A Woman's Place (23 page)

He would go down soon and make a pleasant remark to her, something personal, simply to indicate how glad he was that she lived there. The gratifying notion flitted around his mind. He wondered with a slight tremor if at last this was that spark of sexual attraction which had eluded him, so far, his entire life.

Lachlan had seen Karen stride up the garden path from his room at the front of the house. He liked her, and was delighted at the positive effect she had had on both Fred and Anthony, both of whom brightened up whenever she was about. With her natural warmth and charm, and that hint of earthiness in her character, she had made him revise his opinions of the British. He had been dismayed during his first weeks in Britain when he stayed at his aunt and uncle's home. His cousin had seemed a cold fish, whose ideas of entertainment had run only to the local pub (full of cigarette smoke), the nearest rugby club (full of jocks) and the bar of the House of Commons (full of politicians, all of whom commented with varying degrees of rudeness on his accent).

But a household with three blokes and a single girl had a glaring drawback. Lachlan would willingly have formed a foursome with his cousin and a couple of female medical students or nurses, had there been any co-operation from Anthony. It occurred to him that an alternative course of action might suit: he, Lachlan, should simply find one young lady, then suggest that the numbers be made up by Anthony and Karen herself. Or perhaps two spare women – Lachlan did not doubt his persuasive ability – if Fred couldn't find his own.

Meanwhile there loomed exams and a research paper to submit. The love interest, such as it was, would have to wait; but he would mention the matter to Anthony, for future reference.

Karen's step on the stair had a dramatic effect on the building's fourth occupant. In his room at the top Fred had been trying to finish reading a biography of Harold Macmillan, his hero. It wasn't fashionable to admire the former Prime Minister, he of the patrician airs and long, mournful face. The author seemed far more engrossed in the amorous adventures of Lady Dorothy, his wife, and Robert Boothby MP, supposedly her great love. Fred could see the point of the revelations – if Macmillan had been cuckolded his whole life, and knew it, it was all the more admirable that his frustrations had been sublimated into a remarkable political career.

Fred pulled a face. He did not wish to believe that only those unlucky in love would have the drive to succeed; anyway, he was of the firm view (based on little experience) that a man's private life should be regarded as having no effect on his performance of official duties – provided, of course, that the chap did not lie. The public might snigger at adultery and raise eyebrows at misalliance, but only
faced with downright hypocrisy did they get truly angry. At least, he hoped so.

At the sound of Karen, now only a few feet from him, moving in her own bedroom, perhaps taking off her day clothes and preparing for bed, Fred felt his heart leap. Agitated, he shifted around the items on his desk, turned the blotter over, tore off scribbled pages from the jotter pad and fiddled with the miniature engraved carriage clock, a gift from Mr Bulstrode after the election. Two cherubs on either side of the clock-face taunted him. Their baby nakedness, the curves of arms and thighs as he fingered them, made him almost frantic.

What kind of man was he? What was he frightened of? Surely not another rejection. He would know the phrases to use and would be more persistent, not let her wriggle away. His time as a Member of Parliament had taught him tricks of fluency and manner which had eluded him before. He heard her go downstairs again and the tumble-drier start. Other feet creaked on the stairs. Then, muffled by distance, he heard Karen and Anthony exchange a few words, and her sunny laughter as she climbed back to her room.

The clock ticked on. Fred heard doors open; Anthony and Lachlan were heading into the lounge, presumably to watch the late news on TV. A high degree of privacy was
de rigueur
in the house. Nobody entered a bedroom without knocking and waiting until invited to enter. That meant that if he could get into Karen's presence while the others were occupied elsewhere he might have a few moments alone with her. And start afresh the complicated process of getting her into his confidence, and into his bed.

It was completely dark outside. Fred rose and drew his curtains. Heart pounding, he approached his own door, reached for the handle, jumped back as if burnt, returned to the mat in front of the mantelpiece and tested his appearance in the mirror. It would not do. Hurriedly he combed his hair, considered and then rejected a splash of cologne on his cheeks, patted his inside pocket where certain supplies nestled encouragingly and checked that all visible zips and buttons were fastened. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he opened the door, tiptoed out into the upper hallway and to Karen's room, and tapped softly.

