A Parliamentary Affair (23 page)

‘About eight? Usual arrangements?’

She nodded, smiled and left him. The invisible cloak vanished, replaced by a cool chill from an open window.

It was not only her political life which had fallen into a steady routine. So had her activities with Roger. Although the affair had started in his home he never again invited her there. She pondered, but did not ask him why not. Perhaps his wife had spotted something incriminating, as a woman might: perhaps she, Elaine, simply made the bedroom smell differently. That was certainly possible, for despite the risk she always liked to wear perfume for Roger. And there was the tell-tale linger of sex in a room.

By contrast, there was no one at her flat to spot any unusual signs. Mike’s absences were both frequent and predictable; Karen might not have guessed anyway. The flat had no awkward associations of family or domesticity, no toys or pictures of children gazing down reproachfully. Her flat was part of her professional life.

There was a set of unwritten rules about the flat too. Too tidy, too much effort, and Roger would remark on it, hinting that she was trying too hard. He did not want any signs that he was an important part of her life. She sensed that he did not wish to be faced with any decisions at all about her, other than whether to make contact that week. A bunch of daffodils in spring or roses from her
garden were fine, since she might easily have done that for herself. Brand-new towels in the bathroom or a toothbrush still in its packet left casually in the mug – this was going too far.

Yet she strove to avoid routine. And that night, as she walked home in the evening sunshine, a new idea had sent her to the last fruit stall down by Sutton Ground. Two big punnets of strawberries and an aerosol can of cream now sat on the low table. There were no plates or dishes, and no spoons.

The phone rang. ‘All clear?’ he asked. His voice lifted with suppressed excitement. He was still in the House, on a deserted corridor, his mouth close to the phone.

‘Of course. See you in a minute.’

She glanced at the clock. It would take about ten minutes for him to fetch his Rover from the car park, drive the half-mile to Morpeth Terrace, find a place to park, check he wasn’t seen, then stroll casually to her front door. You could walk it almost as fast. But after he had seen her he would climb back in the car and drive home, with no need to explain the missing couple of hours. It worked a treat. And a treat was what she had in store for him.

The entry-phone buzzer sounded. She picked up the handset on the wall as her heart leapt. ‘Yes?’

It would never do to greet him by name. The bell could as easily have been pressed by a journalist. Carelessness cost careers.

‘It’s me.’

She pressed the button releasing the street door, left her own front door ajar an inch, returned to the sitting room, switched the television on low and started eating the strawberries, holding each delicately by its green stalk. She counted his footsteps on the stairs. The climb made him pant slightly. He stood just inside the doorway and took off his jacket, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door. As Roger entered the room she was apparently engrossed in the programme and unconcerned at his arrival, so that he had to call to her softly.

Once she had been making coffee in the kitchen and had teased him, refusing to budge when he entered. Then he had been obliged to search for her, and had taken her from behind, hands firmly on her breasts and squeezing her almost angrily until it hurt. Turning her bodily around he had kissed her hard and desperately, till at last she broke free, tears in her eyes and a sob in her throat from the longing he had unwittingly revealed.

He never put it into words, never said, ‘I love you.’ The shutters would come down if she attempted to say it to him.

‘God! What are you watching?’ He gestured at the television set.

‘It’s quite interesting.’ She pretended to be defensive. ‘I’ll switch off and try to concentrate on you, if you prefer.’

‘Quite right too!’ He pulled her to him, entwining a fistful of her hair so that she could not move her head, and kissed her.

Outside came the noise of cars parking as neighbours returned from work, a few late theatregoers, friends calling to each other. Sometimes they went into the main bedroom, but tonight Roger lay back on the single bed in the living room which was covered with a woven rug. He gathered a pile of cushions behind his head, and lounged long-legged on the bed, pulling at his tie and kicking off his shoes.

That was fine by her. Elaine knelt at the side of the bed and tugged off his socks, then leaned over and started to undo his trouser belt, deliberately fumbling so that he covered her hand with his own and helped her. The two chatted all the time, almost inconsequentially as she calmly removed piece after piece of his clothing, folding them in a neat pile in humorous imitation of the acts of a nanny. She had long since sensed that he found the contrast between her gentle prattle and sensual actions intensely erotic, and so now did she. All the while his other hand stroked her hair, caressing, with loving anticipation.

