A Woman's Place (39 page)

He reached for a packet and began to peel it. ‘We could indeed, Miss Karen. Roll over…'

Anthony was not sure how it had happened. That he was drunk was more than likely; he had not eaten much that day other than the salad and some cheese but he remembered draining the last of a bottle of wine and a couple of brandies.

The young man with the black hair and dark eyes had entered after him and sat alone at the table vacated by the amorous couple. Anthony was not conscious that he had still been casting glances in that direction, though the man's beauty was striking. Spanish, perhaps, or at least Mediterranean. Not British, of that he was certain; and therefore the man was usefully unaware of his observer's identity.

The young man smiled and raised his glass. After a second's hesitation Anthony returned the salute. Both were in casual clothes, Anthony's rather more expensive: a polo sweater, slacks, a light jacket for the warm evening. As he pushed the cheese plate away a chair scraped. The man stood by his side. He was tall and slim and smelled faintly of a musky male perfume.

‘Vous êtes tout seul ce soir, comme moi, je crois
?
'

The voice was low and melodious. It would have been wiser to say no, he was not alone, that he was waiting for a friend: the fellow would have shrugged and gone away. There had been no salutation, no ‘
Bonsoir
'. It was as if the stranger had already assumed an acquaintance.

Impulse. A crazy feeling. On holiday, away from prying eyes, caution thrown to the winds, far from rules and obligations. A brief friendship, a chance merely to practise his French, entirely innocent. An adventure: no harm could come of it, if he were careful. Anthony had summoned the waiter, ordered more wine and as casually as he could motioned the young man to join him.

From that point onwards events were a blur, until he found himself once more alone back in his hotel room in the Rue du Sénat. Anthony flung himself down on the bed fully dressed and groaned out loud, as he had done barely thirty minutes before. But then he had been unclothed, and so had the stranger. And in the space of that half-hour Anthony had learned what certain other people do, and where it hurts and what soothes and what eases the movement and how the pain is relieved and released, all against a background of weird music and whispered phrases of synthetic love, from a man he had never met before and never wanted to see again.

With a bitter gesture he wiped his mouth against the back of his hand. He could still taste that tongue thrusting against his: it was, he realised, the first time he had ever been kissed sexually. He had responded so eagerly that he had drawn blood from the man's lip. There had been blood elsewhere too, faint marks on his own shoulders and buttocks from whatever the man had used on him – a cane, was it? – and the leather belt from his own trousers. Then Anthony had clung to him and had cried out in mingled ecstasy and terror. Now he felt horrible, unclean.

The shower was cold. Savagely Anthony wrenched at the tap, which came off in his hand. Scalding water rained down on him; his back stung. He stayed in as long as possible, the water slicking his hair down his face, then stepped out and pulled on a dressing gown, leaving the shower still running.

Then the tears came. Back on the bed he curled up like a child and cried himself to sleep.

Elaine put down her tray and smiled across the table at her daughter. ‘It would appear', she remarked drily, ‘that you had a splendid holiday.'

Karen's tanned face opposite, her eyes bright, skin glowing with health, told its own happy tale. A substantial plateful of curried chicken and rice was disappearing into her mouth with astonishing rapidity; a slice of lemon cheesecake waited on the side with a large pot of tea.

The Strangers' Cafeteria in the House of Commons was known to all those who worked in the Palace of Westminster as the ‘staff caff'. Its offerings were basic, wholesome, plentiful and cheap. Despite the apparent formality of dark panelling and scrolled plasterwork, the large room was a haven of friendliness. Tea urns hissed, plates clattered; sauce and vinegar bottles graced the tables. Police and security men in shirtsleeves carried their fish and chips into far comers. Secretaries smoked and gossiped. Research assistants on meagre salaries, thin as rakes, bent hungrily over dollops of cottage pie followed by roly-poly with custard. Best of all, nobody took the slightest notice of an MP with a guest, though Members had their own room, smaller and smarter but with much the same cuisine, next door.

‘You look as if something's happened.' Elaine was not about to be inquisitive, but if her daughter wished to confide she would have a ready listener.

‘How can you tell?' Karen giggled. ‘It has, actually. Or rather,
he
has.' Her head tilted, teasing. ‘You know him; he works not a million miles from here.'

‘Anthony?' Elaine's eyes rounded. ‘I knew you were keen on him, but –'

‘No, not him. Guess again.'

‘Haven't the foggiest. Another MP? I'd have thought you had more sense.' Elaine frowned. ‘He's not married, is he?'

‘No, he's not. I'm not
that
stupid.' Karen caught the shadow of pain on her mother's face and dropped her gaze. ‘Sorry, Mum. I didn't mean that.'

‘Don't apologise. You were right.' Elaine paused and looked out of the window. Although it was early autumn and still warm, a blustery wind had kept most diners off the Terrace. Karen's judgement was far sounder than her own. She turned back. ‘So, who is it, then? Don't keep me in suspense.'

‘Try one of the other chaps I live with.'

