A Parliamentary Affair (22 page)

His sexual experience was extremely limited, if truth be told. In any case, his wife’s cold disapproval of any foreplay or games implied his sexuality was somehow evil, a rough side of an otherwise docile character. To her it was original sin –
the
original sin – though for the life of him Andrew could not imagine what kind of cruel God could make something potentially so wonderful at the same time sinful. He had tried everything he knew to get Tessa to relax, but after Barney was born she lost interest entirely. Although she denied it she probably had never liked sex and, now she had produced an heir, it appeared she no longer needed to pretend any more.

Most of the time his wife’s lack of enthusiasm did not matter; sublimating sexual energy into his political career had proved useful and effective. Harold Macmillan, long cuckolded by Robert Boothby, had done exactly the same. Meanwhile here he was, naked on a lacy bed, having just removed a used condom from his still engorged penis, next to a marvellous woman, her mouth and legs moist and slightly parted, an open invitation to have another go. And he was in no mood to stop.

Carefully he wrapped the condom in a tissue from a box under the lamp and disposed of it in a waste bin. Miranda was watching him with an amused expression and he grinned back at her. She understood without words. From somewhere near the bed Miranda produced another condom, tore the wrapper off and held it in her lips so he had to kiss her to get it, wrestling her, arms held above her head on the soft bed. The thin rubber tasted of strawberries.

‘Bloody hell! Have you got these secreted all over the flat?’

‘Just about. Why – do you prefer to take the risk of catching something nasty from me?’

‘Get through a lot, I imagine, a wonderful woman like you.’

‘Don’t ask, Andrew, if you don’t want to know.’

She was right – it was none of his business. If Miranda did not take lovers on a whim he wouldn’t be here now.

Now he took his time, playing with her, caressing her breasts with the pleasure of possession, kissing her long and deep. She was close to climax again when with a swift action he moved down the bed and bent her legs back and buried his face in her, thrusting his tongue as far as it would go, nibbling her with his teeth; no other woman had ever allowed him to do that. She was aching for him and cried out, caressing his head between her legs.

He glanced up through the sodden bush of her dark pubic hair, past her curved belly through the valley of her breasts to her throat. Her head was thrown back and she was panting hard, holding the bedstead, calling his name urgently. He could see everything glistening, ready. With his forefinger he traced tiny circles on her clitoris, then started rubbing her hard with his fingertips until her body began to arch and rock on the bed. If she liked to come almost to climax before he entered that was OK by him. He made a decision and continued with his fingers, pushing her back on the bed, holding her down on her belly with his free hand as she yelled an obscenity at him. He would show her who was master in the sexual act – maybe Tessa was right and he was in his deepest nature bestial. Maybe all men are, or are capable of so being.
He did not care
.

Suddenly she cried out as the orgasm shook her; its ferocity startled him. Quickly he moved his body up and thrust deep inside her. He lifted her legs as she protested and draped them over his shoulders, bending her almost in two. And – now, now, now – he came to his own climax, as she shuddered and writhed beneath him, until at last they both were done.

She lay beside him trembling all over. Protectively he rolled an arm around her and cradled her head in the crook of his shoulder. All her bravado had gone. For a few minutes both drifted off into an exhausted doze.

When he opened his eyes she was looking at him, her expression troubled. ‘I think I could fall for you, Andrew Muncastle,’ she was saying. The words seemed to come from far away. ‘You’re too
damned nice to be a good fuck and yet you’re a prince at it. Where did you learn? Or would it be rude to ask?’

Andrew lazily drew circles on her thigh. ‘Here,’ he said softly. ‘You’re teaching me. You seem to … to like it so much.’

‘You mean I make a helluva noise about it.’

Tessa put up with sex in a long-suffering silence. His natural caution began to reassert itself. ‘As long as we don’t wake the neighbours.’

‘Pish! What if we do? They’ll think some lucky bugger is having a good time.’

‘And they’d be right.’

It was long after midnight. A sound at the door heralded
The Globe
’s first edition being pushed through the letterbox by a messenger boy. Andrew felt alarmed; this was no secret place, not really. This reminder of duty brought Miranda also back to her senses. She nudged Andrew in the direction of the bathroom. When he returned she was sitting in a dressing gown flicking over the pages; the interlude was over.

He retrieved his clothes and dressed quickly. Sitting on the bed as he pulled on his socks, he asked, ‘Can I see you again? Or was this just a one-off?’

She put the paper down and looked thoughtful. He had given her a love-mark on her breast and she touched it with a finger, looking this way and that in the mirror.

