A Woman's Place (27 page)

A few moments later Jayanti, moving as if in a dream, pulled out the plug and rose to his feet still covered in foam, the phone held limply in his hand. He switched it off, slowly pushed down the aerial and looked at it in wonder. He gazed around the bathroom, fixing in his mind for ever its streaming walls, the piles of thick white towels on the heated rail, the damp green ferns draped gracefully over the shelves, the brass and gilt and mirrors and tiles, all chosen by Pramila with more concern for design than comfort. Yet for the rest of his life it would be a very special and unforgettable picture.

As he slipped a white bathrobe over his shoulders and opened the door, Jayanti was grinning broadly.

It had been a long day: an early night was most welcome. The Chief Whip reached the last page of his novel with a contented grunt, polished off the whisky and replaced his glass on the bedside table. Beside him his wife snored gently.

What a very good story it was. The tattered orange Penguin edition had been rescued from the second-hand bookstall. Maurice Edelman's
The Minister
was an elegant piece published in 1961 when most of the current crop of MPs were in their cradles. How times had changed: all the politicians were male, while the women sported petalled hats and had lives empty of activity or purpose except to cause trouble to the men.

He contemplated contentedly the pile on his bedside table. Long ago he had realised that if he did not read a little for pleasure before retiring his sleep would be disturbed by the unsettled issues of the day. Fiction was a different matter: he could muse on the characters' fate, but in the end close the volume and leave them to it.

The next on his list was Tim Renton's
Dangerous Edge
, a tale of intrigue written by a former holder of his office, though probably – at least in that post – one of the least competent of modern times, who had lasted only a year under Margaret Thatcher. Too nice for it, if truth be told.

No wonder Chief Whips tended to be central characters in many political novels – Michael Dobbs's, for example – though both Dobbs and Jeffrey Archer tended to over-glamorise Westminster. The reality was far more prosaic and grubby. And it was going too far to make Dobbs's hero Urquhart a double – or was it treble? – murderer, though there were moments when, faced with a particularly obstreperous Member, similar fantasies flitted through his own brain. The Chief smiled tiredly at the thought, and wondered if he might ever be the model for a future work.

He would save the Critchley for later. Dear Julian, once voted the Commons' favourite journalist by MPs fed up with being harried by the press. The reviews of his autobiography,
A Bag of Boiled Sweets
(‘the most entertaining set of political memoirs to have been published in years'), had betrayed bewilderment over the hidden charm and undying attraction of such a career. TV's Jeremy Paxman had pondered the compulsion that drove patently normal (and nice – and honest) men like Critchley to devote their lives to politics, especially when the opportunity to influence events was so limited.

The Chief stared at the ceiling: he knew the answer to that one. Because when chaps set out to enter the political arena they don't know they'll be so wasted. Only after a long stretch in Parliament with its multiple frustrations did those with a flicker of intelligence wonder why on earth they had chosen that path. By then, most likely, they were too far along it to do anything else. Or too lazy: it was an easy life, and brought in its wake an office in central London, free telephones, first-class travel, staff, subsidised canteens and elevated status. Westminster was still the best gentlemen's club in London.

Many queued to enter, few fought to leave. No wonder: politics was a tender trap which remained endlessly fascinating to the entangled, offering a drip feed of inside knowledge and an excellent view of the great events. The magic remained. The green benches could take an ordinary decent chap like Critchley, who might have achieved precious little in the outside world, and transform him from a mere observer into a participant and – oh joy, just once or twice in a lifetime – into a prime mover.

The Chief Whip's wife stirred, muttered, opened a single reproachful eye and rolled over. Obediently her husband turned out the light and pulled up the bedclothes. He lay back, arms under his head, and wondered whether the day might ever come when his political career took a wrong turning and he ended up writing novels. Not if he could help it.

There it was again – a whimper, like a child in distress, but with something more animal about it, less human. A faint intermittent cry which floated up the stairwell and hovered in the air. Nothing for several minutes, then it would start again, neither louder nor softer. The bedroom door didn't close properly and had swung open an inch or two during the night. Now she could hear it clearly.

