This Honourable House (16 page)

‘We will need to consider carefully,’ said Lawrence slowly, ‘what we are going to do now. No sudden resignations, if you please, Benedict, for all our sakes. This can’t be done in a hurry, not with the howls of that ghastly mob outside. So I suggest we issue a short statement saying you have been unwell, and you expect to be here in Devon for at least a week. That should give us some breathing space. Is that agreed?’

A faint sigh of relief came from the others. Someone had taken charge. Lawrence took the silence as concurrence and left the table.

Benedict rolled over and opened one eye. It was seven o’clock; outside the rain splattered angrily against the window. He would have to rise soon, shave, bathe and dress. This was the day he would return to London, recovered from flu, or a mild dose of pleurisy or whatever it was they had settled on as the cause of his flight.

He trailed a hand over the floor and picked at the carpet, trying to remember the sensation of grains of sand. But it no longer worked: the rough wool tufts did not soothe him.

Back to London, back to the flat, back to the sham marriage. Lavender marriages, they were called, in which a gay man hid by pretending to be straight, with a woman content to act as his accomplice. The options had been stark. He could have left Christine, announced to the world his true nature, offered to resign his post. A divorce would probably have followed, tinged inevitably with recrimination. The world would have sniggered. His credibility would have been damaged beyond repair, whatever tolerance the party might have exhibited. After hours of discussion he had come to accept that this was the most selfish of all the choices. It would hurt his family, his colleagues and his political prospects, none of which he had any right to damage. Perhaps if he had fallen in love with a man, the drive to leave the closet would have been overwhelming. But he hadn’t. So it could be resisted.

It was a big help that at least he had spoken openly to his wife, and that she understood, as far as she could. They had talked privately, and they no longer shared a room. Her desire to see him at the top was as strong as ever. She had cited other prominent wives who supported secretly gay husbands. She referred to harder cases, like Hillary Clinton, who had stood by her man even as he interfered with vulnerable young women in the Oval Office; or those who had waited faithfully while a husband served a prison sentence. Benedict had done nothing illegal or even remotely distasteful. His chances of success were undiminished, even by this episode. She would remain loyally with him and urge him on. They would continue to pretend that they lived in conjugal bliss. At some future point they might even try sex again, before Christine was too old to bear children. They both liked children, or claimed to. But success at the hustings would fill any gaps.

This was an equally selfish outcome, Benedict was aware. But it was the one that required the least alteration in their lives, the fewest explanations to outsiders. And it seemed to suit his wife, though Benedict could not fathom why. Maybe she was as ambitious as he was. If so, and if she
wanted, she could stand for election herself in due course – and, he suddenly saw, probably would.

The frustrations had to be dealt with, or he would risk breaking down again. It was resolved, with Lawrence’s help, to modify the work pattern to leave time to relax. In particular, he would try again to do half an hour’s meditation each morning, when his resolve to behave like a model husband – apart from the sex, of course – could be repeated to himself until it became habitual. On top of that he would have set periods for regular exercise. The Commons gym was too public, running did not appeal, while most other sports took too much organisation. He would, however, join the House of Commons rifle club, in the basement, and enjoy taking mental pot-shots at his enemies one evening a week. Lawrence’s student interest in martial arts, which he had not practised for ten years, had also surfaced during one brainstorming session. Benedict was intrigued; the idea of a physically demanding hour or two attracted him. Exhaustion was the answer. And it sounded suitably manly.

It was agreed that the two cousins would tackle the ancient art of tae kwon do. Lawrence would find a tutor, and a location. Benedict rubbed his shoulder, naked under the pyjama jacket. He felt slightly more serene. This Oriental sport might prove to be the answer to his prayers.

Diane Clark stared at herself in the full-length mirror. The loose black silk trousers were her own, the fitted jacket in a lurid shade of green still had its price ticket hanging from the collar. On a nearby chair waited several other vivid outfits in plastic covers.

‘It’s ghastly,’ she announced. ‘What are you up to? You’re trying to make me into something I’m not. You’ll have me wearing pearl earrings next. Why can’t you pesky people leave me alone?’

