A Parliamentary Affair (15 page)

Nigel allowed his mind to wander. There might be time for another little trip across to the continent before all these budgets were chopped about. More than once in recent weeks he had found himself absent-mindedly rubbing the skin on the back of his hands or needing to touch and fondle after a bath; last night he had had a wet dream about a desirable young blond boy, a sure sign that relief was needed before too long. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

There was no need to fake a look of concern. If the country came through the next year without rises in prices, interest rates or taxation, and probably in all three, it would be a ruddy miracle. It all felt very bleak. Thank God the election was behind them.

Johnson was tapping away at his computer again and driving everyone in the upper whips’ office mad. His analyses were always entertaining and useful, if disturbing. Gloomily he munched a sandwich and explained to anyone who would listen.

‘We have no majority, I keep telling the Chief that.’

To express solidarity Roger Dickson came and perched on Johnson’s desk. For several minutes the bearded whip explained, scattering crumbs over his keyboard in agitation. The other whips had heard it all before and drifted off until only Roger was listening.

Dickson muttered despondently as he grasped what was likely to happen. ‘That means we’ll have to rely on votes from other parties to get our business through. The Liberals or Ulster Unionists, heaven help us.’

‘Worse than that.’ Johnson was grateful for an audience. He did not like what his calculations showed. ‘Labour as well. Can you believe that? We may have to persuade them to clear off and abstain. The Labour MEPs are our best allies. They won’t allow their people here to do another about-turn on Europe.’ Johnson looked miserable. ‘And if some of our nutters get into bad habits of voting against us, we could have an uncomfortable time right through this Parliament.’

Dickson laughed nervously and glanced longingly at the door. ‘If you keep playing with that machine of yours, Johnson, you’ll talk us all into a depression. Allow me to change the subject. How’s the love life?’

His friend shrugged, fiddled for a moment and switched the computer off. ‘Not so good. She’s determined to walk me up the aisle somehow. I’m scared rigid she’ll take it into her head to get pregnant. Then I’ll have to marry her.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Johnson’s live-in girlfriend was uncommonly pretty and totally devoted to him.

‘I like being a bachelor. Like playing the field. Not the sort to be dandling babies on my lap.’

Slowly and with a heavy sigh he rose and stood, hands thrust deep in pockets. The prospect of being outwitted by his lover seemed to trouble the man even more than the distinct chance of the government being defeated.

Roger put a fatherly arm around his shoulders and mocked gently. ‘But you don’t play the field, old chap. You talk about it, but you’re as faithful to that girl as if you were long since in holy matrimony.’

Johnson’s face broke into a rueful grin. ‘That’s not true. I do get around. But I don’t boast about it like some. What about you, then? How did you get on with the lovely Mrs Stalker? The bet’s still on, you know.’

With a twinge of alarm Roger wondered if anything had got out. What on earth had possessed Johnson to mention her in that context? He scrutinised his friend but there was no knowing wink. Maybe it was just a chance remark. He decided to play it long.

‘Now then! Unlike you I am married, and unlike you I don’t go playing the field, as you put it. As for Elaine Stalker, I think she’s as engrossed in politics as the rest of us. She’s certainly not here for a pick-up, that I have ascertained. I rather admire her, I must say – she has to put up with a lot of ribbing and gossip behind her back, none of it with any foundation as far as I can tell. I can’t say I find her attractive, though, come to think of it. There is a Mr Stalker and they’ve been married a long time. You might understand a bit better if you let your charming lady persuade you into wedlock.’

Johnson eyed him mournfully. ‘Fate worse than death.’

‘Well, I’d rather you play with the girl than with your confounded number-cruncher. Go and get married. And if you have any sense, leave Mrs Stalker out of it.’

