This Honourable House (19 page)

‘Better than all the rest!’

Her audience sang or shouted along with her, stamping their feet until the floor heaved. Behind the bar, away from the music, the manager smiled, shrugged and pulled another six pints of draught beer, lining them up on the counter. He noted who was present and who was not. Not the PM, though it was rumoured he might show his face; his wife had appeared briefly, accepted a glass of wine, sipped it, left it, graciously answered inane questions about the new baby, waved and was gone. The Chancellor, Andrew Marquand, was busy burning the midnight oil for the Budget. The rest of the Cabinet likewise had more important engagements, including the pasty-faced Secretary of State for Culture and the Arts who was dining out with the Architects’ Association and hearing from them why bridges built across the Thames were bound to wobble. His junior minister was rumoured to be writing the definitive inside history of the Dome, as a lesson for posterity. The Foreign Secretary was in Islington, endeavouring to explain to Amnesty International, of which he had been a contributing supporter for thirty years, why it served the cause of human rights and world peace to sell fighter planes to the Indonesians. The Home Secretary was in prison, sampling supper as cooked by prisoners while being followed everywhere by a television crew filming a sympathetic documentary. His youngest son, unbeknown to everyone present, was heading for another barred cell later that evening after a bender with his friends, but such inoffensive indulgence was now smiled upon as proving the
genuine humanity of the parents. And the Minister for Agriculture was raising his cholesterol level, as Ministers of Agriculture must, with red meat and drink offered by the National Farmers Union, chewing the fat with them with every sign of sincere enjoyment.

Frank Bridges had turned up with a senior trade-union official, though not with his pretty new wife who was the object of such fervid and understandable curiosity. Any mature man who managed to land an attractive young female was the envy of his peers. The older ones wondered wistfully how he had done it, and whether he could keep up with her. The younger ones were peevish, resentful of a man their father’s age stealing what was rightfully theirs. But Frank was solidly present, full of bonhomie and comradeship, slapping money on the counter, even though Diane would be picking up the tab, and shouting manfully above the hubbub.

The bartender reached for empty glasses as Frank gave Diane a bear-hug. ‘Good on yer, girl. Great day. You deserve it, every penny.’

‘Great day? If I’d had my way I’d have taken a mint off them.’ Diane’s green eyes flashed, then she subsided. She panted in her silk trouser suit and flapped a hand. ‘God, I’m hot. Friggin’ hell, Frank, I was forced to settle. Those bastards have got off lightly.’

‘Yeah, well, best not to be in dispute with the press. Not the mass-market papers, anyway. They’re our natural allies.’ Frank handed a pint to the trade-unionist, grabbed one for himself and downed half in one gulp.

Diane spluttered. ‘Those sods’ll support us at election time if it suits their purposes, and not otherwise. Any idea that we can expect some kind of
entente cordiale
is crap.’ Her attention was caught by an eager youth calling her to the other side of the room and she moved away.

‘She may have a point.’ Frank’s eyes roved around the pulsating room and he addressed himself to the union man, a laconic veteran of many political battles. Tucked in a corner they could have what approached a conversation. ‘Tremendous crowd here. Don’t recognise many. Who are they?’

The veteran laughed. ‘Search me. They’re a tad juvenile, aren’t they? Still got eggshell behind their ears. The economics experts from my own office don’t seem old enough to have started secondary school yet. Kids! Babes in arms.’

‘The next generation, Dave, don’t knock ’em. They’ll be paying our pensions, so let’s hope they’re competent. They’ll be after our jobs next.’

‘Already are. I’ve been requested, er,
told
, to get ready to pack my bags.’

‘You, Dave? But you’re a youngster. Relatively. Why should they want to do that?’

‘They need the post. For my deputy, who’s been hanging on for it for five years. Then they can fill his space with somebody superannuated from the Commons. Mike Todd, I gather it is. And that’ll release a safe seat for some teenage whippersnapper, one of the PM’s favourite advisers who’s set for the front bench after the next election.’

‘Blimey. News to me. Why don’t they just offer old Todd a seat in the Lords?’

‘’Cause they’re getting immune to that. Boring as hell it is there. And no salary or perks. The constituencies won’t deselect ’em because they adore anybody that’ll stand up to the Boss. But what’s on offer at our place? Fifty thousand a year, a chauffeur-driven saloon and a free flat in Hammersmith. For that the bugger will budge. The other unions are being pressed to do likewise.’