‘No, no, Secretary of State, it’s superb. It shows off your figure to a T. It gives you authority and style. It makes a powerful statement about you.’

The small skinny woman in the black and white suit and teetering high-heeled shoes stepped back and almost tripped over the ministerial red box that had been left carelessly, its lid open, on the floor. Diane grunted crossly, marched over, pushed the woman to one side and slammed the lid. The woman jumped sideways like the scrawny magpie she resembled, as if caught in the act of pilfering official papers.

‘Effing boxes. We’re supposed to guard them with our lives,’ Diane said. ‘The other day I was on the train heading to my constituency and I had to go to the loo. Off I went, and I bought a coffee on the way back. When I returned to my seat there’s some fat bastard in pinstripes saying, “Well,
Mzzz
Clark, I don’t think much of your security.” He reported unguarded secret papers to the police, would you believe? Back in London Monday morning there was hell to pay. The Boss issued a solemn warning to the entire Cabinet: watch your boxes, there may be spies about. Huh!’

The colour consultant retreated as if the accusation of spying had been directed at her personally. Then she drew herself up to her full diminutive height. Her head bobbed back and forth above the frills of the crisp white blouse. Diane felt the urge to feed her peanuts. ‘With respect, Secretary of State, you are changing the subject. We don’t have long. I am tasked with assisting you to select three new outfits which will trademark your unique image and enhance the government’s standing in the eyes of the public. As a committed supporter of the Prime Minister I can’t leave till that is completed.’ She stood her ground stubbornly, her mouth set.

‘As it says here, does it?’ Diane’s finger traced an invisible line on an imaginary memo. She grinned. ‘Sorry. I’m being a pain, as usual. It’s just that I don’t feel comfortable in this fancy get-up, hand-stitched seams and padded shoulders. I thought they went out with the ark, no? If I had my way, we’d have Fridays every single day.’

‘Fridays?’ The woman was mystified.

‘When companies tell their employers that on a Friday they don’t have to come to work in formal gear. They can wear jeans or whatever. Helps them feel more relaxed. It’s a great idea.’

The woman shuddered.

Diane tugged the emerald cloth over her bosom and twisted to look over her shoulder. ‘The trouble with green,’ she said, as she unfastened the oversized buttons, ‘is that it vanishes into the green leather of the Commons benches. You get a disembodied head floating above a hazy body. But orange or red, the colours we’re supposed to wear, are so bloody reminiscent of the Thatcher era that I can’t bear them. This malarkey serves no purpose anyway since nobody’s watching our ancient and ceremonial duties in the House. Not any more. We’re mouthing inanities, merely going through the motions. So why can’t we wear decently sludgy colours and a pair of old trainers, as if clothes didn’t really matter, which they don’t?’

The woman flushed and opened her mouth again, but Diane pretended to read the invisible memo to silence her. ‘Yeah, I know. Orders have gone out. But I hate the whole business.’

‘We have that one in ecru,’ the woman said doggedly. ‘Not your best shade since you have such strong features, but it would perform quite well in the Commons and under lights in the TV studio. Ecru makes a woman appear both dignified and feminine.’

Diane bared her teeth and hissed, then laughed at the woman’s affronted reaction. ‘I give up. I’m summoned to see the Boss tomorrow. Could you bring one round tonight? Then I can make an impression.’

The woman reached for her notepad. ‘Certainly. And, if I may say so, you have made an excellent selection. Would you like it in royal blue as well?’

In the
Globe
conference room it was business as usual. James Betts lit a cigarette and moved away from the smoke detector. The campaign to name and shame paedophiles had been a tremendous success. Circulation figures had soared and appeared to have stabilised some thirty thousand higher than in the previous quarter. The proprietor would be delighted. The fact that two unfortunates had committed suicide and several convicted child abusers had been driven from their homes by vigilante groups had also been front-page news. It was the right thing for good, honest citizens to do. It helped protect their children from the evils of society, especially those wide-eyed infants who accompanied their parents as they screamed abuse and hurled bricks through windows. The newspaper could afford to ignore the notion peddled by hand-wringing liberals that the vast majority of abused children were victims of their own relatives. That established fact was not the press’s currency, for how could you accuse such citizens of being as wicked as their neighbours? Particularly when they bought and read the paper.

