This Honourable House (7 page)

‘Yes, but I don’t have a female uniform,’ she retorted, swift as a cat.

The committee was sunk in gloom for a few moments and drank their beer quietly. Giant broke in. ‘How’s your ma?’ he asked Steve.

The leader brightened. ‘She’s great. So proud of me you’d think I was still firing off
ground-to
-air missiles instead of earning my keep as a part-time computer programmer,’ he answered. ‘She keeps yelling, “Don’t take the ten thousand! You’re entitled to a lot more.”’

‘She’s dead right,’ another member of the group joined in. He was nattily dressed in a suit, a briefcase by his side. ‘We should never have been sacked. Not for our orientation alone. That violated our human rights. We’re entitled to reinstatement with full restoration of privileges and rank, or failing that, compensation.
And
interest.’ The man, evidently a lawyer, smiled smugly.

‘Ten grand would be nice, though,’ Letitia said wistfully. ‘My operation’s going to cost a packet.’

‘Can’t you get it on the NHS in your area?’ Giant asked sympathetically.

‘Oh, they’re
butchers
,’ came the answer with a shudder. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. You lot want to keep your dangly bits. I can’t
wait
to get rid of mine. But I want a tidy job, and something functional instead.
And
beautiful.’ She crossed her legs again, this time defensively.

More drinks were fetched. The group continued to talk in low voices. ‘How many are we expecting, then?’ Giant inquired.

‘Couple of hundred, we hope,’ Steve answered briskly. ‘It’ll make a good show. Coaches are coming from Aldershot, Stafford and even Catterick. The girls are laying on about fifty, mainly Quarancs and Wrens, Stonewall are sending the rugby team and there’ll be backup from local Gay Pride – they’ve promised a marching band, though God knows what they can play. A selection from Gilbert and Sullivan, most like.’

“‘
Three little maids from school
…’” the lawyer warbled mischievously. Giant dug a warning elbow into his ribs.

‘Nobody from Scotland, more’s the pity,’ Steve continued.

‘Yeah, well, up there they still assume every jock in a skirt is a raving hetero,’ came a gloomy comment in a Dumfries accent.

‘You told your mum, yet, Duncan?’ Giant asked.

The Scotsman shook his head. ‘Nah. Probably never will. It’s not her that’s the problem. It’s me dad. It’d kill him. And then he’d kill me. When I’m home I have to pretend I’m away chasing the lassies and simply haven’t been caught by one yet. I talk to him about tits and bums like an old pro. You’d be impressed.’

The conversation drew to a fitful close. Letitia mollified the rest of the committee by offering to carry the heaviest banner provided she could do it as a woman. Loath to practise against any of their number the discrimination each had suffered too often, it was agreed. Letitia rose and picked up her coat. ‘I need a gentleman to escort me to my hotel,’ she announced loftily. ‘Any volunteers?’ Giant glanced longingly at the bar, then uncoiled himself to his full height, immediately dominating the room. Heads turned, took in the bull neck, the rippling triceps and biceps bulging from the T-shirt, whispered and turned away.

The crowd parted and he began to move, arms swinging naturally as he had been trained years before as a boy soldier, legs striding smooth from the pelvis, the paratrooper’s classical testosterone-laden swagger. Behind him teetered the lady on high-heeled shoes, wig slightly askew, her nose up. Flakes of face-powder fluttered in the air as she passed. Astonished eyes followed them through the lobby, out into the foyer and seafront. Then the bartender made a brief obscene remark, the watchers dissolved into laughter and the bar became noisy once more.

Betts punched the
answer
button on his phone. ‘Yeah?’

‘Jim?’

‘Yeah. Who’s this?’ Betts was too far gone to interpret the caller’s number on the mobile’s face, even if it had been light enough to do so.

‘Melvyn. Melvyn O’Connor. Your old mate.’

‘Yeah, Melvyn. Whatcha got for me?’ Betts snapped his eyes open and reached for a Biro. It wasn’t late, but triple brandy and Benedictines were guaranteed to send him to bed in a stupor.

‘Andrew. Andrew Marquand. You’re aware of the rumours about him?’

‘I can reel off a few. Mostly to do with his supposed celibate state, and having loads of young male students when he was a university lecturer. You gonna confirm they’re true?’

