A Parliamentary Affair (62 page)

‘Of course. Why shouldn’t it be? Caroline is off hunting and won’t be back till much later. I’ve been shifting paper all day and am now done. I’m in desperate need of friendly company. What are the odds on your inviting me for a holiday drink?’

‘Terrific!’ she breathed. ‘Come on over. The house is all yours.’

She half expected him to appear in a chauffeur-driven car, though that would have been ridiculous. At times his public image was more familiar to her than his private self. It was nevertheless wonderful to peep out of the upstairs curtains and watch him drive up in his own car, alone, dressed in a casual jacket and flannel trousers.

Deliberately she left the house lights off, except for a bedside lamp. Without ceremony both headed straight for her bedroom, where two years earlier Roger had comforted her after her terrible first Christmas as an MP. Drinks and niceties could wait, for what both needed and wanted was each other, a powerful meeting of minds and bodies, of skin and hair and eyes, making love as they always did, two people deeply attached to each other yet without ties or claims or rights, re-creating their passion with concentrated fervour. Only
now
mattered, for as long as
now
could be stretched into long loving moments together.

Since the flurry of activity surrounding Roger’s promotion Elaine had kept discreetly out of the way, so for both there was an element of making up for lost time. He was persistent and vigorous, using her, pushing hard, saying little. It was as if the longings within himself were not to be articulated, for fear they were too carnal, too deeply separate from his other life.

Only when he was spent did he pat her rump gently in mute thanks. Then she fetched glasses, wine and a bowl of fruit and brought these offerings to him like a latter-day Cleopatra to her Antony. She slid in beside him in the warm bed, her golden hair tangled and gleaming in the soft light, poured a glass from a freshly chilled bottle and fed him sticky dates, one by one.

‘I was a bit surprised to find you all alone,’ he told her. He had heard from her whip that there were problems at home.

Elaine shrugged sadly. It would be unwise to spend precious minutes with her lover moaning; that way, he would soon stop visiting too.

‘It happens. I’m not sure if Mike will be back. Wait and see, I suppose.’

‘I’m sorry if things are not working out,’ he added judiciously.

‘Not your fault, Roger, honestly, and I think you’re better out of it. I don’t want you feeling any responsibility – if Mike and I do break up it’s nothing to do with you and your name couldn’t possibly be mentioned.’

That was the rule: their own liaison still had its strict limits.

It would not do to make the occasion too serious. Plumping the pillows up, she leaned back, hand behind head, raising her breasts, allowing the duvet to slip down, so that she was again uncovered and tempting. In due course she would take him again, when both were rested. There were questions on her mind but first she wanted to flatter him a little. A mistress has to work harder than a wife.

‘I haven’t really talked to you since you became a great man,’ she teased. ‘You enjoying it? Really, I mean?’

‘God, yes. You bet. Cabinet is the only place to be. It’s a much easier job than Minister of State, and much more interesting.’

Roger had been evaluating the matter himself and was eager to share his thoughts. He bent his legs up and relaxed, each arm resting on a knee, mouth full of fruit and a wineglass slopping in one hand.

‘Easier?’ she laughed. ‘Aren’t you overwhelmed with work?’

‘No, that’s the junior ministers’ job, poor blighters. All the slog and none of the fun. What I have to do is
think
.’ He gave her a sly grin. ‘And climb on the gravy train, arguing our case in Europe in mirrored halls over fine meals and wine. That bit I do enjoy, I must say.’

Elaine reached for a banana and peeled it slowly, eyeing him over the tip as she gently bit off the end, rolling the flesh around inside her mouth. The light in Roger’s eyes was a request. Not just yet. Let him wait a bit.

‘Well, now, Secretary of State. Which way do you think it’ll all go? Will the European dream fall apart, or are the sceptics right to fear a United States of Europe eventually?’

‘Who knows? I’m not a clairvoyant. Either way, I guess. The Community could disintegrate, and our curmudgeonly attitude could speed that disintegration. Not that western Europe will become another Yugoslavia, I don’t expect that; we’ve spilled enough blood between us this century. But most people in this country underestimate the fervour elsewhere to get closer together. There’s too much at stake, too much water under the bridge, for the “closer union” supporters to give up now.’

‘You do express things differently, now, Roger,’ she mused.

‘More cynical, you mean?’