‘For that I might retire early too. But not yet,’ Frank mused.

The trade-unionist backtracked. ‘Mightn’t be fifty thou’ when he actually arrives. Depends on budgets. But it’ll be enough for a bloke whose original pay packet in the Post Office was four quid a week.’

‘Funny old world, to coin a phrase,’ Frank said. Their attention returned to their hostess. ‘I’m pleased for Diane. She’s the same vintage as me, but she doesn’t act it. Hey, will you take a butcher’s at that!’

Diane had been wearing a flowing silk trouser suit with a long tunic top. A line of sweat had marked it from the back of her neck to her waist and under her breasts and arms, yet the effect was to underline her joyous animality. To the yelps of the crowd she lifted up the tunic to waist level, stuck her fingers in the trouser belt, wriggled out of the trousers and kicked them away. Underneath were black tights: the tunic had become an alluring mini-dress. To the renewed music she flung her head back, legs splayed, hips grinding to the rhythm, roaring to the chorus and waving a beer bottle like a trophy.

‘She’s totally pissed,’ remarked the union man.

‘Yeah. But she needed to let off steam, Dave. I love her dearly, we all do, but sometimes she struggles with the proprieties.’

The union man downed his pint grudgingly and reached for another. ‘Can’t help admiring her. Look at her go!’

The pizza was taking its time but Melvyn did not mind. He had arrived at what felt like a profound revelation. Host and parasite.
Symbiosis,
that was it. He voiced the observation aloud: that the relationship between the media and their targets was symbiotic.

‘What?’ Betts settled back in the armchair. ‘How do you work that out?’

‘Stands to reason,’ Melvyn said. ‘You need people like me to fill in the background. I know what’s going on, see. We like it reported in a certain way. And the mention of my name in passing, as one devoted to his task, doesn’t go amiss. It’ll help me get to the top.’

‘And that’ll come when they recognise your unique talents, I imagine?’ Betts teased coldly. ‘Sounds more like incest to me.’

‘I am overdue for promotion.’ Melvyn waggled a finger. ‘Put that in your gossip column and smoke it. I’ve been in this post longer than most. It’s not fair. There are seventy-five of us on the Whitehall press and public relations listing. Every Tom, Dick and Harry on the front benches has got to have his own press officer these days, even those idiots in the Lords. Devalues our currency, I grant you. When Margaret Thatcher was in office they made do with less than twenty. She expected ministers to deal with the media themselves without any spin – except herself, of course.’

Betts considered. ‘We were probably less well informed about what was going on,’ he conceded. ‘But we’d still get to hear the bones crunch as every knife went in. Like when Michael Heseltine resigned. And this stuff about the Cabinet members spinning against each other – nothing new in that either.’

Melvyn concurred. They reminisced about spectacular betrayals, many of which seemed to involve one or two particularly arrogant ministers. Strange, how poorly such men covered their tracks. They acted as if they were invulnerable, yet memoirs appeared earlier than used to be the case and were more vindictive and charmless. The truth, however, often became more elusive the more versions emerged.

Then Betts became impatient. ‘So let’s get down to business, Melvyn. Who is the blessed Diane sleeping with these days?’

‘Her? Nobody, if you can believe that. She made a vow of celibacy on entering the government. Alistair read her the Riot Act and she took it to heart. Allegedly.’

‘You have to be kidding. She’s only ever man-free in between men.’

The doorbell rang and Melvyn fetched the pizzas, slapping the open cardboard box straight on to the table with a toilet roll to serve as napkins. ‘Help yourself.’

‘So Mark Squires, the boyfriend who got elected, that’s over?’

Melvyn nodded emphatically. ‘Absolutely. She sent him packing, back to his wife and baby. He’s a model of spotless behaviour, these days. But there’s a new face on her team. Edward Porter. He’s keen. Just out of interest I tried to pick an argument with him and he leaped to her defence. I’d
keep an eye on him.’

‘They’re probably having it off right now,’ Betts growled. ‘Very clever at concealing their tracks, these people are. Leopards don’t change their spots.’

‘There are such things as reformed characters,’ Melvyn protested, but his mouth was full of pizza. A string of sticky mozzarella trailed from his lips.