Karen, still savouring the friendly remarks uttered by Anthony, was plucking her eyebrows in front of her dressing-table mirror. At 10.30 p.m. she did not expect visitors. With a flutter of excitement she replaced the tweezers and wondered whether she had given Anthony the impression she was ready and waiting for him. If so, what would she do?

Ask him in, of course. It was about time – perfect timing, in fact. With no worries, either. Since that daft episode with Fred, Karen had laid in her own supply of condoms. The knock came again, more insistently. Quickly she made sure that the little foil packets were in the bedside drawer, pulled the bedclothes smooth and plumped up the pillows. Damn the old shirt and jeans – there was no time to improve her own appearance, or change.

She sauntered over and opened the door.

‘Hullo, Karen.'

‘Oh! It's you – I thought…'

‘Can I come in?' Fred prayed that he sounded more sure of himself than he felt. The startled expression on the girl's face was distinctly off-putting.

Karen shrugged. He stepped inside and she shut the door. If Fred wanted to start talking secrets, it was best his privacy be guaranteed. That was only a courtesy.

He looked around. The room smelled enticingly of Karen, her perfume, her shampoo, her talc. A fluffy toy cat and a pair of blue pyjamas lay on the pillow, though with a man, he anticipated with a thumping heart, she would lie unclothed. Posters of sultry pop stars adorned one wall but more innocent symbols, photos of school and college, cuttings from newspapers and magazines of hats and boots and fashion pictures filled the main space. Fred turned, then deliberately sat down on the bed.

‘Come and sit here,' he said, patting the coverlet beside him.

His voice, pleading, was not entirely under his control.

Karen considered. She was not about to order Fred out of her room. After all, just a few months earlier she'd been willing to go a lot further – and it was only his incompetence that had stopped them. He was a friend, and in a good-humoured way she was fond of him. ‘Sure,' she said, and complied.

Fred swallowed hard. This was proving unexpectedly easy – going almost too fast. But that was her style, wasn't it? On New Year's Eve she'd given him no time to think as she flung off her sweater. He gazed at her, brooding. Should she decide on a repeat she would not find him inadequate. With a jerky movement he reached across and took her hand.

‘If … we … that is…'

He gulped and started again, twisting to face the girl directly.

‘Look, Karen, I'm not very good at this. We've hardly touched since – well, you know. And I have felt such a fool. So the first thing is, I'm sorry I messed it up so badly.'

Karen made no attempt to withdraw her hand but instead stroked Fred's arm in a thoughtful, gentle gesture. ‘That's OK,' she murmured, and wondered what was coming next.

The image of ghastly Mrs Hepworth at the advice bureau unaccountably came to Fred. That cow had no trouble putting two words together, or forty. He gritted his teeth and concentrated.

‘And the second thing is…' Then he blurted out: ‘D'you think we could try again?'

Without waiting for an answer he leaned across and kissed her, full on the mouth, first lips only, then deeper, as hard and passionately as he could.

The kiss lasted several minutes until both had to break off to come up for breath. Karen, choking slightly, dimpled at him.

‘Well! You seem to have a much better idea now, Fred,' she remarked, intending it as a compliment. The look on his face told her, however, that he had hoped for a more lustful declaration.

He squared his shoulders. ‘I hope so. Made a fool of myself last time. And I don't intend to miss a chance like that again, I can tell you. I've thought of nothing else since.' He could feel her breath on his cheek. Her lips, so full and moist, were twitching but he could not tell whether she was delighted or astonished or about to laugh at him. Urgently he crashed on: ‘So how about it? I'm not so terrible, am I? And I fancy you like crazy, Karen. I think you're terrific. Honestly.'

‘Darling Fred!' Karen said softly. She moved her free hand slowly across his face from brow to chin. The caress made something turn over inside him and his body became aroused. He looked down a little sheepishly, then lunged towards her. He had to touch her breasts – he
had
to.