Johnson laughed ruefully and the atmosphere lifted. As the two men walked out into Members’ Lobby Roger reflected with a profound sense of shock how far he had travelled already. He was no longer prepared to hint about Elaine to a friend – not that Johnson or anyone else in the whips’ office could be trusted for one minute. She was not a conquest, a proof of masculine success, but a secret. How easily the casual falsehoods had tripped off his tongue. Perhaps she was right when she complained about how women were spoken of in that place. It had not occurred to him before.

It was not so easy, however, to arrange a meeting. Suddenly Roger decided that he wanted to see Elaine, to be with her; the discussion with Johnson had brought her powerfully back into his mind. There were issues to be resolved between them before the affair went any further. To his surprise the thought of talking to her did not lighten his mood but darken it.

The opportunity came on the committee corridor as the weekly Thursday backbenchers’ meeting known as the ‘22’ came to its end. Although the private session had lasted barely twenty minutes there had been a bad-tempered row about the government’s handling of contentious business. The Prime Minister’s troubles meant unusual press interest and the chairman, a cocky little Yorkshireman ousted years before from ministerial office, was only too happy to oblige. The whips stood by watchfully; for the moment there was nothing they could do.

Roger waited impassively as the chairman gabbled away to scribbling hacks. Then he saw Elaine, hovering on the edge of the group as if hoping to catch his eye. He motioned her over.

‘This will take a few minutes. If you would like a lift, wait for me at Members’ Entrance.’

It was a simple exchange in a dusty crowded corridor between a whip and a transport-less MP he felt obligated to help. Elaine marvelled at the coolness with which Dickson compartmentalised his life. For a brief moment she wondered if he had changed his mind about her. Perhaps a lift was all she was going to get.

It was raining hard and pitch black outside as the dark-blue Rover drew up at Members’ Entrance. By the time Dickson had extricated himself from the chairman’s clutches and reported back to the Chief Whip, most MPs had disappeared and the taxi queue had dwindled. Elaine was profoundly thankful despite the long wait. For all its seeming innocence, being seen getting into Roger’s car, especially if it became a regular occurrence, would excite comment. The place was alive with eyes.

The car radio was on, stuttering inadequately about misery in Somalia, troops stealing and looting emergency food supplies as children lay dying of starvation. Roger concentrated on moving smoothly out into busy traffic in Parliament Square as Elaine began to give him directions. He cut her short brusquely.

‘I know how to get to your flat.’

She was startled at his tone. ‘How do you know?’

‘I’m a whip. Of course I know.’

She subsided, flattened. As they drove down Victoria Street he gesticulated at the radio, now offering the chirpy voice of the ‘22’ chairman.

‘Sorry. I’m still seething about him and his alternative society. Now we’ll have to arrange for the Prime Minister to go to the same meeting next week and insist on some sense. Forgive me if I sounded a bit rattled.’

Elaine offered soothingly, ‘It requires a change of behaviour all round.’

If Roger wanted to talk seriously that was OK by her. Being with him was like standing outside a lighted window and drawing the curtain to glimpse the inner worlds of real politics and decision-making, of government, after the empty posturing of the Commons. It looked so exciting from outside. That being indoors was not cosy at all was a discovery made within days of appointment by every junior minister, but hidden from everyone else.

She continued: ‘The government mustn’t decide policy in Cabinet without consulting anybody, then hand it over to the whips’ office to force through. That won’t work any more.’

He did not answer. The Rover turned into her narrow street and edged past parked cars. Elaine noted the easy grace with which Roger used the power steering to slip the big car noiselessly into a parking space.

‘Maybe we should follow Matthew Arnold’s suggestion,’ she said softly, as Roger turned to her.

‘What’s that?’

She had learned it at school, long ago, for an examination, had copied it out and pinned it on the wall in her study at college, marvelled at its bittersweetness, found repeated comfort in the thought that Arnold was much too pessimistic by far, that things were never that bad. And, if they were, at least the poet was offering a solution.

The radio was chattering of ignorant armies in Bosnia, of struggle and flight in Sarajevo, as Roger switched it off. That did the trick. He laughed, gently, glanced quickly around to ensure they were not observed, leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth.

