What Will Survive (20 page)

That painful conversation with Iris must have taken place almost a year ago, Aisha thought, slowing as the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit which marked the approach to Cranbrook came into view. She braked, aware of the speed camera that had just been erected in the village — at night she could see it flashing from her bedroom window as unwary drivers were caught on film — and signalled right into the drive of Cranbrook Lawns. The window on the drivers side was still open and the Golf's tyres crunched on the gravel.

‘Huh? Where are we?' Tim sat up with a start. ‘Home already? That was quick.'

He stumbled as he got out of the car, righted himself and headed for the back of the house. Aisha locked up and followed.

‘Hi Mum, Dad, you're back early.' Ricky was waiting for them at the back door. He was wearing a collarless white shirt and jeans, and his feet were bare.

‘Shit!' Tim kicked a mud-caked trainer out of the way and headed for the kitchen.

‘Finished?' Aisha asked Ricky, closing the door quietly behind her. Ricky had arrived home for the weekend with a holdall stuffed with dirty washing, which he was feeding into the washing machine when they left.

‘It's drying. You have a good time?'

Tim appeared in the corridor, whisky bottle in hand. ‘At the Kerrs' place? You must be joking. I was just saying to your mother, I don't know why we bother. Nightcap?' Aisha shook her head and he returned to the kitchen.

She unwound her shawl, caught sight of Ricky's face and had to stop herself laughing. ‘Don't,' she pleaded.

‘Why do you put up with it?' He hugged her, and for a moment she leaned against his chest. ‘Fab outfit, by the way.'

‘Is Max home?' She looked up at him.

‘He got in half an hour ago. They were going to a club but he had a row with Vicki.'

‘Vicki?'

‘Isn't that her name? Girl with the stud.' Ricky pointed to his nose. ‘He said he was going to bed, but he looked pretty cut up.'

Aisha frowned. ‘I'll talk to him. Any phone calls?'

‘One for Dad, something about a contract that hasn't arrived.'

‘On a Saturday night?'

Ricky rolled his eyes. ‘Bloke said he'd been leaving messages all week.'

They exchanged a silent glance.

‘Oh, and some guy for you. Posh voice.'

‘Did he leave a name?'

‘Yeah, Stephen something. He said you'd know who he was. Mum, you're blushing! Is he one of your admirers? Wow, it's so cool, having a mother who's a cultural icon.'

She flashed him an embarrassed grin. ‘I wish. He didn't say — oh, never mind.'

Ricky waited, then said, ‘What's happening tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow? I thought we could go for a walk and have lunch at the Queen of Sheba.'

‘Is Dad coming?'

‘I don't know.'

Ricky shrugged. ‘Cool,' he said again.

Aisha moved nearer to the kitchen. Raising her voice, she called to her husband: ‘Night, Tim, I'm going to have a word with Max.'

There was no answer. Aisha turned to Ricky and put a hand up to his face. ‘You're looking thin. Are you eating properly?'

‘Like a horse. Do you know how much they eat? Sometimes they get this disease —'

Aisha stepped back, laughing: ‘Too much information.' She blew him a kiss, turned into the hall and made her way upstairs to commiserate with her younger son.

The Shadow Foreign Secretary was sitting two tables away in the dining room, absorbed in conversation with a dark, wiry man and a woman with long hair. Aisha recognised other faces, including a backbench MP who often popped up on
Newsnight
and a former MP who now hosted game shows. Behind Stephen's chair, tall windows overlooked the Thames and the sun's fading light, veiled by clouds, created a metallic glint on the surface of the water. On the far side, St Thomas' hospital had faded to a silhouette, softening the brutal South Bank skyline.

‘What are you looking at?' Stephen asked.

‘The river,' said Aisha, sliding her fork to the side of her empty plate. She had chosen the lightest things on the menu, salad followed by risotto, but Stephen was a hearty eater and had not yet finished his calves' liver. ‘It must run north-south here, is that right?'