Betts chuckled to himself. Pansy Illingworth, the editor, was still poring over the figures with the circulation manager. Circulation was all. Every aspect of the paper was measured by it. If the public wanted dumbing down, then dumbing down they would get. Screaming headlines certainly helped a lot. The
Globe
’s role was to identify any current unease in society, translate it into prurient adjectives and print it in full colour across seven pages. A balanced view would have diluted the impact so was banned. It was emphatically not their job to postulate solutions, only to keep scratching the wounds until either the government came up with a convincing remedy, which was unlikely, or some more attractive campaign surfaced. The public were not only easily aroused, they were easily bored. You had to move on or they would – to a rival newspaper with another scandal to plaster over the billboards.

‘It’s a rat-race out there. And I’m a rat,’ Betts murmured to himself with satisfaction.

Pansy completed her discussion and approached him. ‘Sorry to nag, Jim, but I was wondering how you were getting on with the abandoned wife.’

He blinked. ‘I haven’t got a wife …’ he began, then saw he was being teased. ‘You mean Mrs Frank Bridges,’ he continued huffily. ‘You sure you want an in-depth interview with her? She’s barmy. And he might sue.’

‘So? It’s a terrific story. We don’t have to check her allegations, merely report them. Keep the juicy bits in quotes, Jim. And on tape. Then she’s the target if he wants to go to law, not us. You know the rules.’

Betts was aware that this was not strictly true, but he was unstinted in his admiration for the slipperiness of the paper’s lawyers, the sole exemplars of the legal profession entitled in his view to be regarded as members of the human race.

‘By the way, the proprietor and the PM met at a fundraising dinner in Downing Street Tuesday.’ Pansy dropped her voice. ‘You were mentioned as one of the finest investigative journalists of the decade. No, don’t go modest on me, you’ve won awards.’

Betts sucked pensively at his cigarette and stayed silent.

‘The proprietor is a fan of yours, says he reads your main piece first – after the sports pages and the leaders, of course – so he pointed out to the PM that it’s not great if we and they are in dispute.’

Betts reflected privately that, in another era, an investigative journalist like himself would
have regarded the government of the day as prime targets, not as allies. He kept the thought to himself, along with others more agreeable about the low-cut sweater Pansy was wearing, and grunted.

‘What I’m getting at, Jim,’ Pansy glanced about, her voice a low hiss, ‘is that we’re about to get some movement on that article you wrote about Diane Clark. Remember?’

‘Oh, yes. How she was the vilest lady in the country, and a disgrace to politics?’

‘That’s the one. You may have to swallow your pride a little, but we’ll make it worth your while. Anyway, you don’t care either way about her, do you?’

‘I don’t care,’ said Betts, holding his cigarette between his teeth and blowing smoke nonchalantly as he spoke, ‘about any of them. Not a scrap.’

Diane twitched the new jacket about her shoulders. Ecru? Muddy beige, more like, but at least that was closest to the shade she would have picked for herself. The cut was a disaster; it was tight under the arms and pulled across her back. The image consultant had insisted that the fitted shape showed off her firm bosom, but that probably meant the garment was too small.

‘Just run that past me again. You want me to drop my action against the
Globe
?’

‘Yes. I feel it’s in the best interests of the government.’

Diane tried to read the Prime Minister’s expression, but the bland friendliness of his half-smile was belied by cold blue eyes. ‘So it doesn’t matter that they call us liars and cheats, and imply that women like me shouldn’t be in public office?’

The PM smiled more broadly. ‘I’m not sure it is always wise to challenge such comments in court, unpleasant and offensive though they may be,’ he said smoothly. ‘I remember my early legal training. Our head of chambers took his lead from one or two notable libel lawyers. “It is within the law to accuse politicians of lying, since they do so daily.” Prominent individuals have even admitted it at the despatch box or in select committee. Dissembling is the kinder word.’