‘That will cramp my style for a day or two! … I was afraid you were going to ask me that. Which would you prefer it to be?’

‘If I can trust your discretion then I’d like another opportunity. Many opportunities. But I’m a married man, with a child, and a career in which playing around is disapproved of. Do we understand each other?’

Miranda was no fool. ‘If you had any doubts about me you shouldn’t have come, so I guess you think I have an honourable face. No, don’t worry: if we’re to be friends, Andrew, you can trust me. I don’t want my name in the papers any more than you.’

They parted at those words, with Andrew promising to call her the moment he knew the voting pattern for the following week. He did not need to tell her how to contact him, and hoped good sense would guard against her phoning him too obviously or too often.

His head was spinning and his mouth dry. As he walked the half-mile to his own flat Andrew Muncastle knew his world had been blasted apart and reassembled, with vivid fluorescent colours in place of the former drab grey, its structure changed for ever. His muscles ached but his spirit shouted with joy and exultation. If this was damnation, this consummated marriage between his body and his human soul, then St Paul was mad and he, Andrew, was all in favour.

It was beginning to look as if he could have his cake – his career in politics – and eat it, in the form of Miranda’s forbidden fruit, at the same time. An affair with a woman like that, who relished her freedom, with no strings and no obligations, would be no threat to his public life, nor to his marriage. On the contrary: it would make coping with Tessa’s tearful coolness a great deal easier. He walked on, whistling.

The narrow entrance to Overton’s can be surprisingly difficult to find, unless the searcher knows to look out for the six-foot shrimp painted alongside. Immediately opposite Victoria Station, the restaurant was established in the earliest days of the railway, bringing to the heart of London lobsters, crayfish, oysters, eels and other produce packed in ice straight from the coast for the capital’s working men and women. Today it is the customers who come by train, in crumpled pin-striped suits on the 7.40 from Brighton, while the fish goes to market at Nine Elms in refrigerated lorries, arriving in much better condition.

The establishment clings to a narrow ridge of space at the curved edge of an old building ripe for redevelopment. Downstairs is an oyster bar; the main restaurant is upstairs. On the top floor is a poky kitchen, its greasy windows half hidden behind a vast advertising hoarding. The surroundings may be unprepossessing, but inside is an older, slower world.

Marcus Carey was waiting at a table in the corner, anxious and early. As  Elaine entered he rose, a smile on his face, his manner hovering between friendliness and deference. He wore a charcoal-grey suit, the handkerchief in his breast pocket matching his tie, a small carnation in his buttonhole. Marcus was genuinely glad to see her.

Elaine for her part greeted him warmly, shaking hands and deciding against a peck on the cheek. She wondered why he wanted to see her again. He was not that close a friend, really. His philosophy of life left her uneasy. There were times at university when she had wanted to shake him, to shout into his face that he shouldn’t be so conciliatory, should be proud of being black. He should neither pretend to be whiter than white, as if to erase all signs of difference, nor ignore the dismissive sniggering that went on behind his back from those whose manners he sought to ape. His earnest vulnerability had stopped her. There were parallels in her own life. She was aware that loudly proclaiming a feminist viewpoint in a masculine world was no way to break down barriers or bring the Freddie Ferrimans to heel. It was all about being effective, which might involve saying things you did not believe, smiling sweetly when your heart was not in it – and having lunch when you did not feel like it with people you would rather avoid.

The two bent their heads over the menu as black-coated waiters fussed around. Marcus and Elaine were seated by a window above the traffic scurrying around the station. Despite the illusion of light and space created by long mirrors facing the windows, it was remarkably cramped.

‘So how has the first year been?’ Marcus was in cheerful mood.

The crab cocktail was so fresh he could smell the sea. Elaine was relishing a ripe avocado smothered in prawns and pink sauce. A white Mâcon was going down nicely.

‘A year already?’ Elaine was startled. ‘I’m not sure, to tell the truth. A mixed picture. On the positive side, I’m settling in well in Warmingshire, though I still have to fend off adulatory fables about my useless predecessor. And I like my constituents. They’ve a lot more shrewdness and a greater understanding of politics than all the leader writers put together.’

The plates were cleared as Marcus reflected: ‘You don’t agree with those MPs who say living in the patch is a pain, then?’

‘I can understand their point of view, especially in London. Some people will never give the MP any peace. Any notion that one might have a family or a private life is forgotten. My area has several huge advantages. I can only realistically get up there at weekends, and that enables me to compartmentalise my life – national politics all week and local at the weekend; and they are darned intelligent, most of my punters, so listening to them isn’t just a duty, it’s useful to boot. It means when I talk on TV or radio I get the language right: that makes me a better communicator.’