As though his thoughts were elsewhere, Stephen grunted assent and went back to his food; there were gravy splashes on the napkin he had tucked into his shirt and Aisha lowered her head to hide a smile. Around her, voices rose and fell in a confident male chorus, reminding her that she was among powerful men — there were very few women in the dining room — who didn't care what other people thought. Across the table, Stephen pushed aside his own knife and fork and cleaned his plate with a piece of bread. Finally, he lifted his head.

‘When do —'

‘Who are —'

They broke off, and Stephen gestured with his hand for Aisha to continue.

‘Who are all these people?' She gazed around the dining room. ‘How on earth do you remember their names?'

He gave a rueful grin. ‘When you've been here as long as I have...'

‘How long? When were you elected?'

‘1983'

‘It's a safe seat?'

‘As safe as they come. See that woman over there with the dark hair? Carla Gordon, you've probably never heard of her.'

Aisha turned to look at a woman who reminded her a little of Iris, although her features were sharper. She shook her head. ‘I don't even recognise her.'

‘She's an economist and unquestionably one of the best speakers in the House. She should be a minister by now. But her seat's one of the most marginal in the country and she'll lose it at the next election. It won't be her loss; she'll go back to her day job and make pots of money consulting here, there and everywhere. The constituency association will replace her with a man, and we'll go on losing votes by the shed-load. Did you know the average age of our members is sixty-five? Sixty-five. You're looking at an endangered species, Aisha.'

It sounded like a speech, one he'd made before, and Aisha sat back in her chair. ‘So what's the answer? I don't suppose you're a fan of positive discrimination.'

He snorted. ‘You don't cure one injustice by creating another. And it's not just women we have a problem with, it's the modern world — I'm writing a pamphlet about it. Do you vote?'

‘Me? Yes, of course.' Tim made a point of not voting, claiming that it never changed anything, and on more than one occasion he had demanded to know why Aisha bothered when she knew so little about politics. He said much the same when she started talking about setting up her trust but in the last year or so, since she had begun to be invited to meetings at the Foreign Office, he had avoided the subject.

‘But you've never voted for us, have you?' Stephen saw her expression and added in an impatient voice: ‘Come on, I won't be offended.'

‘OK, then, I voted Green in the local elections —'

‘Oh God, Aisha.'

‘Well, you did ask.'

‘Yes, but single issue politics...' He leaned forward and said earnestly: ‘It's the death of democracy. If we can't win over people like you, intelligent women who care about more than flower arranging and shopping —'

‘Are there still women like that?' Aisha thought about some of her neighbours in Somerset, and then a picture of Carolina Massinger came unbidden to her mind. She steered the conversation on to safer ground: ‘At least you've had a woman leader.'

‘Oh, but Thatcher was one of the worst. I mean, I admire other things she did but do you know how many women she put in her Cabinet?'

‘Not the exact number. Not many.'

‘Two. In all those years.'

‘Did you like her?'

‘Like her? She was just there. I don't think I even thought of her as a woman. I know MPs who say she flirted with them but I was way below her pay grade.' Stephen frowned. ‘OK, there was something sexual about her on a good day at the despatch box but then power is sexy, isn't it? Look at Bill Clinton.'

Aisha laughed. ‘Henry Kissinger's a better example.'

Stephen pretended to be alarmed. ‘You mean you don't fancy Bill Clinton?'

‘He's all right, as politicians go.' Aisha realised what she'd said, and felt her cheeks turning red.

Stephen glanced at his plate, picked up his fork and put it down with a clatter.

‘Can I —'

‘Did you —'

Stephen filled Aisha's wine glass, busying himself with emptying the bottle. ‘Should I get another one?'

‘Not for me.'

‘You don't drink much.'

‘I'm used to doing the driving. Don't let me stop you.'

‘I'm going to get a glass of red as I may be stuck here for hours. More water?'

‘Please.'

‘OK, let me grab our — Jack.' His hand shot out to grip the arm of a distinguished-looking grey-haired man who was passing their table. ‘Did you get my note?'

The man rolled his eyes. ‘Not Gibraltar again, Stephen.'

‘I thought you lot were all for self-determination. Or doesn't it apply to people who want to stay British? Aisha, this is Jack Porter, he's on the Foreign Affairs Committee with me. Aisha Lincoln.'

They shook hands.