‘There aren’t,’ Betts assured him. ‘We don’t blacken their reputations, they do it for themselves. I bet you a tenner, if Miss Diane Clark isn’t in bed with some lover half her age right now, she soon will be.’

‘No bets.’ Melvyn wiped his chin. They ate greedily for several minutes. ‘Okay, so what have you written on Frank Bridges?’

‘The usual. That he’s been rotten to his wife. The first one. Cheating on her and so on. With the gentle implication that he’s been doing it for years, and if he’s done it once, he’ll do it again. Once a philanderer, always a philanderer – leopards, see? We contrive to feel sorry for the new Mrs Bridges, Hazel, the cat who thinks she got the cream. The original Mrs Bridges gave us reams of useful quotes. I had to leave out her accusations that her husband’s trying to maim her, though. The lawyers wouldn’t wear that.’

‘What’s your guess? Anything in her claims?’

‘Nah. Not a scrap. She needs psychiatric treatment, that one.’

A useful tit-bit for the diary. ‘But tell me, you yourself, Jim, what’s your personal opinion of people like Frank and Diane?’

Betts paused in mid-chew. ‘My personal opinion?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m not paid to have personal opinions. If you mean, are they nice kind souls at heart, I haven’t a clue. And, frankly, I couldn’t give a damn either.’

Melvyn poured out the remainder of the bourbon, crammed the empty pizza box into the overflowing waste-bin and licked his fingers. ‘I like Frank Bridges. There’s a lot of snobbery about him in the press, because of his accent and his rough manner. But in our party that’s a plus. He came from the gutter. Made it without benefit of a posh education or fancy relatives. Rather like your own proprietor. We’d be grateful if your lot would treat him with more respect.’

‘Oh, you would, would you?’ At the mention of the
Globe’s
owner, Betts reached for his drink. He eyed the empty bottle regretfully. ‘Would your lot prefer us to lay into Mr Benedict Ashworth instead?’

‘He’s worth an in-depth investigation,’ Melvyn agreed eagerly.

‘Been peaky since his so-called disappearance, but his staff say it’s business as usual.’

‘Where did he go? Who saw him? What was the mystery illness he says he was suffering from? It’s all to do with that odd marriage, I’ll be bound. I’ve never met anybody so cold-blooded. Can’t picture him having sex with a fish, let alone with a ripe lady like Christine.’

‘The cold one could be the wife. I hear he’s taken up contact sports,’ Betts said mysteriously. ‘Kung fu, or something like that.’

‘Wow.’ Melvyn’s eyes widened. ‘That’s fantastic. What’s he up to?’

‘Flinging a bloke who works for him down on the floor three times a week. Getting rid of naked aggression, maybe.’

‘Blimey. I hadn’t heard that.’ The diary entry was growing by the minute. Melvyn resolved to drink no more that night.

‘Supposed to be a big secret. A pal of mine has seen them at it. We may try and get pictures.’

Melvyn digested the information. ‘So it’d do no harm if the occasional reference to kick-boxing or other Oriental specialities featured in the Boss’s replies to his questions in the House?’

Betts snickered. ‘Oriental specialities? Couldn’t be better,’ he replied. ‘That’ll put the wind up
him. Now, if we’ve assassinated enough public characters, I’ll mosey on home to my tragically empty bed. Thanks for the drink and nosh. Cheers.’

As Frank, Dave and the barman craned their necks to watch, Diane was gyrating round the
serious-looking
young man who had called her from the bar, the centre of a chanting circle. The noise and heat were overpowering. The man had removed his jacket and tie and was dancing vigorously, though without much skill, trying to match her hip thrusts as onlookers squealed and applauded.

The tune changed to a Caribbean rhythm and the volume increased. A limbo-dance contest was suggested and the idea taken up immediately. A pole was found from behind the bar, two guests were designated to hold it. A double file formed, a tight squeeze in the confined space, with couples attempting to get under the bar and being disqualified if they touched it and sprawled on the floor. Diane stood to one side and clapped, until she herself was urged to join in. She grabbed the hand of the gyrating young man and led him into the centre.

Hands held high, the two danced, both light on their feet, Edward sweating and pink-faced. They arched their bodies back, feet edging forward, laughing wildly. The pole was lowered a few inches. Their torsos were underneath, twitching with the effort. Then Diane was through and, still holding Edward’s hand, pulled his head round and under, until he, too, was upright, eyes bulging, and being congratulated on his success.