‘Fred? Good Lord. I didn't think he had it in him.' Karen laughed again. ‘Neither did I, but he has now. Been reading the manuals, at a guess. Got quite a technique –' Elaine spoke sharply, but with a chuckle. ‘That's enough. I don't need to know the gruesome details, thank you.'

‘He's getting quite keen. I think he's in love with me.' Karen preened herself, pushed away the empty curry plate and started on the cheesecake. Watching Karen's evident enjoyment as she picked at her own salad Elaine envied her daughter's calorific capacity. A similar meal would have defeated her before halfway.

‘And you?' Elaine prompted.

Karen's mouth twitched thoughtfully. ‘I like him, of course, but I don't think I want to marry him. Maybe I know too much about the life of MPs and their families. It's not as if I were a
starry-eyed
researcher, for whom MPs are madly glamorous. He's sweet, and lovely in bed, so we'll carry on as we are for a while. If he starts getting romantic I may have a problem.'

‘He's the sort who might,' Elaine warned. ‘Don't hurt his feelings.' She suppressed an urge to remark tartly on Karen's willingness to make love when love was absent. Her curiosity surfaced. ‘So what happened with Anthony York? Did you two just never get together?'

The girl munched cake for a moment. ‘We did, but it was most peculiar, Mum. Something is
wrong
with him. He's mixed up quite badly inside, somehow. At La Baule, on the beach, with
everybody cavorting around practically nude, he wouldn't take his shirt off and sat in the shade reading a book. At least he pretended to read. Most of the time he stared out to sea and looked so … sad and confused. He didn't say much either. I can't make him out.'

Elaine was not about to divulge what she knew about Anthony's unhappy background. Her remark to him, that his subsequent success was the more admirable, was sincerely meant. The scars on his wrists did not make him unsuitable in any way as her junior, though she felt a distinct sense of relief that he was seemingly no longer in her daughter's sights. To see Karen involved with somebody with such a past would have caused her anxiety. Yet his well-being was her concern, as it was Karen's.

‘He's been a bit odd since he came back from leave,' Elaine mused. ‘Hyperactive, almost – working terribly hard. Yet the moment the talk veers towards anything personal he clams up.'

‘There weren't any nightmares on holiday either, which was unusual.' As Elaine raised an eyebrow in surprise, Karen told her about the disturbed nights in Battersea, though hesitating noticeably over the details. Her mother guessed what might have happened but thought better than to enquire. She was unsure she wanted to learn that her daughter made a habit of slipping into strange men's beds. Karen continued, ‘I was worried that he might have bad dreams in France, but he slept like a log: impossible to wake in the morning. A bit dopey in the daytime too.'

‘Maybe he's started taking something to help him sleep.'

Silence ensued. Neither wanted to consider the implications of one of Her Majesty's Ministers becoming dependent on drugs. It occurred to Elaine that perhaps Anthony's inconsistent hyperactivity might have a similar cause.

She pondered. In the weeks since his return the junior Minister had made no attempt to renew the former favourable contact and had shied away from further gentle probing. It was as if he were warning her that the subject was closed. ‘Before recess I thought we might become quite close: he seemed to trust me. Now it's gone. It makes me uneasy. I'd rather he asked for help, if he needs it, than rely on pills.'

‘I don't think he'd know how to ask for help.' Karen pushed away her plate. ‘Anyway, although he's my landlord I have other fish to fry. Possibly too many for my own good, in fact. D'you remember that awful journalist, Jim Betts from the
Globe?
'

Elaine frowned, then shook her head. She knew little about her daughter's early history and nothing at all about the rape that had happened over four years earlier. The name was vaguely familiar, since it appeared regularly over the sleazier stories in the
Globe
; other than that, she would have been hard put to summon up a face to match it.

‘What of him?'

‘He's hanging around too. Phoned and pestered me a couple of times. But I think he's after dirt on the MPs I live with: that's his kind of journalism. I wouldn't touch him with a bargepole, so don't fret.'

‘If you do see him, even just to talk, do be careful.' Elaine rose to go. Half an hour she had told the office. A nagging sensation of too much left unsaid disturbed her.

Karen flushed, then laughed lightly. She knew far better than anyone what Betts was capable of. ‘Yeah, Mum, I will.'

‘Like a honeypot to the bees, that's you,' Elaine commented as they walked together to the doorway, but there was pride and love in her voice.

