This Honourable House (20 page)

The game continued for several more raucous minutes until the hostess and her partner, and a black couple, more athletic than Diane and Edward, were the only ones left. The atmosphere was electric, vibrant with sexual energy and defiance. The pole was no more than two feet off the ground. To get under it required either consummate skill or an undignified scramble. When Edward tried the latter he knocked the bar down and lay on the floor, squirming and laughing uncontrollably. Diane fell upon him, held his face in her hands and kissed him. The black couple were declared the winners.

It was Diane who helped Edward to his feet and brushed down his shirt, streaked with sweat and dirt from the floorboards. They stood together, close, arms entwined, as heads swivelled to identify Diane’s new flame. Edward, uneasy, was the first to begin to sober up and mutter that it was time to quit: enough, he hinted, was a feast. For a moment Diane argued, then madness prevailed. In the next sentence she had offered him a lift in her car: it was not far, but driving would be safer than walking. And Edward responded diffidently, quietly so that only she could hear, that coffee would be welcome, might prevent a hangover in the morning.

Thus as Frank and Dave settled blearily into a further pint and recalled days when they could drink all night without ill-effect, Diane led Edward down the stairs and out into the night, pushing him into the leather back seat of the Rover and instructing the driver where to go next.

‘She did what?’

‘Went off in the arms of a young man. It’s been God’s own job to keep them out of the papers. As if I haven’t enough to do.’ Alistair McDonald was huffy.

The Prime Minister sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I made her promise not to do that again. We had enough trouble with young Mark Squires’ wife when she found out. Diane was a dubious influence, she said.’

‘Why can’t that woman keep her hands to herself?’ The Chancellor was equally irritable. ‘We have the greatest opportunity a socialist government has ever had in modern times, the trust of the people and a fat majority, and she goes round threatening to unravel all our good work. She’s still supposed to be a socialist, isn’t she?’

In the rivalry between the Prime Minister and Andrew Marquand, his Chancellor, it often suited the former to assert his dominance by changing tack. Andrew could be a clumsy political
performer whereas the Boss was noted for his adroitness.

‘Socialist? Perhaps. As much as any of us. She’s loyal, Andrew. And a great performer on television. She’ll see off David Frost or Jeremy Paxman any day and have them eating out of her hand. The public adore her too. We don’t want everybody in the government to be a bland identikit little chap, do we? A dose of humanity is no bad thing.’

The tactic worked. Andrew spluttered. ‘But family values! Aren’t they the bedrock of our programme these days?’

The Prime Minister smiled at him pointedly. ‘Thank you for that reminder. So when are you going to get married, then, Chancellor?’

Diane rolled over and cast a lazy eye over the body slumbering beside her. Edward’s breathing had slowed and barely stirred the duvet. His face was almost buried in the tumbled pillows but she could see one eyebrow, raised like a circumflex. His upper body was uncovered and revealed a fine, dense down over each shoulder blade. Diane leaned carefully over him and smiled, then relaxed on her elbow.

She wondered if his photo would be in the newspapers, snapped last night as they emerged from the Red Lion, or earlier in the day at the High Court when he had hovered nearby with her briefcase. The image would find its way into archives to resurface some day, his face highlighted, when he himself was famous. Time enough to check the front pages when she got to the office. For now, she wanted to savour his presence and make the enjoyment of it last as long as possible.

He had been restless during the night. At first, ecstatic from their lovemaking, he had buried his head in her breasts and dozed. But then his body was racked with shivers; even while he was evidently subconscious, a limb would shoot out with such violence that it seemed he must wake up. She had laid him down and covered him with her arms but still he shook. A moan would come from his lips, which he would wet with a parched tongue. Yet his eyes remained tight shut the whole time. Diane suspected that if challenged about these nocturnal physical jerks he would deny all knowledge: she would be unable to convince him that he had apparently been climbing Everest in his sleep.

Her gentle reaction amused her. Usually, with a fidgety lover she would become impatient, the odds against the relationship’s survival. Life was too short to lose sleep when other more comfortable companions were to hand. But with Edward she felt remarkably protective.

It was nearly seven, too early to get up. In the grey light of a Friday morning she examined him more closely. The upper body and shoulders were neatly but not heavily muscled; whatever he did to keep fit was not undertaken excessively, but neither was he a couch potato. He shifted; stubble showed, heavier on the upper lip. The hair under one arm was dark and silky. She bent her head to it; it smelt good to her. Her lovers were either alarmed or amused when she did that, but to her it was quite normal to fix a man’s scent in her brain. Edward’s was warm, wholesome, natural, as if she had already known it a long time.