Marcus was envious. ‘It’s good to hear you talk with such enthusiasm, Elaine.’

‘There’s a down side, though. I didn’t expect to have to work so hard – such long hours. One of the whips told me it was even worse when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister. The average time – the
average
– the House rose one session was 12.47 a.m. She didn’t believe MPs or ministers were doing their utmost unless they were prostrate with tiredness.’

‘But it’ll never be a nine-to-five job.’

‘No, but working late becomes a habit, you know. A bad and unnecessary habit, in my
ill-informed
new-girl view. Officially the finishing time of the Commons is ten o’clock, but often we push on till midnight or beyond, without thinking whether it’s a good use of our time. It leaves you whacked.’

Marcus smiled. ‘At least you’re there, on the inside.’

It was a signal that it was time to talk about him. He was toying with a grilled Dover sole, fiddling with bones carefully, like a maiden aunt. A vast platter of ‘Seafood Victoria’ was sitting in front of Elaine, chunks of fish and crustacean poached in Chablis, basil and cream, with a puff-pastry shell at the side. Working in central London, for all its rush and relentless pressure, offered compensations not available in Warmingshire.

She heard Marcus’s remark but ignored it for the moment: she needed to try out ideas. Roger had been so busy of late.

‘What bothers me, Marcus, is that it suits those in high places to keep the Commons up late and getting tired. If we’re all shattered we think we must be working effectively, but it isn’t true. We even attract the admiration of our constituents – there’s nothing like phoning the local radio station at the end of an all-night sitting and telling them you have not yet hit the hay. Nobody dares say that it’s not admirable but
barmy
. If we had more time to think and a little more energy, we might ask more searching questions altogether. We might, in other words, be better at our job.’

‘I shouldn’t worry. It won’t be long before you’re a PPS or a minister. Then you’ll be glad the backbenchers are kept at bay.’

‘Very flattering, Marcus. I doubt it. I’m beginning to suspect they’ve a thing against women. I could be there years before anybody gives me a job.’

Half a bottle of white wine had gone. A crème brulée appeared for her, perfumed sorbets for him. The bill was mounting and would reach over £60 with coffee: still modest by London standards, but even her share would cost more than a meal for two in the Strangers’ Dining Room. Next time she would let her companion choose the place and pick up the tab. Like all the other MPs.

‘Your turn, Marcus,’ she said briskly. ‘You didn’t suggest lunch solely for the pleasure of my company. What are your plans?’

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I have to make a move soon about finding a seat. That’s still what I want to do – indeed, talking to you makes me even keener. Retirements begin to be announced from halfway through a parliament. Good seats come up that way. There may be by-elections too, so I have to be ready.’

To give herself time to think, Elaine looked away. Down on the pavement two young black people were talking animatedly. The girl was tall and slim, her light-chocolate skin glowing, her hair a mass of tiny frizzy plaits. She wore a fitted tartan jacket over red leggings. The young man was taller and glossy beetle-black, his hair cut tight and asymmetric around the crown; he stood lithe on the balls of his feet, at ease with his body. A white shirt and bright tie were tucked into narrow-waisted trousers, whose knife pleats fell in elegant lines over well-polished shoes. These two were leaders, of fashion at least.

She snapped her attention back to the trim grey Englishman sitting opposite and tried to concentrate. The man and woman outside invited admiration on their own terms; with Marcus she felt irritated and sad.

‘You shouldn’t go in for by-elections, Marcus. They’re horrendous, and you in particular would find one very tough.’

Of course that was correct once his colour was taken into account. That was not the way this man wished to function.

‘I was thinking I might fight a Labour-held one, for the experience, and to show willing.’

‘Still unwise, though I can see your point.’ If he was refusing to discuss the issue, she wasn’t going to press him. She decided to try a different tack. ‘With your background you should try for winnable seats. You’d get a lot of backing from the party.’

He was eyeing her slyly. ‘Do you remember saying you’d put in a good word for me? Did you make any progress?’ It had slipped her mind entirely. Maybe subconsciously she had not wanted to help, fearing what happens when ambitious heads are popped over parapets, particularly when they are more than usually visible against the light.

Time to lie. ‘I did, but I got nowhere. You’re still interested in being a special adviser? Perhaps the best I can offer is to have a word with my own whip and mention your name. All right, Marcus, I shall see what I can do.’