‘Nah, Jim.’ Melvyn’s reply held a note of triumph. ‘The opposite. Can you arrange for your
chaps to be at the Mirabelle Thursday at around nine?’

‘The Mirabelle, eh? Candlelight and sweet music, gypsy violinist, the lot? Have you set up a seduction scene?’

Melvyn’s voice became suspicious. ‘Who told you? It’s supposed to be my secret. I’ve been working on it for weeks.’

‘Have you, by Jove. You’ll get the credit, I’ll make sure of that. So who’s the lucky girl? Are we entitled to advance info?’

Melvyn became coy. ‘That’s for me to know, and you to find out, Jim. But I can confirm that they’re very close, and have been seeing a lot of each other. I understand – obviously I can’t confirm this – that she was spotted examining engagement rings in Hatton Garden last week. Maybe this is the big night.’

Betts spluttered. ‘You aren’t hinting that Andrew, who has never in over forty years of his life so far shown the least interest in a woman, is about to get hitched? Pull the other one, Melvyn. It’s hard enough to swallow Benedict bloody Ashworth getting his leg over that statuesque Christine. Why can’t they simply admit they’re homos and get on with it?’

‘Because you’d make mincemeat of them, that’s why,’ Melvyn answered huffily. ‘In Andrew’s case it doesn’t apply. I can assure you of that, definitely. It’s simply that he’s been too busy to have a social life. When you’re running the country, romance has to take second place.’

‘Now tell me,’ said Betts, writing furiously and hoping he would be able to decipher the scribble in the morning, ‘what kind of job does this young lady do? She is young, I take it? Or are we stalking a second Camilla here?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s young,’ Melvyn agreed hastily. ‘She has her own company.’

‘She wouldn’t be in PR, by any chance?’

‘She might. How did you guess?’ Melvyn allowed himself a snicker. ‘But you’ll fix it, Jim, it’s too hot to miss. Terrific pictures for your daily editions, more for the Sundays. And a soft-centred human image for my master. Who could ask for more?’

There were moments, Alistair McDonald fumed, when he wondered whether those who opted to work in the media had to pass an examination in stupidity.

‘The Prime Minister,’ he said icily, to the BBC girl radio reporter, ‘is about to make a speech to the Foreign Press Association over lunch. Yes, it is set to coincide with the speech of the social security spokesman for the New Democrats at their conference in Brighton, but no, we don’t believe that’s a nuisance as nobody will be listening to the bugger anyway. Theirs, I mean, not ours.’

The young woman blinked away tears. She was employed by
Countryfile
, not the lunchtime news. ‘But I haven’t got a copy of the speech,’ she wailed.

‘That’s because you weren’t here for the lobby briefing this morning,’ he grated.

‘But I’m not lobby.’

‘I can’t help that. You should have asked your lobby people.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t. I’m so lowly they wouldn’t notice if they tripped over me. I’ve only got a pass for Pebble Mill. Though they are brilliant,’ she added hastily. Then, ‘Maybe you could give me the gist of what the Prime Minister’s going to say?’

‘Actually,’ said McDonald frostily, ‘if you turn on digital TV right now they are covering the whole speech. You can listen, and find out for yourself.’

‘Oh, gimme a break,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I’ve got to file in ten minutes. What’s he saying, and what does it mean?’ McDonald gazed down stonily. ‘Do you want me to write it for you, word for word?’

She gasped in delight. ‘Oh, would you? Yes, please …’

Benedict stood pensively at the hotel window. It had been a successful conference, so far, if adulation from the delegates was any guide. The worry he had felt when mounting the platform on the first occasion as their new Leader had turned out quite unnecessary, as Christine had assured him it would be. The former Leader had been welcomed with a bear-hug and many expressions of honour, but then had been gently set aside. The silvery-haired man had brought them closer to victory; now it was time to move on, to face the future eagerly with Benedict and his charming bride. Indeed, the cheers for Christine had been louder than for anybody else on the platform.

His wife had adored it. She had basked in the warmth of that moment, had smiled shyly then blown the assembly a brief kiss. The delegates, mostly much older, adored her back. They loved her youth and beauty, they drank in the hope of vigour and new life she seemed to offer them. How fortunate he was to have her by him. How utterly competent she was, in everything that mattered.

