fucking marvellous. Thank you very much.’

The incongruous mixture of polite and obscene language, schoolgirl and whore, made him laugh out loud. ‘You’re a basket case, Elaine, do you know that? Do you make a habit of going around seducing strange men?’

She gazed ruminatively at the ceiling. ‘It’s taken too much energy getting to Westminster – every spare minute of my life so far, so the answer is no. I’m always too exhausted when I get home, and so is Mike a lot of the time.

‘Anyway, if you live in a small town and start playing around somebody will let on, sooner or later. Not a great idea if you want to be selected for a parliamentary seat, man or woman.’

He agreed. ‘I haven’t enjoyed it so much in a long time.’ That was not a criticism of his wife; nor an admission of his own frequent failure to make such an effort. Elaine’s description of the preoccupation and single-mindedness necessary to arrive at Westminster was entirely familiar. It had genuinely not occurred to him that it might be the same for a woman.

Elaine rolled over and looked at him, being careful not to stain the crumpled sheets. ‘Being married is different, isn’t it? But this was fun.’

Roger decided to leave it at that. ‘Come on, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you back to your flat. It’s in Morpeth Terrace, isn’t it?’

‘Have you been checking up on me?’ she asked archly, as she leaned over and fumbled under the bed for her underwear.

‘Naturally. All part of the service. We have bets on in the whips’ office as to who is going to lay the new women MPs.’

Alarmed, she sat up quickly and began to pull on her clothes. ‘You don’t intend to start telling people about this, surely, Roger?’

He stood stock still. Teasing might be in order. It had worked with her before. ‘Aha! I’ve got you worried. Now what exactly would you do if that was the idea?’

She jumped up, fixing buttons, suddenly edgy. Then the twinkle in Roger’s eye made her stop short and laugh. This was going to be a complex relationship, whatever else.

‘I think, Mr Whip, that I should hint that you did try, but were absolutely hopeless at it. Couldn’t get it up at all, perhaps?’

She would at that. Elaine’s expression had a wicked glint. Roger had no doubt that the lady was perfectly capable of protecting herself by turning the tables and making him look the fool. There was still extraordinary tension and charged sexual energy between them, but carrying on further tonight was unwise. Both needed to break away, to consider, to absorb the events of the evening and to prepare for the next time. Should there be a next time.

He caught her hands, opened them palms upward and gently kissed first one, then the other. Then he held her face in his hands in a protective, parental gesture.

‘If you doubted me that much, Elaine, you wouldn’t have come.’

She bent her head in mute apology, and he held her close. It was time to leave.

‘I’ll walk you back to your flat.’

‘No, I’d rather you didn’t.’

He did not argue. Her independence was a great asset. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Sure. I can look after myself. I need to be alone now.’

With dignity he led her down the stairs and out into the darkened garden. In the orange glow of a London night only a couple of intrepid stars were visible. Overhead, house martins settled twittering under the eaves. A burst of music from a nearby pub reminded them of the danger of discovery. Pausing before the black door, they looked once more at each other in wonder and gratitude. Then he unlocked the door and she stepped quickly into the street.

As September dawned the Prime Minister again made a spirited but lonely defence of Europe’s latest treaty. Then the boys in red braces, dealers in billions, refreshed from more exotic vacations, switched on their VDUs and began to toss around world currencies like so much confetti. Sterling seemed to collapse, in retrospect, quite quickly. News and political editors were summoned hastily from weekend retreats and the nation stirred. The economics editor of
The Times
waxed ecstatic. And Parliament was to be recalled for an emergency debate.

Elaine prepared to pull out of South Warmingshire Conservatives’ annual dinner, which had been so cautiously booked for the recess. Some in her constituency shared
The Times
’s joy; manufacturing companies and exporters poised for new orders rubbed their hands in glee. Meanwhile high overhead circled the modern vultures, insolvency lawyers and accountants, looking forward to another excellent year.