‘No, Fred.' Karen grasped both Fred's hands firmly together and placed them on her knee. ‘I am very fond of you. If there was nobody else around, I'd say yes – in fact I'd tear the clothes off you right now.' Fred groaned and she shushed him, glancing at the door. ‘But there is somebody else.'

‘Lucky beggar, that's all I can say,' growled Fred, his spirits sinking. Now he knew she was unavailable he wanted her more than ever. ‘Anybody I know?'

‘Mmm, yes, actually,' Karen said. She shifted imperceptibly away from him and sat upright once more, though she kept hold of Fred's hands for fear of their wandering. ‘Anthony. Oh, he hasn't done anything yet, but I can tell. He just told me how pleased he is that I'm in his house. In his shy way that means a lot. He's older than you, Fred: more my type, I suppose.'

‘I see,' Fred muttered. That Anthony might be a rival had not occurred to him. He was deflated, yet puzzled. If this were true, then he'd have expected Anthony to pass some joshing remark when Karen was absent, the sort one man utters to another to stake out desired territory. He searched Karen's face but her sincerity was evident; the shining eyes, the half-smile, were not for him.

He was not ready to give up.

‘I've never thought of him … like that. He never talks about women, ever. In fact he never talks about sex, even when you're not around. Doesn't seem interested.'

‘So what?' Karen was indignant, but uncomfortable. In a few words Fred had encapsulated the unspoken problem. Then she relented. ‘I think he's simply a bit timid with women and I can help with that. Or maybe he's had a bad experience in the past – he's over thirty so he can't be a complete virgin, can he?'

Fred regained possession of one of his hands and scratched his head. How boyish, Karen thought.

‘Could be. Some blokes aren't interested because they're made that way. If he's one, you're wasting your time – even you. Or you could make yourself very unhappy, and I'd hate to see that. Some like poor Stephen Milligan have to do weird things to get them going – women's clothes, ligatures. If that's his scene, Karen, run a mile, please. And others … well, has it occurred to you that he might be gay?'

‘Anthony?' That was an extraordinary suggestion. There were gay men at college. The entrance hall was covered in adverts for the annual Gay Pride march through the streets of London. But they were different; they looked and dressed distinctively, and had a code of their own. They wore earrings in strange places; some shaved their heads and were noisy and aggressive. None of them wore a suit and claimed to be a Member of Parliament. She frowned as she tried to get her mind around the picture, then brightened.

‘I honestly don't think so. Let me tell you why. He's made speeches about homosexuality and said he was against it, isn't that right? I've seen his name in the Pink Paper the Gay Club hands out at college as somebody who tends to vote against equal rights. He wouldn't do that if he was one, would he?'

‘Oh, Karen. He might.' Fred pondered. ‘Some of those who most virulently denounce gays may well be that way inclined. Puts the dogs off the scent, see. But, I agree with you, Anthony's not the sort to do that. If he disapproves, that's genuine. There's still one other possibility.'

Relaxed, almost sleepy, Karen leaned into Fred's body. His heart was calmer. It came to him that there might yet be hope, if his assessment of their landlord was anywhere near correct. More like a brother than a lover, he put his arm around Karen and gave her a squeeze. From downstairs came the closing music of
Newsnight
. He would have to return to his own room soon.

‘The worst thing, Karen, would be this: suppose he is gay, and doesn't know it?'

The two young people sat silent. Without another word, Fred rose, bent down to kiss her gently on the cheek, and left.

Karen slept well, her body weary, her mind and conscience untroubled. At some point deep in the night she awoke. Something had penetrated her fuddled brain and, stretching lazily, slipping in and out of sleep, she tried to identify it.

A strange soft noise came from downstairs. It sounded like a child, or a small animal perhaps, a whimper, faint and intermittent. Karen listened for a few moments – perhaps she ought to investigate? But once again all was quiet: the dark warm house and its inhabitants slumbered.

Maybe it was her imagination, she concluded, as sleep reclaimed her. And in the morning, though she remembered waking, she had entirely forgotten the cause.