Under the table Anthony drummed his fingers. He felt tense. The pulses in his skull beat faster and with a fiercer intensity than he was used to: the rhythm was frightening. But without the benzedrine he would be dozy, as he had discovered for much of the time on the beach; and without the nitrazepam he could not sleep, but relived that night in the hotel room, each moment of it, right down
to the entering, the exquisite pain, the relief…

No. He must
not
remember that. It had been madness. Completely out of character. The whole affair disgusted him to the core. Worst of all, with a complete stranger. He had offered the man money, which had been accepted with a whisper of thanks and an offer to see him again, but any such notion was completely out of the question. And what they
did
– it was forbidden and decried everywhere, in the Bible, in polite society. Yet alone at night as he lay tossing and aching for sleep, his face buried in the pillow, Anthony felt those skilled hands creep once more to his buttocks and force them apart, felt first the fingers, then was it an instrument? … and at last …
that
slide into him. He realised he dreamed about it, had always dreamed about it. Before the night in Paris he had maintained a kind of virginity and had pushed other pictures, lurid and exciting though they might be, from his mind. Yet it had happened. He had let it happen. Not only allowed it, but asked for it; and wept as he asked, as the young man made certain that consent was given, freely: begged for it, in fact…

The sound of genteel laughter floated into his consciousness. Around the departmental table somebody had made a joke. He had missed it and could only join in a half-second too late. The meeting of Ministers and officials moved on, but across the room Chadwick was staring at him curiously. He was being watched. He would have to be watchful himself. He stilled his hands and slipped them into his lap, raised his head and gazed around almost defiantly.

At the other end of the table Martin Chadwick was performing a double act. Part of him was indeed noting the facial revelations of Mr Anthony York. The main part of Chadwick's brain, however, was supporting the Permanent Secretary in his exposition of the possibilities for the department in the forthcoming Queen's Speech, and the likely depredations of the Chancellor in the Budget which would follow in November.

Money was very tight. On the other hand, the still-new department's value needed to be enhanced. The combination of necessity and penury created an intriguing conundrum.

‘We could abolish the health authorities: that'd stir the pot nicely, and save money.' Chadwick's tone was helpful.

‘What good would that do?' growled Ted Bampton. ‘Upset a lot of people, that would. All our friends. People we appointed for their political purity. And loyalty.'

Chadwick pressed his fingertips to his mouth and delicately cleared his throat. His professional code prevented him commenting on any sentence that contained the word ‘political'. ‘I only suggested it because you frequently ask exactly what the health authorities do, Secretary of State.'

‘Doesn't mean I want 'em abolished.' Bampton glared at the adviser. ‘I don't know what
you
do, Chadwick, but it doesn't mean I'm about to abolish you.'

A titter went around the room. Chadwick was grudgingly admired, but not liked.

‘Oh, I don't know, Secretary of State,' Chadwick responded. ‘Were you to present me with the same deal as the Treasury chaps, I might be tempted.'

‘What's that?' Bampton looked up, uncertain whether to welcome or deplore the possibility of losing Martin Chadwick.

Chadwick shrugged self-deprecatingly. If Ministers wished to be distracted from the agenda, that suited him fine. ‘The Secretary to the Cabinet wants to lose eight out of twenty-four
Under-Secretary
posts and fifteen out of sixty-four Assistant Secretary posts. Since these are senior positions, the terms are generous. An Under-Secretary aged between forty and forty-eight would take on redundancy five and a quarter times his salary as a lump sum, of which the first thirty thousand pounds would be tax-free; and of course his pension at age sixty, which is index-linked. Plus a lump sum of fifty-five thousand pounds on that date too. Also tax-free. That's it.'

‘Blimey! I wish somebody would make me that sort of offer,' Bampton muttered.

Chadwick decided to rub it in. The information helped remind everyone present why the cleverest in the nation still chose the Civil Service and not, like Bampton, industry or politics.

‘And were I over forty-eight I would be able to draw an annual pension of twenty-five thousand pounds right away, while the tax-free lump sum on my sixtieth birthday would be increased to sixty-six thousand pounds.'

Elaine Stalker leaned across the table. ‘You've worked it out, Mr Chadwick. Let's assume you were eligible for the Treasury scheme. Since you're … what? … about forty-five? … how much would you get, in total?'

‘Right away? About three hundred and fifty thousand.'

‘Christ.' Bampton glowered. ‘Amazing what you can do with other people's money, isn't it?'

The Permanent Secretary quickly intervened. ‘But he's not eligible, and as a new department we are short of staff, not overmanned. So shall we move on, Secretary of State?' He flashed a look of annoyance at his deputy. They would have words later.

Chadwick smiled to himself. How he loved showing these peasants up. He let the discussion wash over him for a few moments. His attention was caught again by the fingers of the junior Minister opposite, which had crept back on to the desk and were fiddling in a distracted fashion with the papers before him.

He allowed himself to stare coolly at Mr York. As a connoisseur of the unusual, Chadwick could tell a mile off who was at ease with his sexuality and who not; and whether a little experimentation would be welcome, even if the suggestion had been spurned the first time.

Chadwick had long felt himself doubly fortunate. To be well married, and contentedly so, was not a camouflage but a significant part of his own life. It was not simply a matter of status or fear of the opprobrium that diminished any open homosexual's chances in the government service, though officially discrimination had been abandoned. Unlike gay couples, he could father children and was blessed with a family who would bring joy for years to come. Chadwick had no intention of coming to a lonely and loveless death, possibly from a horrible disease. On the contrary: he fully anticipated dying after a highly respectable old age, surrounded by weeping children and grandchildren, his hand held lovingly by his grieving wife, from whom his dark side had been totally hidden. His name would be honoured. He would not be a source of controversy. Not ever.