He muttered, spasmodically, in his sleep. The scattered phrases had woken her more than once. Inquisitive, she had tried to decipher them: was there a girl’s name, perhaps, that she could use to tease him? For a while nothing made sense. Then, as the jerking subsided, one low moan resolved itself into a simple question, over and over again. It startled her, and made her wonder what it meant, and what the correct answer might be. If the moment presented itself, she would ask.

On the hour the radio alarm clicked. A mellifluent female voice read the news headlines. Edward stirred and opened his eyes. At the sight of Diane naked above him, a bewildered rictus crossed his features, as if he could not grasp why the voice was not coming from her.

‘The government is launching an initiative later today to combat the threat to black and Asian girls who are forced into marriages against their will,’ the voice intoned.

‘About bloody time,’ Diane said.

‘What?’ Edward answered automatically.

‘The Cabinet Women’s Unit has been sitting on those proposals for ages,’ Diane said. ‘As if we might insult the Pakistani or Yemeni community if we stopped their most backward tribesmen selling their daughters.’

‘Difficult.’ Edward’s face was in the pillow, his voice muffled. He still seemed puzzled, or amazed, at where he found himself.

‘Not difficult.’ Diane pulled the duvet over herself; the heating had come on but the flat was chilly. Edward muttered something into his chest that might, or might not, have been intelligible had Diane been able to hear it. ‘If you are saying,’ she added sternly, ‘that this is a form of social imperialism, as Benedict Ashworth alleged the other day, I will put this pillow over your head and suffocate you right now. We are here to govern according to our mores, and not those of greedy fathers of young girls who expect to be paid a dowry, not have to find one.’

The newsreader had moved on to another topic. Edward sat up. He shook his head as if to clear his eyes, making him resemble a sleepy puppy. ‘Where am I?’

Diane chuckled. ‘In my bed, sweetie. And very nice it was too.’

Edward turned his head from side to side, taking in the trail of clothes, his and hers, leading together from the doorway to the bed. He seemed bewildered. He shifted his weight, glanced down at himself and touched his genitals briefly, as if hoping to find a history written there. ‘We made love?’ he asked.

Diane gave a throaty laugh. ‘My God, have you forgotten so soon? We did, sweetie. Twice, if you want to know.’

Edward rubbed his eyes, but whether that meant he did not remember or just could not believe it Diane could only guess. At this juncture most of the young men she had slept with would be in fits of giggles, or wondering aloud what their mothers or current girlfriends would say, which would kindle the light of triumphant conquest in Diane’s eyes.

‘Shower’s over there. Clean towels in the cupboard. You’ll find a new razor in the bathroom cabinet – a disposable one, but it’ll do the necessary. I’ll go first if you don’t mind. Busy day ahead.’

With that, Diane slid from the bed and padded to the bathroom. When she emerged with one towel tied in a turban round her wet hair and the other twisted over her breasts, Edward had not budged, but was sitting bolt upright in the bed.

She plugged in a hairdryer and began to speak over its hum. ‘You’d better get a move on, unless you plan to stay here all day. You okay?’

Edward raised his eyes. ‘Not sure. Was this a good idea?’

‘Oh, yes, brilliant. We’re made for each other, you and I.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact, but with mischief in it.

‘I mean, you’re my employer.’

‘So what? You like me, don’t you?’

‘I adore you.’ Suddenly Edward sounded bitter. ‘Wasn’t it obvious last night? I worship you, Diane. I think you’re the most magical person. I just wonder whether …’ His voice trailed off.

‘Oh, pish to that. Don’t worry, I won’t demand of you anything you can’t give.’ For Diane this was a standard line, but it did not appear to make Edward any happier. She relented, abandoned the hairdryer and sat beside him. One hand stroked his thigh. ‘If something’s bothering you, sweetie, you can always unburden yourself with me. You were having a helluva conversation with yourself in your sleep, d’you know that?’

‘What was I saying?’ His glance was wary.

‘Most of it I couldn’t make out. I didn’t want to pry. But then you started to ask, “Who am I?” over and over. Is that a problem?’

Edward quietly slid out from under her caressing hand and rose from the bed. ‘Sort of,’ he
said. ‘I have bad patches. Had some depression, but nothing too serious. Part of it, it’s been suggested, comes from having been adopted. So I haven’t the foggiest idea who I really am. A more secure person wouldn’t worry about it, I suppose. Most of the time I fill the gap with work. But, as you heard, it’s never very far from the surface.’

Diane had begun to dress. ‘Have you ever tried to trace your birth  parents?’

He rubbed his chin, as if surprised to find stubble. ‘Too scared. Suppose they were dreadful? Or they didn’t want to see me?’