Talking with Elaine cleared his mind. He glanced at her appreciatively. He would never tell her, not exactly, what she meant to him. Especially not now that she was on her own. With Caroline there was always the faint feeling that sex was a bit puerile, the sort of thing horses got up to. Elaine took it all much more seriously, was by her very nature sexier, tried harder and made every coupling memorable. The way she was playing with that banana…

‘Not exactly. You were pretty cynical when you were a whip, remember? Maybe it’s me. These days, you’re a statesman and I’m just a humble backbencher. There is nothing much I can teach you, and you’ve to be guarded in what you say. You can trust me, you know: if you want to try out ideas on me, they’ll stay secrets.’

She finished lamely. It would be no fun if she got the same official views from Roger as did everybody else; she longed to help shape his thinking. That was an illegitimate aim. If the Prime Minister wanted her as an influential minister he could appoint her any time. That it might never happen drove her to redefine her role with her Cabinet minister lover, but it was a dangerous and perhaps forlorn game, and she knew it.

‘Humble backbencher? I like that. Who came top in
The Economist’s
poll, then? Who beat me hollow? If that’s humble, beautiful Mrs Stalker, then I’m as dust under
your
feet.’

He was in no mood for prolonged introspection. Leaning across her he opened his mouth and she put the last piece of banana in. He munched, then bent and kissed her breast, watching with satisfaction the nipple wrinkle and rise. She put down her glass, licked her parted lips once, then slid herself completely under the bedclothes to find him.

This time their lovemaking was lingering and thorough. She extended it as long as possible, knowing it might be weeks, even months, before another opportunity occurred. Outside a car drove past, but otherwise the night was quiet and frosty. A faint burst of music came from the pub down in the village, carried on the crisp still air. Only his cry, and their breathing together, panting and laboured, disturbed the silence.

Elaine rose and went into the bathroom to clean her teeth, then returned, drank a little wine to clear the taste of toothpaste, and lay beside him once more, caressing his resting body. The bed was
warm and sticky, the atmosphere in the closed room almost fetid. Slowly then began the business of disengagement.

‘That opinion poll won’t help me, you know,’ she ventured. ‘Just makes people cross.’

He pulled her towards him, settling her head on his shoulder. ‘Right, but it should help you in the constituency,’ he suggested. ‘The voters like a celebrity.’

‘I’m not sure about that. The election is getting a bit close for comfort. Do you really think we will win again?’

Roger switched into official mode. ‘I don’t see why not. Keating did, in Australia, won five in a row. Why shouldn’t we? And it’s our job to ensure that the electors don’t get bored with us. So far in the UK they have proved more sophisticated than that.’ He sensed her unease. He continued, ‘You’ll be all right here, Elaine, won’t you? Your seat should be OK.’

She nodded with a show of bravado. It was almost impossible for an MP with a substantial majority like Roger to imagine the pressure on a Member for a marginal seat. South Warmingshire could go either way. In a landslide it would vanish and Elaine with it. Roger could be certain of getting back; she could not.

Thus two gaps, not one, were opening up between them – his elevation and natural reticence at sharing official secrets with her, and their differing expectations as the election drew nearer. At the beginning of the parliament she and Roger had had much in common. Now an icy touch on her heart suggested that it would not take much for them to drift apart.

She stood by the shower and passed him soap and shampoo, standing naked, back to the steaming tiles, enjoying the way he rubbed himself down, soaping all over thoroughly. He owed her nothing, in reality; his failure to be grateful to her could not be altered and she would not have wished to press it. Since he never spoke of his need for her, never professed his love, she had no idea of it. She would have been astonished had Tom Sparrow told her of the argument in his office. All she knew was that Roger made a virtue of keeping his feelings to himself.

‘I was just wondering…’ she mused as she handed him a towel, He rubbed his face and hair, like a little boy under the watchful eye of his mother. She was startled to see how much more silver now streaked the brown, and stroked it, pushing it up off his face with her fingers.

‘Go on.’ He was in no hurry.

She plucked up courage. ‘What happens to us now, Roger? I won’t harp on about it, but the Boswood business scared me. Being found out, I mean.’

‘Nothing new about that,’ he said briskly. He reached for his clothes, the check shirt, an old sweater.

‘Sure, but being with me puts you in far greater danger now you’re in Cabinet. The press will be watching your every move. We have to be very careful.’

She wanted him to say wonderful things, that his love for her was greater than any fear and that he would never give her up. That was impossible; but it did not stop her wishing. She reached behind the bathroom door and pulled on a white towelling robe, tying it tight about her, a brooding expression on her face. Roger saw it and knew it meant trouble.

‘You think too much at times, Elaine. If there’s nothing you can do about it, don’t let it bother you.’ He ignored her ‘we’. In this they were separate, not united.