‘Aisha does a lot of work with women and kids in the Third World. The two of you should get together.'

‘Is that right?' Porter's eyes focused on her for the first time. ‘Girls' education is one of my main concerns, as it happens. You have to be culturally sensitive, of course —'

‘He means politically correct,' Stephen teased.

‘But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. Where are you from — originally, I mean?'

Aisha said, ‘Highgate.'

Porter took a step back. ‘Oh, I'm sorry —'

She relented, softening the remark with a smile. ‘My mother's family is from Egypt, but I was born in London.'

‘Ah. Do you go back there often?'

‘I've never been.'

‘Never?'

‘No, though lately I've been thinking I'd like to.'

‘We, the committee that is, we were in Cairo a few years ago. Before your time, I think, Stephen.'

He nodded. ‘I came on at the end of '94.'

The MP turned back to Aisha. ‘Fascinating place, and the Government does seem to be getting to grips with the extremists. Do you have a card?' She handed him one and he glanced at it: ‘We should have lunch.'

Aisha inclined her head. ‘I'd like that.'

‘It's actually Chechnya I want to talk to you about,' Stephen said, asking Aisha to excuse him for a moment. She listened as they discussed a meeting with the Russian ambassador, whom they both seemed to know, then Porter gave Aisha a half-bow and moved away.

‘Christ, you really put him in his place,' Stephen said admiringly. ‘No, it's OK, he deserved it. Though he's actually not a bad chap. For the other side, that is.'

A waitress appeared, took Stephen's order for drinks and held out a menu. ‘Pudding?'

Aisha shook her head.

‘Me neither, thanks.'

As the woman moved away, a bell began to ring, an urgent hammering that made Aisha jump. Stephen reached across the table and squeezed her hand, the first time he had touched her since they exchanged kisses in the Central Lobby.

‘That means a division.' He glanced up at the green screen of a TV monitor in the corner of the room, sounding regretful. ‘I did warn you there might be votes all evening. Will you be all right there? I'll be back in five minutes.'

Aisha leaned back, watching the room empty. It was only a quarter to nine and she felt deflated, contemplating a solo taxi ride to North London where she had arranged to stay in a friend's flat. A mobile sounded faintly and after a moment, when no one answered it, Aisha realised it was hers. She reached inside her bag, looked at the screen and frowned as she recognised her own number in Somerset.

‘Aisha? What the hell is that noise?'

‘Tim. Are the boys all right? Has something happened?'

‘Not as far as I'm aware. Where are you?'

‘I'm — in a restaurant.'

‘Can you hear me?'

‘Yes.' To her relief, the clanging stopped. ‘Is everything all right?'

He ignored the question. ‘Listen, the reason I'm calling, you know I wouldn't interrupt your girls' night out if it wasn't important. What time are you going to be home tomorrow?'

‘Around six, I should think.'

‘Can't you get back earlier? Three o'clock, say?'

She felt the muscles in her face tighten. ‘Why? What's the rush?'

‘I'm seeing a new client. Well, a potential client. Nerijus Sidaravicius, that guy who's buying up football clubs, even you must've heard of him. God knows why he's come to me — his people, I should say, I've yet to speak to the great man himself. You know what these East European moneybags are like, but that's where the dosh is these days. Apparently he's dying to meet you. Come on, Aisha, is it so much to ask? You don't have to sit through lunch, just show up for coffee and turn on the charm. I'm taking him — well, I hope he's taking me — to The Swan.'

Aisha spotted Stephen walking towards her in a throng of MPs, his hand on the shoulder of a former chancellor. She said abruptly: ‘All right, I'll try and get there by four.'

‘Can't you make it earlier?'

‘Tim, I have a meeting with UNICEF tomorrow morning. Even that's cutting it fine.'

‘Oh, all right. See you.' He rang off.

Stephen pulled out his chair, smiling at something, and nodded towards her mobile. ‘I've turned mine off, after the trouble it caused last time.'

‘Last time? Oh.' Aisha felt her cheeks flush.

‘The good news,' he said, leaning towards her, ‘is that that was the last vote. I don't have to hang around here all evening, so what would you like to do? I mean, as long as you're not in a rush...'