Goodfellowe MP (11 page)

The Opposition had called the debate, on environmental
policy, and their benches were crowded. While the Environment Secretary prepared to marshal the Government’s defences at the Dispatch Box, Opposition Members affected an appearance of nonchalance, waiting for the moment to turn from indifference to ridicule. Gangling legs were thrust forward, boots first, as though ready to trample on whatever argument was put before them. Boots placed well in front of brain. Some were even propped up on the Clerks’ Table in a manner which would have caused outrage in any other club, but the sporting of soles along the Front Bench was an ancient privilege whose origins stretched back into the mists of time, probably to Eton.

Goodfellowe rubbed his blister, slowly hardening inside its leather shell. You could tell a lot about a politician from his shoes, he reflected. The youthful sound-bite rebel whose shoes were usually covered in mud, not from service in the parliamentary trenches but from lingering around the lawns of College Green where the television cameras were to be found. The fashionable militant, usually an academic, wearing his Caterpillar boots with pride as though he stood ever ready to join the hunger march from Jarrow, even though Caterpillars cost £130 a pair. There was the patent leather of the man who spent too much time shopping for his shoes and his politics in Brussels, and the rural brogue which spoke of countryside and old-fashioned courtesy, a Member to be relied upon, a man who regarded the serving of his constituents and the thrashing of hunt saboteurs as a public duty. Nearby one could find soft
Italian loafers, the mark of the made-by-Armani man, all professional style with soft Italian suits that covered little but soft Italian principles. And brown suede shoes, brothel creepers, like conjoined eyebrows the mark of a man intended for the gallows, or perhaps for lunch at the Groucho Club. But mostly the footwear was simply a little too old and frayed, the polish of earlier days faded by wear. They were dull, some downright scruffy, the sign of men in constant distraction who were too busy saving the souls of others to worry about their own.

The shoes along the Front Benches told their own story of the day. The debate had been called by the Opposition to coincide with the publication of a report from The Earth Firm, a prominent pressure group, whose conclusions were damning in their indictment of the Government’s failure to meet its stated environmental commitments. Line after line of Government election promise had been analysed, and page after page of detailed denunciation had been handed down, an effective piece of pressure group propaganda that had conjured lurid headlines. During the morning not a single volunteer could be found from the Government Front Bench to be dragged to Broadcasting House for the ritual radio flogging, but the Opposition rhetoric had been savage, comparing Ministers to ‘vultures picking their way through the remains of their manifesto to see if anything still survives’. Elderly spinsters fled in terror from their breakfast tables. Those of sterner constitution anticipated the afternoon and the delights of
witnessing a Minister being keelhauled before the House.

All the components for the humiliation had been brought together. The report. The emotive issue. The accusation. The flight from evidence to exaggeration with images of infants being poisoned and withered in the womb. And the time of punishment had arrived. The Opposition spokesman rose with fire in his breast, his colleagues tapping their shoes on the green carpet in expectation. He made much of the report, and then some more, charging the Government with craven pandering to pressure. They have become slaves to the vested interests,’ he thundered. Opposition MPs cleared their throats and stamped their soles in approval.

Only one thing was missing. At such close range, bayonet to bayonet, it is usually difficult for condemned politicians not to show some response to their impending fate. A certain sallowness of cheek. Maybe a smile that is made of frost and looks ready to shatter. A flicker in the eyes that betrays, if not remorse, then anguish. But not this Minister, not today. She sat diminutive behind the Dispatch Box, squeezed between the men, adjusting the pleats of her dress, whispering to a neighbour, rummaging absentmindedly in her handbag, even enjoying some of the Opposition’s gallows humour. And all the while she smiled serenely, as though listening to a church sermon.

It wasn’t natural. Something was wrong. The Opposition spokesman began to lose his stride. All along the Opposition Front Bench the shoes began
twitching in discomfort, as though every member of the Opposition team had dressed in a hurry and put on a pair too small for them. They fidgeted. Scratched. Then it was her turn.

‘It is often said, Madam Speaker, that a politician should never be caught in public with either his morals or his mistress, since in the end he will need to betray both of them. This afternoon has been a splendid example of such masculine folly.’ From behind her came roars of support. At the moment none of her backbenchers had the slightest idea what she meant, but it was enough that she had come out fighting.

‘The Opposition has taken for its bible this … report.’ She held it up for the inspection of the House as though expecting someone to make a bid, before flinging it down upon the Dispatch Box. ‘And we shall judge it by the morals and many mistresses which may be revealed.’

More anticipation, more shoe-shuffling. Then she held in her hands a copy of the
Evening Herald
, displaying it with pride. Members strained forward to catch its contents.

‘Since the Opposition is so notoriously shortsighted, I shall read it for them. The headline says:
“Eco-Chief A Cheat.”
’

She read out the relevant details, savouring them, repeating many of the best, banging her pointed finger against the Dispatch Box for emphasis. Opposition feet stopped fidgeting, stopped moving at all. Rigor mortis had set in.

‘And so it seems, Madam Speaker, that the author
of the report in which the Opposition places so much trust is not the paragon of truth and virtue we had been led to expect. It seems he has been living with two different women, neither of whom is his long-abandoned wife. He has been claiming two lots of dole money, in spite of the fact that he draws a considerable level of expenses from The Earth Firm to fund his duties as a professional agitator. In addition, he also draws disability benefit, although his sad and obviously enervating disability doesn’t apparently prevent him spending most of his time chained to trees.’

She waved her copy of the
Herald
. It was the turn of the Government benches to stamp their feet, like Zulus appearing over the ridge.

‘It never ceases to amaze me how these professional protesters have the strength to get on their bikes and cycle around the country in search of any discomfort other than a proper job.’