She could stand it no longer, almost shouting at him, desperation making her voice hoarse. ‘Don’t you see? We must be
mad
. You’re a Cabinet minister, married with a family, a marvellous future ahead. The country needs men like you, honest and honourable and decent. You could rise right to the top, if you want – I’ve told you before.
What do we think we are doing?
How long can we carry on like this? I’m terrified, I tell you the truth, Roger.’

A grim shrug greeted her.
He doesn’t want to talk about it
.

She continued, ‘I don’t want to be the cause of the end of your career. We will have to stop. We will have to start thinking about stopping, at least.’

He turned to face her at last, solemn and gentle, and placed his hands to her face as always when he left her, cupping her cheeks in his great palms. ‘Do you want to finish? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

‘No, no. But we’re running such a risk!
You
are running the risk, really, not I. I don’t have that much left to lose; Mike has gone, Karen is growing up, and the seat is very rocky even if I bust a gut working it between now and the election. You have everything before you and I pose such a danger to you.’

‘No one knows that better than I. But have I done something to upset you? I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Elaine. Do
you
want to give me up? Why should you think of stopping now?’

‘Because I love you, you great clown.’ Now she broke down and wept, covering her face with the white towelling sleeves, shaking his hands away, her hair tumbling around her hidden face.

He took her wrists firmly in his hands and prised them away from her face. He was not hurting her, but she was obliged to look up at him.

‘Elaine, don’t be part of the problem. You have always been special to me, because you are part of the solution.’ That was as far as he could go. Even so he had to bite his lip to say no more. In what must, he realised, have seemed a brusque silence, he pulled on his jacket and headed for the hallway.

It had not, in the end, been a satisfactory evening.

The parliamentary day at Westminster was not the only event to start with prayers. On Monday mornings most departmental ministers convene a meeting attended by all the team. A post-mortem is held on the previous week’s events, congratulations or commiserations are offered for performances in the House or on weekend television, the day’s press comment is dissected and deplored, an agenda for the subsequent few days is settled and, should enough energy remain from such short-term considerations, a little advance planning may be attempted. These gatherings are dubbed ‘Prayers’ from the era when ministers were Christian gentlemen and no such discussion would have been thinkable without first calling on the Almighty to confer wisdom. These days ministers preferred to manage on their own.

‘Prayers’ one grey January morning at the Department of the Environment had been convened as usual by the new Secretary of State. Everyone present was familiar with the long list of issues which bedevilled the department. The problem of the cost of coal no longer existed, as neither did the pits concerned, but the political bitterness lived on. The profound wish in all ministerial minds was that the recession too would soon be forgotten. Otherwise the next contest after years of continuous control could be distinctly tricky.

One person present would be unaffected by the result of a general election, assuming he was professional enough to leave no trace of previously expressed views. Since tradition dictates that new administrations are not permitted to see any of the papers of outgoing governments of a different colour (though civil servants may), that problem was not insurmountable. Martin Chadwick, fresh from success in arranging the latest environment summit, had been moved back closer to ministers who found his laconic manner trustworthy and congenial. Discreetly Chadwick considered what changes the new Secretary of State had made. Matters of style, mostly, rather than substance, for Boswood and Dickson had been quite close, in temperament and in outlook. Roger Dickson preferred meetings held around a table rather than sitting casually in easy chairs, as Boswood had done – a trivial difference which, however, helped emphasise that a new man was in the driving seat. Dickson had gone further. He had ordered chocolate biscuits, though today no one was in a mood to enjoy them. One change he had so far failed to make: the tea, when it came, was execrable as always.

The junior minister, Muncastle, was looking moderately pleased with himself, as indeed he should. His progress had been remarkably rapid for a man with neither a power base nor a forceful personality. Yet that greyness, Chadwick reflected, was regarded by officials as a point in his favour. With Muncastle there were no outbursts, no rages, no pointless stubbornness. He was always polite. He was acknowledged as hard-working and thoroughly competent. He was skilful at drawing out from a group their viewpoints and fallback positions, and would keep gently asking questions until at last someone present would come up with answers. This technique gave Andrew the reputation of being a superb listener and a subtle accepter of good advice, yet nearly always he got his own way. It would have been quicker to announce his own viewpoint right at the start, as many young ministers did. That would have raised hackles and, in this rarefied atmosphere, made enemies. But Andrew made no enemies and collected quiet plaudits week by week. His adroitness at staying out of trouble, which frustrated colleagues like Elaine translated as lack of substance, stood him in good stead. Whether it helped him in the democratic necessity of explaining to the public what the Department of the Environment was up to and why was another matter. But then Dickson himself had been awkward with the media when he started and now was an accomplished performer. No doubt Muncastle, if sufficiently ambitious, could do likewise.