‘Was this entirely wise?'

Jayanti Bhadeshia held the copy of the
Globe
at arm's length and twisted it this way and that. Behind him Pramila tried to compose her anxious face. If he did not absolutely adore the article then it must have been, as she had feared all along, a terrible mistake. That her friends had been telephoning the whole morning, their voices creaking with envy, was no consolation. They would say the most effusive things on the phone, then titter behind her back. Only her husband would be both tactful and accurate.

‘The house looks wonderful. Interior decorators have asked me who did it,' she ventured.

‘Maybe you should set up a new business,' he answered drily. ‘It would have helped had we paid all the bills. But that is not my main worry. The pictures. They make you look … not as you are to me. What have they done?'

He bent closer and examined the pose in the cocktail dress. His calmness was beginning to unnerve his wife completely. At last he put down the paper, stood upright and turned to her.

‘So, does your mother approve of you showing your legs to all and sundry?' he asked, but his voice was gentle.

That did it. Pramila burst into tears.

‘I am sorry! I did it for you. They said they wanted to demonstrate how a successful Asian family lives – for you…'

He pulled her close to comfort her. ‘Ah, my silly lady. You see their secret intention: they make us out such greedy fools and we are not – or no more than anyone else. Don't cry, my dearest, mother of my children. I understand what you tried to do and I am proud of you.'

He fished out a handkerchief and gave it to her. For several moments she wept, then slowly subsided. Over her shoulder he could still see the display and shut his eyes. He had enough on his plate without this. Those images, he feared, would return time and again to haunt them.

‘
How
much?'

Elaine, cheque-book in hand, recoiled in horror. Behind her somebody giggled. At her side Karen looked crestfallen.

‘Two hundred and twelve pounds, fifty pence, Mrs Stalker.' The Marks and Spencer assistant commiserated. ‘Young people are expensive these days, aren't they?'

‘But we've only bought a couple of bras and a few pairs of knickers…'

‘Actually you've had twelve bras between you at ten pounds each, plus matching panties at a fiver, and a few other items besides. Do you want to put anything back?'

It wasn't fair to blame her daughter; most was for herself, the hidden cost of running two homes. But Karen had added to the burden with her sudden desire for lace-trimmed silky undergarments. Hence the shopping trip.

The queue of customers behind shifted, tom between compassion, impatience and curiosity. What was this celebrity doing here, taking up so much time? Why wasn't the famous Mrs Stalker at her desk? And as for the outlay – wasn't she extraordinarily well off these days, now she was a Minister?

Elaine paid up with a rueful shrug and led Karen swiftly past the sweater counter and away. Out in Oxford Street she hesitated, then turned left for Selfridges. In a few moments the two were installed in the second-floor café surrounded by green foliage and bamboo for a modest lunch.

‘Crumbs. I hadn't realised it'd be so much, Mum. I'm sorry.' Karen made her eyes round and soulful.

Her mother chuckled. ‘Not your fault. Perhaps if more of Her Majesty's Ministers did their
own shopping instead of leaving it to their spouses we'd guess where the “feel good” factor went.'

‘They're mostly blokes, that's why.' Karen wondered if she dare ask for a cake, a
strawberry-packed
tart with piped cream, the sort she could never normally afford.

Elaine grimaced. ‘Not all, but I know what you mean. Chirac's put twelve women in his government. We've barely that number in the whole parliamentary party.'

It was enjoyable, talking. Karen sipped her tea. ‘But you get judged the same, now. There's no distinction, is there?'

‘Of course there is. Just look at us. The occasional male Minister or MP seen shopping with his family wins good marks. For a woman it's the opposite – she's sloping off, incapable of isolating her career from her other obligations. Makes me grind my teeth.'

Karen was only partially sympathetic. Like most of her generation she took it for granted that her sex would be no barrier. Her mother had eaten only one slice of Welsh rarebit, so the girl, still hungry, reached over and helped herself. Elaine, musing, barely noticed.