‘Do you know who registered your birth?’ Diane had unconsciously become the MP, the giver of advice. ‘It might have been only your mother. You’re about thirty, aren’t you? Very common in those days.’

Edward was silent. It seemed that this intelligent, articulate man did not have the vocabulary to cope with emotional turmoil.

Diane brushed her almost dry hair and flicked it back. Then, with a grimace, she complied with the instructions of the style guru and began to apply makeup. ‘You should take into account,’ she said, as she fiddled with the mascara wand, ‘that your mother may have been desperately miserable when she had to give you up, and that she longs to hear from you. But the law says that only you, the child, have the right to make contact. Not her.’

Edward picked up his clothes listlessly and began to pull them on. Diane raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll go home to shower and change,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Be in a bit later. I’ll say I have a hangover.’

‘Most of the office will have hangovers.’ Diane laughed. It was eight fifteen; the car would arrive soon. The radio programme had moved to a heated interview with the Home Secretary about his son, whom he had had to bail from a central police station in the early hours of the morning. ‘And one or two others. If that lad had come to my party I’d have made sure he got home safely.’

She held open the door as Edward, shambling and awkward, made his way out. Her hand on his shoulder stopped him. ‘Edward. First, you were wonderful – you
are
wonderful. I should like this relationship to continue, if you would. If not, I won’t pester you and it’ll never be alluded to again. And second, though it’s none of my business, if it matters so much to you, you should decide to find out more about yourself. The worst outcome would be that your birth mother doesn’t want to know. But she might be somebody splendid whom you could love, and I’m certain she’d be very proud of you. So take the first step. Get your birth certificate. I’ll give you as much support as you need, both as employer – and, I hope, as your friend.’

The little speech appeared to inspire the young man, who stood on the threshold lost in reflection. Then he smiled. ‘God, I’m a mess,’ he murmured. His crisp manner returned. ‘I’ll get cracking. And, Diane, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.’

Unwilling to tamper with the elegantly made-up face a few inches from his own he hesitated, then pulled her towards him and kissed her mouth, a lingering, sweetly loving kiss. She laughed again and ran a finger over his lips. ‘Russet brown suits you,’ she said. ‘I hope everything else on offer does too.’

Frank folded the newspaper with an oath and threw it theatrically across the kitchen. The corner of one page caught the marmalade pot, which flew through the air close to Hazel’s ear and smashed spectacularly on the tiled floor, scattering gobbets of orange jelly and glass fragments in sticky rivulets.

‘Bugger,’ Frank growled. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. Gimme a dishcloth and I’ll clean it up.’

‘Aaah!’ Hazel’s eyes were wide with shock. She clutched her pink dressing gown. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Frank repeated testily. ‘It was an accident. I’ve said I’m sorry. What more do you want?’

‘Frank! That was special marmalade. With Grand Marnier. I went to Justin de Blank’s shop in Mayfair to get it. Cost over a fiver.’

‘Bugger,’ said Frank again, but he made no move to clear the mess. He glanced at the television set perched high on a cupboard; fighter planes whizzed over the screen, library footage illustrating the Foreign Secretary’s tussle with Amnesty over the Indonesian order. The sound was down to a background mumble. He reached for another newspaper from the pile delivered by his driver, opened it and, breathing heavily, tried to concentrate. ‘You might have asked,’ he said levelly, to the comment column in front of his nose, ‘why I was so bloody furious with the
Globe
.’

Hazel was still rigid, a teaspoon of boiled egg half-way between the egg-cup and her mouth. ‘Was it because they’re being nice to Diane Clark? She won her case yesterday.’

‘Of course she won yesterday,’ Frank growled. ‘That’s headline news in every other newspaper. Bloody good thing too. But in the
Globe
it’s a different matter.’

Since he refused to enlighten her, Hazel was obliged to step over the gooey disaster on the floor to collect the offending pages. When she did so she screamed with rage. ‘Gail! She’s at it again. Oh, this is unforgivable.’ Her eyes scanned the page, then she yelled again. ‘My God, did you read this bit? About how I trapped you? She reckons if I hadn’t come along and by pure chance we had that fuss at Heathrow just after the election, you’d have stayed with her for ever. What rubbish.’

Since it was not entirely rubbish, Frank kept his own counsel and merely shrugged. Gail had never raised objections to his occasional forays beyond his marriage. She appeared to believe it was her wifely duty to ignore them. What neither of them could have sidestepped, however, was the press deciding to make a song and dance about one particular adventure. Which admittedly had been closer to home (or rather the office) than some of the others, had lasted far longer, and involved a more sexually attractive and determined creature than he had ever tangled with before. Plus, nobody was getting any younger, Gail in particular.