‘Being economical with the truth.’

‘That was a civil servant, Sir Robert Armstrong. The wittier version was “being economical with the
actualité
”.’

‘Alan Clark. Yuk. He was a horrible man. Thank heaven he was no relation.’ Diane sniffed, as if an unnatural smell had entered the room. ‘He pretended to love women but that was for one purpose. Bed. In reality he hated them. Or, at least, intellectual women, those who could match his brains and resist his sexual charms.
He
didn’t think women had a place at the top table.’

‘He adored Margaret Thatcher.’

‘He was crackers. That proves it.’ The two politicians laughed self-indulgently at one opinion they could share. The PM shifted in his seat so that he could catch sight of the clock on the far wall. The movement was not lost on Diane. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked.

‘You’ll be made an offer. Haggle by all means, but don’t let it go on too long. You should come out fairly well. You’ll get an apology in open court, which will feel as if you’ve won. From the government’s point of view, it’s one less dispute, one less forest fire to fight. We will be profoundly grateful to you.’

Diane sighed. ‘I suppose I can still make something of it, talk as if it’s a victory?’

The PM smiled that broad, toothy grin, the one the cartoonists had exaggerated with such glee. Along with his prominent ears it gave him the appearance of a jack-rabbit: fussily in charge, but emphatically not in control. ‘Say whatever you wish. Downright whoppers are entirely acceptable. But don’t get us into any more trouble, please.’

Five items lay in the post-box: three slim white ones redirected from her old home, one brown oblong from the Inland Revenue – nothing that looked as if it might contain hate mail. And one large scruffy Jiffy-bag, re-used, stuffed with envelopes addressed to her care of the magazine, which had already
been opened.

Gail carried the mail into the flat and spread the contents on the kitchen table. An invitation to a charity lunch at the Dorchester detained her briefly until the accompanying application form told her that the tickets were seventy-five pounds apiece. An appeal from another charity to support its work in Rwanda, a relic of days when she had impulsively phoned donations to emergency numbers. A reminder, not particularly tactful in its wording, that her credit card was about to be withdrawn. And a reassessment from the taxman that still overestimated her income: she would have to write to them again. Nothing was personal. No note from a friend or family, no acknowledgement that she existed, except on official mailing lists, rather out of date.

And the letters from
Today’s Woman
, inquiries from readers, the personal issues that they thought she might like to handle as their new agony aunt. Another money earner handled by dear Mr Clifford Maxwell on her behalf.

It would be, he had assured her, well within the capability of a mature, intelligent person like herself. Anything specific would have been weeded out already, to be dealt with by their specialists: how to remove ballpoint from suede, how to dye navy blue curtains pale pink, the difference between pesto and basil sauce, how to serve lumpfish roe. Most of these questions, Gail felt, she would have enjoyed having a crack at. She would have told the curtain lady not to be so silly, to get herself some pink fabric and make new curtains – or buy them from John Lewis, it would be quicker. The pesto puzzler would have been advised to stick to Heinz tomato ketchup: it was still the best. And the lumpfish roe? Gail vaguely recalled that it was like caviar. Like caviar, then, on tiny water biscuits. The Russians washed it down with vodka; she had helped Frank entertain delegates at a TUC conference and been staggered at the alcohol they had put away while remaining upright. What a load of rubbish.

The postmarks suggested that somebody in the office had been hanging on to the readers’ enquiries for weeks. Even if she responded to every one today and caught the afternoon post it would be two months before the next edition appeared with her advice. No individual replies were possible. So whatever good she might do by offering sensible comments, it would probably be too late. She hoped no one was depressed or threatening self-harm. If so, they might well have jumped off Westminster Bridge by now.

The envelopes were accompanied by a typed note from a girl named Tina, whom Gail did not know. It asked for fifty words per reply in Word on a disk or by e-mail. Gail sniffed. Tina could go whistle for that; the most she could manage on the battered computer was to compose and print out. Just about. If the machine was playing up, longhand on lined paper would have to do. The note continued,