‘I know I bang on about it, but there are days when a woman's place seems to be not in the home, or kitchen, or the House of Commons, but in the wrong, whatever she tries.'

Karen glanced pointedly towards the counter. The remark of a college lecturer on the issue seemed apposite. ‘We used to seek equality of opportunity; but what we're really after is equality of outcome. That'd need positive discrimination. Then other people lose out, like good men. Tricky, isn't it?'

‘True. As the Labour Party could vouch, with its battles over all-women selection.' She eyed her daughter. ‘Now then, my lass, you're supposed to cheer your mother up, not make me feel worse. You still peckish? Would you like a cake?'

Karen jumped up with alacrity. A few moments later she returned from the counter with her plate piled high, seated herself and tucked in. After a few moments she licked her fingers in contentment and eyed her mother. ‘Mum,' she said quietly.

The tone of her voice made Elaine look intently at her.

‘Mum, did you get an invitation to baby Jonathan's christening?'

Elaine assented but added nothing. She had been nonplussed to receive a friendly letter from Mike and his second wife Linda, whose new baby was the cause of the event.

‘It was my idea they should ask you. After all he is my half-brother, and his dad is my dad. You shouldn't be on bad terms. Please will you go?'

‘We aren't on bad terms. We aren't on any terms, good or bad.' Elaine pondered. ‘I don't think it would be wise for me to attend such a public occasion. Linda's family will be there and everyone would get very embarrassed.'

Karen was downcast. Elaine squeezed her fingers. ‘I can see what you're trying to do and I approve. Would you be happy if I went to their home to see the baby a few days before? I can take a gift and say I've another engagement on the day of the ceremony. Then honour would be satisfied all round.'

The girl nodded contentedly and returned to her cake. Elaine watched her covertly for a moment. How precious her daughter had become to her. But she was not an only child. There had been another once, long ago: a son, Jake, born after Karen, who had suffered from a congenital defect, an enzyme deficiency which meant he had arrived apparently normal but had slowly and terrifyingly deteriorated before their eyes. It was the way the family had been treated, the downcast eyes and muttered excuses, which had first pushed Elaine into the political world. Maybe Karen, barely four when her brother died, retained some half-forgotten memory which fostered her interest in the new baby; or maybe, growing young woman that she was, she was beginning to think of motherhood herself in due course. Elaine smiled at her daughter and wondered.

A woman in a red coat walked past their table with a tray, hesitated, turned around and
stopped.

‘Why, it's Mrs Stalker! What are you doing here?'

The tray carried a meal of cheese on toast and pot of tea identical to their own. Elaine realised suddenly that she was tired and that her feet hurt. The bleep had been silent too long: she would have to get back. An ordinary mother might have swept her daughter off to a matinee at a cinema or theatre. She gestured at the food.

‘Much the same as you, I guess.' She smiled weakly.

‘Well, yes,' the woman answered doubtfully. ‘I saw you in Marks and Spencer and I must say I was surprised. Don't you get preferential treatment – you know, having the place opened before other customers? And I bet you get discounts, too.' She nudged Elaine's arm and waited expectantly to be told the truth.

Once Elaine might have made a wisecrack or a sharp response, but there was no future in being as rude as her interlocutor. ‘I don't have the nerve to ask, frankly, though some do. And I doubt if my daughter would get up so early.'

‘This your daughter? I thought it must be a policewoman, in plain clothes. Don't you get protection? Pleased to meet you.' The woman nodded uncertainly at Karen as if she didn't believe a word.

A small crowd had gathered, whispering. Hastily Elaine collected coats and carrier bags. With as much dignity as they could muster the two moved out into the street.

Karen noted her mother's stony face, took her arm protectively and steered her firmly towards Our Price. ‘The British are mad, Mum,' she whispered. ‘Anyway, although I'm very proud of you it looks a dismal job. I shouldn't mind if you weren't a Minister at all. People seem to want to eat you alive.'

‘Ah! George.
So
good to catch you.'

George hesitated, took the phone from his ear and cudgelled his brain. Though the accent was distinctive he couldn't put a name to its owner.