It was warm enough to lie unclothed, for the evening was still sunny. When he was naked, lying splayed out on the little bed, she stood before him and slowly took off her own garments, one at a time, dropping each item into a tumbled heap. As she pulled off a sweater, arms and hair tangled and her face momentarily hidden, he ran his fingers over the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs, and looked at her with hunger in his grey eyes.

She leaned backwards and picked up a punnet of strawberries and the can of cream. He looked down at his erection with a raised eyebrow, and then at the strawberries.

‘Shouldn’t those wait?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, and placed the first strawberry in his navel, and then two at the root of his penis and the next two in the smooth hollow of his almost hairless chest, and the biggest in his mouth, so he could not protest and had to chew or choke. Suppressing laughter, she then took the can, shook it and spread mounds of whipped cream over the strawberries. She shoved another large strawberry determinedly in his mouth, then balanced the smallest fruit gently on the very penis tip where it wobbled dangerously. After a thoughtful pause, she then covered this last one with a whirl of cream, and sat back to survey her handiwork.

‘I’ve always wanted to eat you, Roger Dickson, and lick you all over. That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ she announced softly.

‘Oh, my God,’ he moaned ecstatically. ‘I don’t believe this. Elaine, careful with your teeth! I can’t get a replacement.’

Pulling her hair back with one hand, she balanced with the other, and ate the strawberry and cream from his chest, running the tip of her tongue into each crevice of his skin, lapping up every trace of white foam. She moved down and performed the same action on the fruit and cream in his navel. He wriggled, chortling with delight, his eyes fixed firmly on her face. Then it was the turn of the red fruit in his groin, her tongue moving like a cat’s as he muttered at her, not daring to move, gurgling with sheer pleasure. The tiniest strawberry trembled, but with a flick of her tongue it was in her mouth. She examined the untidy dollop of whipped cream remaining and licked that off too, making a thorough job of it, particularly the most sensitive area right at the tip, leaving him moist and sticky. Then in a swift movement she was on him, her hand guiding his penis deep inside her, and she cried out as he began urgently to move.

When it was done they collapsed in a clammy heap, skin clinging to skin. He held her tightly and could not stop laughing.

‘Heavens! You make it such glorious fun. What a talent! Well, Mrs Stalker, I’ll never be able to see strawberries and cream on a menu again without breaking into a cold sweat.’

‘That was the idea,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I wanted to ensure that throughout your life, whatever else may happen, you’ll never forget this night with me.’

She uttered the words lightly, but his eyes clouded for a moment. She took advantage of the pause to fetch a flannel and wiped him carefully, then settled herself by his side, tucked on to the narrow bed, snuggling close, ready to talk. ‘You expecting to move in the reshuffle?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, to be truthful.’ He was eating the remainder of the strawberries. ‘I’ve said I’d like a move from the whips’ office, but that guarantees nothing.’

‘Don’t you like being a whip?’

‘Oh yes, very much. You find out everything that’s going on. But it’s destructive, in a way.’

Long ago she had learned how to arrange herself, her voice and manner, so that he felt free to muse out loud. As he might have spoken to Caroline, had she been interested. As once Mike had talked to her, when Jake was dying, the tears streaming down his face. She shut out that picture quickly, and concentrated on Roger.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well…’ He shifted his position. ‘A whip’s job is to get the government’s business through, by hook or by crook. Even the most reliable Members have to be hooked from time to time, persuaded that their vote matters and their views are of value. They can be harder to deal with than the devils who are being awkward, some of whom you just have to write off. So I spend an inordinate amount of my time stroking people – being nice to nuisances I can’t abide; listening to little schemes, tolerating insults with a smile, fixing here, arranging there, balancing everywhere. There are days when my face aches from smiling and I feel like hitting somebody. I thought I was going to be an honest John when I came here, but it doesn’t work out that way.’