‘Ah, love. What a good idea. A little comfort in a bad world. Come, Mrs Stalker, show me what you can do.’

In silence they climbed the stairs to her flat, which she had left warm, tidy and well provisioned. There were clean sheets on the bed and the radiator was full on, clean towels in the bathroom and new soap and plenty of hot water. It was a conscious contrast to the disorganised mess of his own home, but also a deliberate statement that as a woman she could be an all-round success.

She did not switch on the lights, not yet. Inside the door Roger took off his coat and hung it up, then held her quietly in his arms for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, stroking her hair, which in the light from a window opposite was silver and spun gold. She slid her hand under his jacket and could feel his heart beating strongly after the climb. For months she had imagined a wild passionate scene on his return, but it was not like that at all. He spoke quietly, as if from far away.

‘Now why are we doing this, Mrs Stalker? We had better establish some ground-rules.’

She ruminated for a moment. She really did not want to get too serious. Life was tough enough without ponderous philosophising.

‘For fun?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, I think that’s a good enough reason. For pleasure, and for mutual satisfaction. No more, no less. How does that sound?’

She nodded, and ran her hand around where his back was pressed against the wall, and kept her hand moving, moving, this time.

He continued, as if he had rehearsed and was working his way through a mental list: ‘I am happily married, and not looking to change partners. I assume the same is true for you. If you have any other fantasies or intentions, Elaine, you had better play them out with somebody else.’

She murmured agreement. This was nothing to do with Mike. The conversation she and Roger had shared in the car, the intimacy and trust of the last few minutes, were way beyond her husband’s taste or abilities, but nor was that Mike’s fault. She had not married him for his political skills. Of course she loved Mike. Roger was a bonus, not a substitute.

‘I have no plans to change my arrangements either. Don’t worry.’

‘And if anyone ever challenges us, we deny and deny and deny.’

‘Too bloody right’ – with feeling.

‘That’s all right, then.’ The negotiation appeared to be over, and he moved his own hand down over her breast, bending to kiss her neck and slide a warm wet tongue into her ear.

‘Hey, this is a bit one-sided!’ she protested. ‘I have a condition too.’

He stood upright, startled. ‘Really? Now what can that be? That I don’t wear my socks in bed, perhaps, or never eat curry or garlic before coming to see you?’

‘No, you prat.’ She dug her knuckles into his solar plexus and he grunted, grabbed her wrist, held it. ‘I don’t want you to embarrass me. Flirting with other women, I mean. I can’t help it, but I don’t want to feel I’m just an accessory. Do you know what I mean? Like you did with that
stunning-looking
woman journalist on the Terrace. You were teasing me. Please don’t; it hurts. If you want to have other women at the same time, that’s your business, but count me out.’

Roger grinned. ‘You were jealous, were you?’

Elaine was affronted. She withdrew her arm, putting distance between them. Roger pulled her into the living room and sat her down like a naughty child, kissing her, then held both her protesting hands and talked urgently.

‘Listen to me, Elaine. I do
not
make a habit of this sort of thing. In fact – well, never mind, but I do assure you that you are the only one. You rather laid yourself open to a bit of teasing, but I hadn’t realised that under that tough exterior beats a sensitive heart. I am truly sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world – surely you know that by now.’ He touched her face. Then, consciously, he changed his tone.

‘Now I think that’s enough intensity for one night. What were you telling me about having some fun? Isn’t it about time we had a demonstration…?’

He motioned her towards her bedroom and she moved without resistance, holding his hand like a child. And so they made love for the sheer joy of it, released briefly from both certitude and pain, exploring each other’s warmths and secrets, flesh upon flesh, tongue inside mouth, entering and holding and crying and moving as one joined organism, a special secret world of escape and abandon and exultation and longing…

He was taking his time, luxuriating in not having to hurry, driving her as she panted close, closer, until she seized him and yelled at him to come, now, now … and still he played with her, and held off…