More cries from the warriors behind. She fixed her opponent across her half-moon glasses.

‘The Honourable Gentleman should take care. He seems to be climbing into beds which are already too crowded.’

Game, Set, Debate. The parliamentary sketch-writers had rarely had such rich pickings. ‘Opposition Lost Up Amazon,’ one was already scribbling. ‘Bedtime for Bozo,’ hacked another.

From his perch up in the Visitors’ Gallery, Corsa turned to his companions with a face flushed with contentment. Beside him Cars and Nuclear sat silently. Both were lost in serious thought.

She took her finger from her mouth. ‘Success hasn’t changed me,’ she said. ‘I feel no different now I’m earning four million from when I was only earning two.’

‘Shuddup.’

The finger went back in, but only for a while. ‘My mother always told me that men who offer you champagne after five usually end up trying to drink it from your navel.’

‘Will you be quiet and concentrate?’

The finger hovered indecisively. ‘Mind you, that really is a wonderful vintage you’ve …’ And the rest was lost in a tremulous moan which began to soar like the song of a nightingale through the night sky, rising almost beyond reach before it came slowly to rest and finally died.

They lay silently on the bed for several minutes, looking down the river to the bonfire of ambitions which was the City, ablaze with electric flames that reflected from the dark and turbid waters of the Thames.

She crooked her neck. ‘Blast. You’ve ruined my nail.’

She held up her finger. The nail was bitten clean through.

Corsa took it as a compliment. ‘I’ll buy you a weekend at a health farm so they can repair it for you.’

‘A weekend? You could buy the entire bloody farm using nothing but the small change from the money you’re asking for.’

He rolled back from her, examining. ‘Somehow,
of all people, I never expected you to mix business and pleasure.’

‘I’m not.’

‘What the hell was the last half-hour?’

‘You exaggerate. Eighteen minutes.’

‘So that was the voice of complaint I was just listening to?’

She pulled the sheet protectively around her body and examined the bitten nail once more. ‘I’m here for two reasons, Freddy. The first is because I met an actress in my aerobics class a few weeks ago – can’t remember her name. Don’t suppose you can either. But she knows you well enough.’ She rolled over so that she was facing him, running a finger up the line of his navel, slowly, all the way to his lips. Her voice smouldered like sulphur. ‘She told me you made her feel useful. I thought to myself, anyone who could make that foolish young girl feel of any use whatsoever must have a talent.’

‘Was it … Anthea?’

‘No. Can’t remember, but definitely not Anthea.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘Because this afternoon I and the other members of the consortium agreed to your absurd plan. If the newspaper titles come up, we’ll help you buy them.’

‘And Granite?’

‘Not alone, not on its own, but as part of the package. When the others are available, we’ll take a chunk of Granite as well.’

His whole body shivered. His breathing quickened as though being transported once again into ecstasy, except this was much, much better. She had brought
him everything. The money to save Granite, to paper over all his shortcuts and save his fraudulent hide. But even more, to make him the biggest player on the field. The game was on, and he had just rewritten all the rules. The bonfires of the City seemed to burn with a renewed brightness; he hoped his bankers were sitting right in the middle of the flames.

She tried to hide her smile as she watched his passions flare once more. ‘It’s all business, you see. I’m here in your bed simply to reassure myself that – how can I put it?’ Her finger retraced the path down from his lips, more slowly. ‘To make sure you could deliver on your promises.’

‘And your verdict?’

‘Anthea – whoever – was a silly girl. Too easily convinced.’ He could feel her broken nail digging into him. ‘I’m a natural sceptic, Freddy. I’d like to come to a more mature conclusion. So do you think you could run that past me again? Do that to me just one more time?’

He withdrew the sheet that she had wrapped tightly around her. ‘With that amount of money, my love, I could do it to the whole world.’

Goodfellowe had been sitting for the first five minutes of the morning examining the usual stack of daily drudgery that Mickey had left on his desk. Which way up to start, he wondered? Top to bottom, maybe dealing with the important matters first? But that would only make progress seem ineffably slow. Or from the bottom up, getting through the first three inches of dross at a pace and glowing in the illusion
that he was doing his job? The phone butted through his contemplation of duty.

‘I’ve got a lady from The Kremlin on the line,’ Mickey announced cheerily. ‘Won’t tell me what it’s about. Says it’s personal.’

Memories of torn credit-card vouchers buzzed around his head like angry wasps. ‘Did you tell her I was in?’ he demanded.

‘Did I tell Justin that last night’s overtime was worked out at the Hippodrome?’

He paused. What would the caller be after? No, it couldn’t be money. Not yet. Not even his cheques bounced that quickly. Caught between the whirlpool of his curiosity and the rock represented by his constituents’ correspondence, he decided to swim for it. Mickey put her through.

‘Mr Goodfellowe, this is Elizabeth de Vries.’

He recognized the voice. Now he thought about it, the tones were delightfully modulated and just a little breathy. Almost like an actress. And the theatrical name. But a touch too experienced still to be waiting on table, he thought.

‘I’m sorry about the credit card,’ he started in, ‘some silly computer blunder …’

‘No, it has nothing to do with that. It’s … I hope you’ll forgive me, I may be about to make a fool of myself, but you left a tip with the cloakroom attendant.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which turned out to be your suit button.’

Mercy, was there no end to the humiliation?

‘It’s just that I know how difficult suit buttons are
to replace, and I thought it was worth calling to let you know where to find it.’

‘That is … a generous thought,’ he muttered, wincing.

‘If you’re coming in for lunch or dinner soon …’

Anguish. ‘My diary’s rather full at the moment.’

‘Never mind. You seemed to enjoy your glass of wine and we’re having a wine-tasting in a couple of days. Perhaps you could spare half an hour?’