With some reluctance Karen slipped her feet out of the warm bed, hitched up her pyjamas and padded to the door.

All was still; yet it was not her imagination and this wasn't the first time. Was it a stray dog or cat perhaps? More likely a fox, one of which was often to be seen, cheekily handsome, at the comer under the street lamp when she came home late. The screech of mating foxes in the park had kept several households up half the night. But that wasn't it.

She stood uncertainly on the top stair, head cocked, shivering slightly and strained to hear. There – it came again, and closer. Below her, definitely. Slowly she started down, keeping as quiet as she could, listening intently. Her heart beat faster with each step.

It wasn't a ghost. The noise was too substantial and anyway the idea was preposterous. And, while it did not seem normal, nor did it suggest danger. Whoever or whatever was crying was in pain – or desperately unhappy.

At breakfast she'd tell Anthony. It would be his job to approach whoever was responsible and have peace restored. To be awoken repeatedly at night was not funny, especially with a mock exam the next week. Anthony was the best and most sympathetic of landlords, though he had looked peaky lately; working too hard, no doubt, in the same office as her mother, where the burden never seemed to let up.

He wouldn't think she was foolish. In fact, it was likely that as they discussed their lives here in such close proximity the chance might arise to pursue her aim of persuading Anthony to see her in a more romantic light. She needed him to focus his attention on her, though his mind seemed often half engaged elsewhere; maybe he did find her attractive, and simply didn't know where to start. In that case it would be up to her. If that involved a degree of boldness on her part, she would not flinch.

But first this strange, sad weeping. Nobody else in the house, apparently, was disturbed by it. She came down two short flights of stairs and found herself on the landing underneath. A narrow darkened corridor turned left towards the main bedroom and the
en suite
bathroom which Anthony had installed. It gave the big double room a lot of privacy, aided by the fact that there were no occupied areas above.

She stopped outside Anthony's door. What on earth…? Surely that wasn't him. A grown man didn't cry like that – that was a terrified child. Her heart turned over with pity. What a dreadful sound, the worse for its intermittence, as if the weeper became exhausted in between his desolate sobs.

Tentatively Karen turned the handle and pushed open the door. It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, but she could make out Anthony's suit neatly hung up, a clean shirt ready for work and an untidy pile of magazines on the rug. On the far side of the double bed, its
covers tossed and tumbled, the figure of her landlord strained and shuddered, fists raised and crossed as if warding someone off: yet there was nobody else in the room.

She tiptoed across. Anthony's eyes were screwed shut. His head twisted from side to side and a low moan came from between clenched teeth. Tears streamed down his face and his breaths came in great gasps.

‘Anthony! Anthony – for heaven's sake, wake up.'

‘What – wha…' It emerged as a wail of pain. Anthony heaved himself over on his side, away from her. Eyes still closed, he rubbed at his mouth frantically as if trying to remove a horrible taste, coughed, and groaned.

‘Anthony, come on. You shouldn't just go back to sleep. Were you dreaming? It sounds like you were having a nightmare.'

He forced his eyes to open, then to focus. The room was still dark. Karen turned the bedside light on. She was sitting anxiously on the edge of the bed, her pink pyjamas loose and chaste about her, her young face furrowed in concern. The clock on the bedside table told them both it was past three o'clock.

She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Heavens, it's cold in here. I've got goose bumps. Shove over a bit and let me in. Then we can talk if you like. At least till you've calmed down.'

He did not move. He looked away from her, his expression still fearful. Mutely she reached for his hand and stroked it gently as if caressing a frightened pet, but he seemed too numb and shocked to respond. At last Karen's ministrations began to take effect. He sighed and relaxed a little, and turned to her sheepishly, his voice throaty.

‘Thanks for waking me up. You're right – it was a nightmare, one I get … from time to time. Pretty horrible, to tell you the truth.'