Chadwick switched his attention to the others present. Fiona Murray was settling nicely into her new role as private secretary to the Secretary of State and now sat primly in a nondescript grey suit ready to take notes. Power dressing had not yet hit female civil servants; most dressed so
discreetly as almost to disappear. Opposite, the Lords minister chatted amicably with Johnson the Commons whip and the PPSs. There was already one new face replacing Andrew Muncastle. Elaine had been on the list but passed over once again.

The future of the remaining person present also hung in the balance. Marcus Carey sat quietly, his eyes unnaturally bright, certain everyone could hear the rapid beating of his heart which had started the moment he realised Sir Nigel was going to resign.

It had proved impossible to persuade Boswood to stay at Westminster. He had been, he felt, weak before, and that had led to all his troubles. Now he was adamant. He deeply regretted all the difficulties that would result but he’d simply had enough; there was no more fight left in him.

Marcus hugged himself. A by-election with all its attendant publicity might be brilliant for him if he acquitted himself well. Certainly he had no intention of funking it. Backing out did not occur to him. In his pocket nestled an envelope addressed to Roger tendering his resignation from the post of special adviser, as from midnight. He had no choice, even though it left him without job or income, for it was an office of profit under the Crown and would disqualify him from candidacy unless disposed of at once. The adoption meeting at Milton and Hambridge was planned for the following night. The election itself was set for Thursday 16 February, almost three months since Nigel resigned the seat. Next time Marcus set foot in Whitehall, all being well, it would be as a fully fledged MP.

Dickson ticked off the last item on his list, then banged the table for attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Today we are saying goodbye to our special adviser, Marcus Carey, for reasons you all know about. Marcus has been in the department sixteen months and in that time he has been an invaluable colleague. His contributions to our discussions, and his talents with speech-writing, parliamentary questions and preparation for media interviews have been first-class. We shall miss you, Marcus. I mean that.’

How Carey loved it. So much of his life he had hovered on the fringes; now all faces were turned towards him – Andrew nodding gravely, Fiona suitably acquiescent, Chadwick half smiling. Marcus could not trust himself to speak.

‘So I’ve arranged to embarrass you a little further, Marcus, before you set off. Will you now please join us for a modest glass of champagne and a rather better buffet lunch than usual in the room next door, as we wish you God speed and good luck?’

Marcus felt the adrenalin begin to surge and grinned broadly. He pushed away the possibility that the champagne was premature.

There is something about Claridge’s. The name evokes London, at its sophisticated best, where style, comfort, wonderful cuisine and an overpowering sense of being totally pampered are available at the silent drop of a charge card.

Betts had been in some fine and expensive places but never anything like this. His journalist’s urge was to pull out a notepad and jot down all the exotic details, perfect for an article on how the super-rich live. It certainly felt different, being on the inside with
The Globe’
s owner. Black-coated staff in the high-ceilinged dining room welcomed his host as an old friend, greeted him by name and showed his party to what was obviously a familiar table in the window. Of course Murdoch, Packer and Conrad Black all got the same treatment, as did Maxwell in his day.

And he, Betts, was here as a guest: a Rubicon had been crossed.

Betts took his time, as he trotted between Nick Thwaite and Miranda, and tried not to stare. As he sat down he wondered if it would be acceptable to remove the jacket of his dark new suit, but decided against it. The waiter handed him the menu. On its silky cover a group of elegant Victorians in evening dress paused on the threshold of this famous room. Above their glossy heads great chandeliers glowed as bewigged waiters danced attendance before huge displays of flowers. These
days the waiters were mostly foreigners, Betts noted – even the head cook, Marjan Lesnik, whose name appeared immodestly at the bottom of the menu, was surely not born within the sound of Bow Bells.

Not that Betts was complaining. Of the five people now accepting large pink linen napkins two were foreigners, one of whom was picking up the tab, and McSharry the editor was not exactly English either. Betts quickly priced the courses: McSharry wanted goose liver with truffles at £14.50, followed by pot-roasted duck with apricots at £17.50. The owner was watching his cholesterol and jokingly ordered an even more expensive combination, a ‘truffled celeriac remoulade’ which turned out to be cold cooked vegetables at £14, and lobster at £28. There seemed to be a lot of truffles around, an excuse if ever there was one for lifting cash from unsuspecting customers. Betts did not fancy anything he did not recognise, so settled for a smoked salmon and caviar starter at £11.00 and a steak at £22.00. That would be followed by Monte Carlo strawberries at another tenner, and cheese, coffee, petits fours and liqueurs. At a guess, the bill for the five of them would come to at least £500, particularly now they were knocking back the Krug.