The offending suit was back in the suitcase, the tailor’s name crossed off the Christmas-card list. Brighton’s Austin Reed shop had been delighted to furnish the visiting politician with two mid-range suits made in England and had been pleased that he was photographed buying them by the local, and national, press.

On one matter Benedict had resisted Christine’s advice. She had urged him to have a different haircut, to remove the wispy locks that covered his ears. A Bruce Willis close shave, she said, might appear more manly. At this Benedict had jibbed, saying, with the full force of reason, that since he was not Action Man by nature nor a character from
Die Hard
, to pretend would promptly be exposed as hypocritical. Since the whole point of image-making was to reinforce and advertise strong qualities, preferably those the subject actually possessed, an aggressive masculinity on his part would be both inappropriate and unsustainable.
No
, in other words. And on that, he had won, though he suspected only temporarily.

Christine was out, trailing round a maternity hospital, an invitation he had been glad to pass on to her. She would return in an hour, saying little but with a wistful glint in her eye. When the Prime Minister’s wife was so blatantly fecund, the lack of babies
chez
Ashworth had to be explained away. Benedict swallowed hard. Tonight, there would be no excuses. The set-piece speeches had been well received. The sponsors’ dinner had passed without incident. She would have spent hours gazing in wonder at maternal lumps and scans of pulsing foetuses. Tonight he would
have
to perform.

It was close to dusk. From outside the open window came snatches of music, the remains of some march or demonstration that was breaking up for the evening. He could hear a jazz-style trumpet being blown with energy: ‘When The Saints Come Marching In’ – a trombone following with less skill, a cornet bringing up the rear, a bass drum booming. It was always unwise to stick one’s head out to stare.
Paparazzi
were on the alert, aware of which room was his. But he could peek from behind the curtains.

The straggling march was coming to a halt. The banner that read ‘Rank Outsiders’ had been pelted with eggtears. She was employed bys and tomatoes, but was still held aloft, though out of the vertical, by a bizarre figure in a red dress, tights and high heels, but with a shorn head and grossly exaggerated makeup, as if it had started out done up to the nines as a female. A stubborn rictus distorted the individual’s face as he, or she, struggled to keep the weighty banner upright. At a signal from someone behind, however, the banner was at last allowed to droop and rested in a tangled heap on the pavement. The standard-bearer rubbed a beringed hand over stiff shoulders and over the naked pate.

Behind him stood ranks of men and women in military uniform. Benedict noted the khaki, brown and blue of the army and air force, and three young men in sailors’ whites. They were attracting more than their share of wolf whistles from a small crowd. In front marched two naval officers, braid gleaming in the dying sun. The girls were mainly short and butch, except for the androgynous banner-holder.

As Benedict peeped cautiously, keeping himself hidden, a youth emerged from the crowd
clutching what looked like a black cat; but it was lifeless, and Benedict realised it was a scalp of silky hair. Tentatively, the boy held it out to the shorn man who took it, turned it over, shook it out then set it on his head and straightened it with a defiant tug. Instantly he was transformed into a female, admittedly one who might have been dragged through a hedge backwards, but with vestiges of verve and femininity. The gaggle behind broke into a ragged cheer. The youth, emboldened, stepped forward and kissed the banner-holder’s cheek. The supporters laughed, relaxed, and applauded. The youth took his place quietly beside them. Then the marchers began to break away into groups and disappeared towards the seafront pubs.

Upstairs in his hotel room, Benedict was also clapping his hands together but softly, making no noise. His face was ashen, and his eyes were half closed as if in pain.

‘Is this the restaurant?’

Betts consulted his notes. ‘The Mirabelle. Yeah.’

The photographer shifted the bag from one shoulder to another, reached inside, took out a camera and screwed on a zoom lens. ‘Spending freely, isn’t he? You can’t get away with a dinner for two here light of a hundred and fifty quid.’

‘Well, it’s the new government, innit? Paying themselves a hundred grand a year. He can afford it.’

‘Didn’t you say it was a set-up? He’s probably putting the bill on the promotion budget of his department.’

‘We can check it out later. But not even he’d be that dumb.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ the photographer mumbled, his mouth busy tearing the foil from a fresh film. ‘Can’t you imagine the conversation? Him, stiffly, “I’ll do it if you absolutely insist. But I’m not paying for it.”’

‘You’re a cynic, Jack. Not all politicians are like that,’ Betts chided. He shivered and pulled up his jacket collar.