The look she returned to him was full of compassion. In the lamplight his dark hair was matted across the sweaty brow. The rest of his face was in shadow. Cautiously she raised her hand and brushed back a strand of his hair. It was a gesture of simple friendship; it could be, if he wished, something more.

Anthony was not responding but nor had he stopped her. She shrugged, then lifted up the duvet and slipped under it, keeping her icy feet well away from his body. She could feel him tense beside her, though his breathing was more regular now.

It was up to her, then. She wriggled down the bed until her head rested on the pillow next to his. He lay on his back, staring upwards, as if the subject of his fears had not vanished but only retreated towards the ceiling. She reached again for his hand and clasped it; his fingers twitched briefly, then grasped hers in turn, but more like an infant with its mother than a lover.

‘Would you like me to stay with you a little while?' she asked softly. The closeness of the man was having its effect on her own body, as she had suspected it might; her pulse had begun beating more strongly. Anthony did not reply. The incongruity as well as the sexual impropriety – or opportunity – of their position suddenly reasserted itself, and Karen stifled a giggle.

‘What is it? What's so comical?' Anthony turned his face to hers. He was only a few inches away. It would be the easiest thing in the world for them to kiss.

‘I was thinking of poor Fred upstairs,' Karen whispered. ‘If he could see us now. He's been trying to get me into bed for months; I think he's in love with me. But honestly I'm not sure he's my type.' She felt emboldened by Anthony's silence. ‘I think
you
are. And maybe if you have worries I can help. At least, I can listen.'

She was conscious that Anthony was now looking at her, and could not avoid the impression that there was more puzzlement than yearning on his face. It dawned on her that perhaps he did not know quite what to do next; it wasn't every night that a man woke to find a pretty girl in his bed. Maybe the transition from nightmare to fantasy had been too swift. Or maybe the whole episode was a
mistake she would come to regret, witness to her own ineptitude and immaturity.

Karen kept her eyes fixed on Anthony's face. Apart from their hands their bodies had not touched, though she could sense his warmth. She disentangled her fingers from his grasp and slid her hand up and over his hip. He wore ordinary striped pyjamas, quite conventional, which felt cosy and inviting to her touch. She shifted her body closer to his, then found the slit in the front of the pyjama trousers, and slid her fingers inside.

The pubic hair was stiff and curly, not like the fine hair on his head. Her mouth was dry and she wondered what he would like her to do, if anything. If he preferred to talk, that was fine: after all, she'd also had a miserable patch long ago and was familiar with that terrible conviction of being quite alone and misunderstood. She waited.

He did not push her away. Her fingers slid a few inches further, and rested at last on his flaccid penis.

It was wet. The trouser fabric too was damp and slimy. Karen swallowed hard, then made her voice mild. ‘I thought you had a
bad
dream, Anthony. Seems to have been more than that.'

He put his own hand over hers as if in explanation. ‘I have this … difficulty … from time to time,' he muttered hoarsely. ‘Comes from not having a girlfriend, I suppose. I'm sorry.'

Whatever had happened to Anthony was clearly not part of his conscious apparatus. She let her hand rest loosely under his: to pull it away would have shown disapproval. ‘It's not important, not really. You shouldn't brood about it. No point in being upset – you've every reason to be on top of the world. Everybody speaks so highly of you, Anthony. And I like you very much – I'd like to be a close friend, at least…'

Then her essentially generous nature took over, mixed, she had to admit, with a whisker of impatience. Why was it that forward men were generally not worth knowing while the sweet ones had to have it all done for them? She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, lightly but repeatedly, while starting to rub, backwards and forwards, on the limp organ. With some satisfaction she felt it begin to stiffen.

‘No!'

A cry came from Anthony's lips. He flung back the bedclothes and stood upright, pushing himself back into his pyjama trousers with shaky hands. Karen sat up, aghast.

‘I can't, Karen. Not with … it's not you, you're fine. It's just … I can't explain. And certainly not now. We both have work in the morning. I'm going to the bathroom. When I get back, I'd be glad if you were gone.'