He looked pleased and relieved. As he insisted on paying, she felt ashamed of herself for letting him, not just because of the hypocrisy of believing in sexual equality and not practising it, but because it felt like a little bribery and corruption. The meal was bought and so was she, and both knew it. The green Amex card on the saucer created an obligation. Yet the dangers of pushing Marcus Carey and his wife and his colour into the limelight left her uncomfortable and dismayed.
Outside on the narrow sidewalk they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. And then, because she was a good-hearted woman, Elaine Stalker kissed Marcus Carey quickly on the cheek, squeezed his arm and wished him luck. He gazed wistfully after her as she walked away.

‘Might I have a word?’

That was their signal now. Elaine turned smartly on her heel and smiled at the man who was her lover. Totally innocuous, though the phrase might be, when she heard anyone else use it, it made her jump and feel suddenly guilty, but thrilled too. For other people it signalled the start of a brief private conversation, the contents of which were to remain confidential. For her it meant Roger had checked his diary, gained his freedom from the evening’s rota, ensured that his spouse was occupied elsewhere, and wanted to know if the same was true for her.

Early euphoric days had given way to a busy routine, as Elaine had expected. More than a year on, she had now spoken half a dozen times in the House, each time competently enough but with little recognition. She made more progress outside. Her voice and face were increasingly well known in the media, on serious matters including Northern Ireland, but more often for personality pieces which often started irritatingly by asking what it was like being a woman in a man’s world, as if she and the other women MPs were unwelcome interlopers.

Another baptism had occurred. Along with a dozen colleagues she had spent hours upstairs in Committee Room 10 serving somewhat reluctantly on the Education Bill. It had taken weeks before she admitted to herself that the minutiae of legislation, this line-by-line discussion of detail, did not exactly capture her imagination. In committee, ministerial offerings were merely scrappier versions of the set-pieces in the Chamber. Opposition spokesmen harangued, filibustered and nitpicked hour after hour. Interventions from government backbenchers were frowned on by their whips for prolonging the debate. The public filed in and sat at the back on hard benches, some studiously with notepads and pens, acting for various interests; others, often schoolchildren, lounged bored and puzzled before trooping out to seek ice cream on the Embankment.

When she and others grumbled, Johnson, the whip, explained the convention of waiting till sixty hours’ work had passed in committee before he could request a timetable motion, a ‘guillotine’,
to bring its efforts to a speedy conclusion. For the life of her, Elaine could not figure out why such a proposal was not regularly adopted in the first place. Sitting at the back of the stuffy committee room, resigned to following proceedings in attentive silence while getting on with her post, she felt that games-playing at Westminster went quite a lot too far.

It became her practice to make mental notes of such questions, for the next time she would see Roger Dickson. He liked being put in a position of authority; and now, trusting her, he had begun to tell her his real views, not merely the agreed line which she could obtain from any junior minister. He appeared to be a middle-of-the-roader with little sympathy for the impassioned fringes.
Pragmatism pervaded most of his remarks. Elaine, by nature one who sought commitment r applauded his practical approach but wondered aloud whether one shouldn’t, at base, believe in
something
. That made Roger look thoughtful.

He seemed happier, more secure, explaining the intricacies of the parliamentary system. Steadily she was learning how Westminster and Whitehall functioned. She read Bagehot and Trollope, and reflected that precious little had changed in a century, except that no aristocrat could now become Prime Minister. Those fictional intrigues, the pettiness, the ambition and double-crossing sounded depressingly familiar, especially once Roger regaled her with some of the juicier moves played out on the Chief Whip’s chequered carpet.

So now she took a few steps and stood closer to him, face upturned. At once it was as if a warm protective cloak had encompassed them, not to be sensed by anyone else but themselves. He could smell her scent, see her freckled nose. She could feel his quickened pulse, sense the hairs rising on the back of his neck at her nearness. Neither could stand so close for long, not on an open corridor of the Palace of Westminster at the back of the Speaker’s Chair. A conversation held like this could last only a few seconds.

‘After the guillotine debate tomorrow night, there’ll be no other whipped business,’ Roger told her rapidly. ‘Are you free?’

She pretended to consider, raised an eyebrow, but sensed he was in no mood for teasing. ‘Fine. What time?’

Not ‘What time should I expect you?’ Nothing like that. It had to sound as if a public engagement was being arranged. Maybe she was to speak to his businessmen at a dinner in Dining Room A, or chat to his party workers at tea on the Terrace. Quite innocent.