A huge crowd was standing on the pavement in front of the Houses of Parliament, being pushed back by PC Robin Bell and Gerry Keown, as car after car swept inside. To the staff, being recalled from leave for a two-day emergency session of both Houses was a mixed blessing. Since the announcement it had been all hands on deck as carpets were rolled back, ceilings refitted, wiring reconnected, toilets hurriedly scrubbed, boxes of library books unpacked – all to be redone the following week as annual maintenance resumed. On the other hand, the overtime was very useful.

Scaffolding hid the Cabinet Office and other Whitehall edifices behind huge sheets of white and blue plastic. Extensive building work was under way, improving protection for the Prime Minister and senior civil servants. The street looked like a house shut up for the summer, furniture in dust sheets, startled that the family had returned unexpectedly early, ashamed at being caught in a shambles, its grandeur hidden in shrouds.

Even at 10 a.m. the underground car park was packed. Elaine bumped into Andrew Muncastle as both headed up the escalator. They contented themselves with ‘Well, well, well’ and ‘Quite a turn-up for the book’, neither too sure whether the other was referring to the sudden disappearance of a well-known donor to party funds or the sickly state of the currency. In Members’ Lobby dozens of MPs stood greeting friends and gossiping. The whole place was buzzing; like flies clustering on rotten meat, politicians are drawn to the smell of trouble.

As 2.30 loomed Elaine, Andrew, Roger, Sir Nigel Boswood and two hundred other government supporters were packed and jostling in their places. The Opposition benches were as well covered. Back in her office the Speaker adjusted her lacy jabots, took a last drag at a cigarette, pulled on new buckled shoes and checked her grey curls. The door was opened. Off she went in stately procession preceded by an usher in court dress, her black and gold train held in one practised hand by the appropriately named Mr Lord, the whole looking like a bunch of dignified king penguins. Uniformed police cried, ‘Hats off, Strangers!’ – and with a flourish whipped off their own helmets and stood to attention. The crowd gaped and MPs bowed as the Speaker passed.

Division bells clanged throughout the Palace of Westminster and in offices, halls, clubs and restaurants nearby, where a hundred grey-suited men looked up, wiped mouths hastily on linen napkins, proffered apologies and hurried away, leaving their companions to pick up the bill.

The bells rang again, insistently. The Speaker was at prayers.

The event is never televised or broadcast. Outside hover non-believers and those too late to get in, for the way is barred by respectful doorkeepers until the ceremony is over. Elaine listened as the chaplain intoned: ‘Let us pray.’ Then with all the other Members she turned around to face the wall, backs to the enemy. And this is how MPs say their prayers: heartfelt pleas for divine wisdom may pass their lips but no hostile glances can be directed towards the benches opposite, only down at their well-polished shoes and into their own murky souls.

‘Prayers over!’ policemen shouted; bells rang again; doors swung open; annunciators pinged proudly, ‘Speaker in the Chair’. Elaine sat down quickly and smoothed her skirt. Not only were her devotions done. The main purpose of attending prayers was accomplished: she was guaranteed this seat for the rest of the day’s business. The whole event had taken only four minutes.

Sir Nigel Boswood settled his substantial frame between Sir Patrick Mayhew and Nicholas Scott. The three gentlemen resembled Toby jugs on a mantelpiece. Roger Dickson lounged by the back of the Chair. Opposite Boswood sat an intelligent thin-faced woman in pink, Labour’s newly elected Deputy Leader. Two rows behind her Glenda Jackson glared, a modern Medusa. A pensive Neil Kinnock looked discarded and old.

Elaine was seated three rows up with a splendid view of the back of the Prime Minister’s head. Elaine liked the man, but could not fathom him. Naturally a consolidator, he kept his own views and passions deeply hidden. By instinct he sought to please everybody, but in practice he succeeded in satisfying relatively few. Perhaps the former was the cause of the latter. Elaine was not the only MP to wonder if a more vigorous approach mightn’t work better.