‘George Horrocks here. May I ask who's speaking?'

‘My dear George! It's your friend Jayanti – Jay Bhadeshia. We last met… let me see … at the reception at No. 10 in January. Now do you remember?'

The voice was squeaky, though with what emotion George could not tell – excitement, or anxiety perhaps. He kept his own tone noncommittal.

‘Of course I do. And you were on my Prima guest list at conference, too.' He wondered what the man wanted, but recalled writing his own home number on several business cards which he'd handed out quite casually. There was no point in being irritated if what amounted to an invitation to intimacy was then taken up, as this chap clearly proposed to do.

‘I wanted a quick word with you, George.' The voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘You're a non-executive director of Tarrants Bank, aren't you?' Without waiting for an answer Jayanti hurried on. ‘With Lord Tarrant – the father of the Prime Minister's beautiful wife – he was there, at No. 10 that day too…'

‘Indeed he was. How can I help you?' George had figured out what might be coming and was unsure whether he liked it or not.

The Tarrant board meeting the following day was to consider Bhadeshia's preliminary application for funds. For the next few moments Jayanti outlined the details of his great project, its splendid prospects in the new Africa, the assurances received from the President and its potential cash flow. As the voice enthused about the new buildings, the well-trained workforce, the excellence of the facilities and the desirability of helping a newly democratic state to achieve its full potential, against his better judgement George felt a twinge of admiration.

This man was prepared to have a vision and take tremendous risks to bring it to fruition. Were he successful he would become a household name to millions, almost a messiah bringing affordable consumer goods to people long starved of the most basic necessities. A worthy objective, not to be dismissed lightly.

The problem, as George could see it, was that Bhadeshia's estimates were full of holes. How much? He couldn't say for sure. When would the shops be open? Next year, the first one, some time. How exactly would he recruit and train staff? Oh, that would not be difficult. Was he sure he would get import licences, for example for the computerised cash tills and stock system? What about overseas managers – would they be granted work permits? Was he sure he could repatriate profits? On those points Jayanti was indignantly definite. His close friend the President had promised every assistance. Except money, thought George.

If it worked, with low costs and rapid expansion the profits would roll in. But it was a gamble and no pay-off was likely for some years. That brought into question whether any British banks, so accustomed to short-term gains, would be content to invest. And if not respectable backers, then who?

On the other hand Bhadeshia's track record to date, in so far as he had been able to ascertain it before the Prima breakfast, seemed solidly based and credible. The retail activities in England must do well: that would be ready money, all cash. The same family names turned up as directors elsewhere. He had heard that the Bhadeshias had diversified into car leasing, which could indicate HP and merchant bank finance somewhere in the background, and probably insurance links. The community of which Bhadeshia was an important and respected member was shrewd, hard-working, entrepreneurial and tough. His British colleagues could learn a great deal from their skill and energy. If anyone could pull off this enterprise in East Africa, then the person on the other end of the phone had a better chance than most.

‘Right, I've got that. Thank you. It sounds like a marvellous scheme and you are to be congratulated on your drive and imagination.'

‘Imagination? No, this is not a dream.' Jayanti tried to control the tremor in his voice. As ever, under pressure, his accent became stronger and he spoke too fast. ‘This is
reality.
All it needs is the financial input. Some is already lined up. I know you will take an excellent decision tomorrow with Lord Tarrant and the other distinguished gentlemen. I spoke to him about it when I was invited to dinner at his house. He knows me very well. Soon I will be able to thank you. Maybe we will have lunch together?'

Jayanti stopped, panting. He knew he should extract a firm positive commitment from George but, as with Lord Tarrant and the other British businessmen with whom he came into increasing contact, he did not know how. With his own people his standing itself was security, his word his bond. His loyalty to his family and his willingness to employ and help them above others was regarded as a strength; to his local English bank manager it was a weakness which suggested nepotism rather than objectivity. Every attempt to cross from one culture to another met with disdain and rebuff, but in his frustration he could only bluster, and thus sounded less rather than more convincing.