The lunch was in the nature of a celebration, for
The Globe
had just topped the half-million circulation mark. It was not entirely out of the wood, but the gloomy forest was receding. Betts settled down to enjoy himself.

The owner leaned forward. ‘The question is, Nick, what are you going to do next? Toppling a Cabinet minister is all very well, but that’s yesterday’s story. Who’s on the menu now?’

He spoke without malice. This was purely business. If there were a better, surer, way to make money than by owning chunks of popular media he didn’t know it. The issue in his mind was how to keep
The Globe
in profit, and that meant in the public eye.

‘I wouldn’t write Boswood off just yet,’ mused Nick Thwaite. ‘I’ve got somebody watching him up in Scotland. If he takes any young boys to his hideaway, we’ll report him. The Scottish police take a dim view of chaps like him; very puritan country. Then we can run him ragged all over again.’

McSharry was dismissive. ‘No, I agree with the boss. There’s a limit to the amount of time you can persecute one poor bastard.’

Thwaite looked up in surprise. The editor, in using ‘you’, was absolving himself from responsibility.

‘Are you saying he’s only important as long as he’s a Cabinet minister?’ Betts wanted to be clear.

The proprietor nodded. ‘Get the guys at the top,’ he urged forking slivers of truffle into his mouth. ‘Ministers, bishops, princes. Not has-beens. Nobody else counts.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to big fools, the bigger the better. May we always finger them before anyone else.’ Glasses were raised and clinked with glee.

‘There are rumours about Boswood’s replacement, aren’t there?’ Thwaite asked, turning to Betts. ‘Haven’t I heard he has a roving eye and one or two girlfriends? Didn’t you check him out when he was a junior minister?’

Jim Betts had a mouth full of the most succulent beef he had ever tasted and thanked his lucky stars he was unable to answer for a moment. At last he swallowed, helped by gulping down half a glass of bubbly. Miranda watched in distaste as the wine dribbled from the corner of his lips. Hastily he wiped his mouth.

‘I checked but there wasn’t much in it. He got drunk at a do at the Tory Party Conference in Blackpool and was fooling around. I think Miranda was there, weren’t you? But there’s not enough to go on.’

There was no reason why anyone present should be suspicious of his motives or information. Eyes turned inquiringly at Miranda, who flushed. Despite her giggle all her defences were up.

‘It wasn’t me! I went with Matthew Frank that night, if my memory serves. I often do. That’s public knowledge.’ Betts decided to chance it. At the very least, putting pressure on Miranda might warn the lady to be less unfriendly towards him.

‘You didn’t leave with Frank, though. I thought I saw you with somebody who is now a government minister, though he wasn’t then.’ There was the hint, just a hint, of menace in his voice.

‘Ho ho, Miranda! What’ve you been up to?’ Thwaite did not take Betts’s insinuations very seriously. That there was sexual tension between Betts and Miranda was obvious, but he could easily understand her regarding the sandy- haired chap with the grubby moustache as beneath her, particularly if her choice instead rested on the older man at her side. The paper’s owner and Betts came from different planets. The calm Australian radiated real power and was watching Miranda in sly amusement.

Betts began to bait softly, his eyes malicious. ‘Come on, Miranda, tell us. He’s married, isn’t he? Andrew Muncastle. Got a nice wife, a little boy and a big future. So what’s the great attraction? Is he good in bed, then?’ Miranda froze, her face livid as the others laughed at Betts’s effrontery and her discomfort. She pushed away her plate.

‘God, Betts, you are foul,’ she muttered.

The unanswered question hung in the air. The whole table was looking at her, men of the world examining a beautiful woman. Even as she aroused them, in that instant she was isolated, the sole female. Her private life was a source of constant speculation at the
Globe
office. Betts was not the only man present to regard her as occasionally too choosy for her own good.

The sweet trolley arrived to general appreciation and for several minutes conversation languished as samples of cheesecake, soufflés, delicate fruit puddings and tarts were handed around. Claridge’s did not stint their customers, though the management would be disappointed if anyone was still hungry by that stage.

For a moment the table was distracted. Betts was aware that Miranda was trembling. She caught his eye, tossed her hair and brought herself under control, then turned and faced him directly. Her voice was so low that, although the others were aware she had spoken to him, they could not hear what she said.

‘Don’t even think about publishing anything about Andrew, Mr Betts, or I’ll make sure you never work in newspapers again.’ She bared her white teeth at him. ‘Do we understand each other?’