One fact was indisputable: the Prime Minister was no orator. There had been constant interruptions and a rising drone of chatter. The troops were becoming restless and bored.

The new Labour leader also knew the importance of this debate. Cultivating the slightly condescending manner of a Scottish family solicitor, John Smith was no more a crowd-mover than the man he challenged, but he had thought through his material with greater care. Soon he was poking fun at the Prime Minister’s forlorn ambition, outlined in the
Sunday Times
a few weeks earlier, of making sterling the strongest currency in Europe.

Even Elaine had to admit it was well done. His own side rocked with laughter, the press gallery scribbled furiously, while Tories sat chins in hand, silent and unhappy. Behind Elaine a figure rose attempting to intervene. The Labour Leader squinted up. It was only one of the new Members; let him have his moment of glory. Smith shrugged and gave way.

‘Mr Andrew Muncastle!’

‘Does the Right Honourable and Learned Gentleman not concede that it would be an objective of his – a worthwhile objective, and right for any British parliamentarian – to want to make the pound a stronger currency than the Deutschmark, or anything else?’

Of course it was. There was nothing to mock in the Prime Minister’s longing for greatness. All that was missing was the wherewithal. Smith fumbled and turned pompous.

‘The Honourable Gentleman will understand the purport of my comments in a minute or two…’

The rest was drowned by a howl from the Tory benches. The purport of my comments? Will understand? He was not getting away with that. Freddie Ferriman dug Martin Clarke in the ribs. The two took a deep breath and, turning puce with effort, bellowed: ‘ANSWER!!’

Smith looked up in surprise. He had lost the point by prevaricating. He sighed and conceded: ‘Of course, any sensible person wants a strong and stable currency in this country.’

All around people were slapping Andrew on the back. By sheer courage he had hit a seemingly invulnerable target. The black hole at the centre of Smith’s approach, as Andrew had correctly surmised, was that he agreed almost too much with the government. It was not enough to claim that Labour would have avoided all these problems: had the election result been different the currency crisis might only have come sooner. But then, with a Labour victory, Kinnock would have been Prime Minister and Smith would not have been Leader of his Party. He could afford to fudge the issues for a good while yet.

As the front-bench speeches ended Elaine slipped out towards the tea room with half a hundred other gloomy colleagues. Roger was standing at the entrance to the ministers’ corridor, talking with a junior minister at the Home Office. He motioned to her with a casual glance to wait. A
few moments later the minister disappeared and Roger turned to face her, put his hands in his pockets, leaned back on his heels and looked down with an appraising smile.

There was no reason why an MP should not talk to her whip. From a few yards away their body language indicated only that two colleagues, male and female, one more senior, were having an enjoyable brief conversation; that they liked each other but were not entirely at ease. Their eye contact hinted at wariness, darting glances indicating that this discourse would be broken off the instant anyone might come close enough to overhear.

‘And so, beautiful Mrs Stalker, have you had a good summer?’

‘So-so. It would have been better if we had not had to return in such inauspicious circumstances.’

‘You’re not the first to say that, as you can imagine. Apart from politics, are you well?’

‘Very. Never felt better.’ She stood upright, shoulders straight, hands behind her back, and flashed him a smile. She wondered if he would refer to their brief intimacy; there had been no contact since. Perhaps it was just a fling, over. That would have been a shame but not altogether unexpected.

‘I’m pleased to hear that. And are we still friends?’ His voice was lower.

She swallowed hard and held his gaze. ‘Yes. I hope so. Are we?’

If he looked closely he would see the pulse jumping in her throat. She hoped she was not blushing under those damn freckles. He was asking, can I sleep with you again? She was saying, yes please.

He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief, relaxing visibly. ‘I really feel, Mrs Stalker, that we will need to explore again those issues you raised with me in July. I do hope you haven’t forgotten how completely your arguments overwhelmed me on that occasion. I still have not entirely recovered my composure after your skill and audacity.’