‘You don’t have to lie, though, do you? I mean, not outright?’

‘All the time: lies are our stock in trade. I tell you, it gets at you eventually.’

‘Perhaps you get hardened to it.’ She ran one finger slowly down his face. As it reached his lips he caught it, sucked for a moment, let go, then sighed.

‘Probably. And I don’t like that. Churchill said it was easier to tell the truth: then you don’t have to remember which lie you told last time. Anyway I’d feel happier in a job where I was creating policy instead of coercing the troops into supporting it. And I’ve had enough of working so hard and still being a complete unknown, as far as the nation is concerned.’

How easy it had become to lie as a matter of course. Elaine would have preferred a good marriage and no lies. But if love and joy were not available with honest behaviour, she for one did not bat an eyelid at lying to get them. She shivered as a night breeze stirred the air. She leaned across him, letting her breasts brush his face, to close the window.

‘You’ll have to do more TV and radio,’ she remarked. ‘Have you had any training?’

He shook his head. ‘A bit, locally, that’s all.’

‘You probably don’t need any advice, Roger. In fact, you give it to others now. But, for example, if you’re speaking on TV or radio, you need to be crisp and natural.’

‘Go on. I’m always interested in hearing from an expert, and you’re very good at it, Elaine. Almost as good as you are at eating strawberries.’ He grinned.

She sat up, using her hands to demonstrate. ‘It’s easy, really. Listen to the words ordinary people actually use: simple, informal words. There’s a difference between how we talk and official language. Don’t use long words. Say “bollocks” instead of “damnation”, if you like! “Wrong” instead of “incorrect”, “rot” instead of “inappropriate”. It’ll make your remarks vivid and instantly understood.’

His eyes rounded. ‘I get it – bonking instead of intercourse.’

She threw a pillow at his face in mock irritation. ‘Prat instead of idiot, more like. But you’re right – that’s what makes the
Globe
headlines so memorable, whereas
The Times
’s aren’t. And decide first what message you want to get across: if it’s important, keep saying it in the same words, over and over again. If you say it often enough it’ll stick. But if the message is “No comment”, keep your head down and refuse to make any comment at all. Eventually they’ll give up and go away, and find some other mug.’ Roger folded his arms behind his head and listened intently. Elaine had not been taught these matters any more than he had, but she understood them instinctively. He knew other things she might never learn: how to win over a group of angry colleagues, how to keep his temper under control, how to flatter his companions instead of competing with them.

Elaine was engrossed in her lesson. He watched her while absorbing her advice, enjoying the way her breasts bobbed as she moved her arms, the curve of her belly. ‘You’re not listening!’ she accused.

‘I am! But I’m gazing at you in adoration as well. Don’t stop. I’m taking it all in, I promise.’

For a moment she had lost rhythm. She eyed him dubiously, but he was waiting for her to continue.

‘All right. I’ve almost finished. All speeches are composed of three things: message, medium and mode. Message we’ve done. By “medium” I mean you must know who the audience is and exactly what are the circumstances. Are you speaking live or recorded? First or last? Live is always best, as you can’t be edited, and if you’re determined enough you can usually get the last word in. If your opponent or interviewer becomes angry or aggressive, so much the better. You should sound mildly shocked: that puts the other one in the wrong and you’ll get the sympathy vote. Try out your expressions in front of a mirror. Listen to your own voice – practise with a tape recorder. Learn what it sounds like, and how to make it sing.’

‘Ye … es,’ he admitted slowly. ‘My voice always sounds so flat and toneless. I’ll try that.’

She nodded, content. ‘Lastly is the mode, by which I mean you should back up your message with real knowledge and not waffle. Always be well prepared. If you make a point, have some evidence. A few well-chosen facts will stick, and make your critics sound stupid and wrong. Thus Roger Dickson is always convincing.’

He was beginning to stir again. Almost absent-mindedly, she rubbed her palm in slow circles across his abdomen, gently willing him, for she was nowhere near spent. Outside, the street had fallen quiet.

‘I meant to ask you one thing, Roger,’ she said.