This was a new game. She folded her arms with a mock frown, pursing her lips. ‘Yes, I did rather overdo it. I’ll just have to keep my big mouth shut next time.’

Roger raised his eyes to the ceiling and suppressed his mirth with difficulty, a flush suffusing his temples. ‘Indeed, Mrs Stalker. We may well have to explore other parts of the body politic. I should be glad to do all I can to assist, but there will not be time during this short recall of Parliament. Will you be at Conference?’

‘Sorry, no. Can’t afford it this year.’

‘Ah, that’s a pity. On our return in October, then. I really feel we were only scratching the surface last time. There’s a great deal more to be exposed and explored properly, don’t you think?’

Elaine was longing to laugh out loud. ‘I really do agree, Mr Dickson. We must tear off the covers and discover how far we can go.’ She added softly, ‘I shall look forward to that.’

Then, without waiting to be dismissed, she headed down the corridor, catching Ferriman and Martin Clarke and greeting them warmly. The tea room’s post-mortem beckoned. Her friends noted that she alone was uncommonly cheerful.

The passenger on the 10 a.m. express from London’s St Pancras station to Derby smiled benignly and settled his substantial pin-striped bulk into the faded velour of the Intercity seat. With a trim beard and well-cut suit, his appearance suggested a prosperous Dutch or German businessman. In front of him lay half-read copies of
The Times, Financial Times, The Economist, Investors Chronicle
and
The European
, and a Hansard of the previous day’s emergency debate. In a briefcase at his side nestled papers for the forthcoming session of the European Parliament in sleepy distant Strasbourg, of which he had been a Member for nearly ten years. In his stomach there rumbled a full English breakfast as served at his club. He could afford it, and was pleased with life on a tax-free Euro-expense account amounting to £75,000 a year.

Tim Marks was in good time for the journey to Derby, where he was to speak to the local Chamber of Commerce on ‘Britain’s role in Europe’. If there was uncertainty in the public’s mind on that topic it did not affect him. Unlike Westminster MPs he did not expect or hope to be recognised on the train, and that suited him fine. Only briefly had he considered standing for Westminster, long ago when the new European assembly was in its infancy. Once, however, the ballot boxes opened in 1979 for direct elections to Strasbourg he was up and running, and was elected at his second try.

An attractive, smartly suited youngish woman was standing at his shoulder. She looked closely at him, then held out her hand.

‘Tim Marks, isn’t it? The Euro-MP? Hello, I’m Elaine Stalker.’

Elaine did not need to explain further. Her assured demeanour, the whispered glances from other passengers and her recent appearance on London Weekend TV jogged Tim’s memory. He half heaved himself to his feet, murmuring welcome, but she waved him back and settled herself opposite. She was heading for home, she explained, and would be changing at Leicester in an hour or so. Tim resigned himself to making no further progress with the newspapers.

No sooner was the train moving than yet another MP was standing beside him, clutching a heavy leather briefcase and panting. Marks groaned inwardly. One could have too much of a good thing.

Andrew Muncastle had decided to save the taxi fare and taken the Underground via Victoria in the morning rush hour. The Tube carriage had been packed and uncomfortable, but all was well until it stopped dead in a tunnel near Oxford Circus and the lights went out. Andrew found himself jammed between the door and a large black lady going home after hospital night duty. The carriage’s occupants swayed and sweated in the glimmer of emergency lighting; the nurse leaned on him, snoring gently, as Andrew tried desperately to prop her upright and shift her weight off his back. At last power was restored. The nurse woke up with a startled look, evidently surprised to find herself still on the train, and a dishevelled Andrew was regurgitated like Jonah from the whale’s belly on to the litter-strewn platforms of St Pancras.

Marks and Stalker clucked in sympathetic amusement as he told his harrowing tale. ‘I should walk next time, old man’ and ‘You could have shared my taxi’ were their only helpful remarks. The coffee trolley restored his equanimity as the train slid past Luton.