A Parliamentary Affair (26 page)

He knew Peter would come back. That fact, at least, made returning to London and announcing his decision easier to bear.

‘Mike?
Mike
. Can I talk to you for a minute?’

There was silence. It was irritating to have to ask in the same wheedling tone a child uses for a neglectful parent. This was her husband, sitting slumped in front of the television, a half-finished glass of beer at his side, head lolling with tiredness. On the screen energetic young men with muscled thighs and mercenary faces darted about, artlessly kicking each other and punching the air. Around the nation ten million men slumbered in armchairs. It was a typically British Saturday afternoon.

She tried again. ‘Mike! I have to go out in a minute. I need to know whether you’re planning to come to Party Conference, so I can book a hotel and reply to invitations. If you are, you must fill in the forms this weekend to get your security pass. You can’t decide at the last minute – it causes an awful fuss. Will you come?’

The last sentence was delivered in a softer tone. Elaine was troubled at the multiplying number of occasions at which Mike’s absence was noticed. Despite a long-standing promise never to drag him unwillingly to a political event, in return for which he never insisted that she attend interminable airline dinners as his dutiful spouse, she wanted him to come. Or, rather, she wanted him to want to come, whether he came or not.

It was not unreasonable to ask. Conference was far more than wall-to-wall politics. Most people would jump at the chance of rubbing shoulders with the famous and the infamous, or goggling at every kind of oddball exhibitionist parading both inside and outside the conference centre, or the sheer intoxication of seeing news in the making. Then there were splendid parties and receptions galore where a protective male companion at one’s side would be most acceptable. For anyone who enjoyed politics the week was a heady cocktail, a whirl of colour, noise, alcohol, endless arguments at the tops of voices, lapel badges, pockets stuffed with leaflets, crowded hotel lobbies, expensive food, sore feet, exhaustion and exhilaration. For the hangers-on, there was ample to do, whether laughing at the late-night antics of the
Blue Revue
or pottering around stalls or buying yet another signed Jeffrey Archer or just listening to the party’s stars. He could find ways of enjoying it if he wanted.

Mike Stalker rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘After all these years you’d think I wouldn’t suffer from jet lag, but it hits you sometimes. I must be getting old.’

Elaine sat on the armchair and ruffled his hair. Even though Mike irritated her profoundly sometimes, her main feeling towards him was still affectionate. ‘No, not yet. Maybe just a little – did you know you have a few silver hairs already?’

He was yawning and staring at the screen again, mesmerised by the flitting figures. She slipped around on the carpeted floor in front of him, interposing herself between the set and his heavy-lidded eyes. It was as if she spoke from the television itself.

‘Mike, I need to know. Party Conference or no Party Conference? It’s at Blackpool in October, which doesn’t compare with Honolulu or Singapore, but it will be lively this year and I’d be delighted if I could be on my husband’s arm. I like showing you off – you’re easily the best man there. Otherwise I get snide remarks about where you’ve got to.’

The compliment was not just flannel. Whenever she bothered to look carefully at her husband, love and remembered desire came back. Not flooding perhaps, but trickling: Mike was good-looking, successful, decisive and (when he wished) charming. All those qualities, which had so attracted her to him in the first place, had not diminished over the years. Not even recently. Her involvement with Roger did not change Mike, should not interfere with her regard for him. She did not even feel particularly guilt-ridden, but rather marvelled at the ease of hiding her delicious secret. Her increased sexual activity was making her keener, not less so, to have a successful parallel life with Mike. She was faintly ashamed that she took her husband for granted, but annoyed whenever it was grumpily drawn to her attention. She was sorry that the demands of a busy life led her to neglect him; she was not conscious of how often she simply forgot all about him.

Mike sat up and yawned. ‘They elected you, not me, Elaine. I don’t find it exciting, being your appendage. The parties are an effort; normally I wouldn’t waste five minutes on idiots like your bad-breathed acquaintances who find salvation in a free gin and tonic, a mini-sausage on a stick and a brief conversation with Norman Tebbit.’ The effort seemed to tire him further and his shoulders sagged. He stared at the television and she wondered what incident, if any, he was recalling. ‘If I speak my mind, you have an instant problem. If I stay away, likewise it creates difficulties for you – I understand that. It’s just not my style. I am not a wife: sorry. For me it’s a real switch-off. Count me out.’

She sighed but was satisfied. The question had been put fairly, and answered. She would miss him. Yet he would not be missed.

‘Right, so now I know. I’ll go on my own. Save money, that’s a bonus. Now I’ll be back about eleven; there’s steak and ice cream in the freezer, salad in the fridge, potatoes for microwaving in the cupboard by the sink, if you’re hungry. I’m tolerably well organised this week. Will you be all right?’

But answer came there none. Mike was asleep.

‘Ah! Mrs Stalker! How good of you to come. Come in, come in!’

Light bulbs flashed to a smatter of applause and excited chatter, as Elaine stepped over the threshold of Vane Hall for the annual buffet supper of Andrew Muncastle’s Conservative Association. A hundred and twenty noisy people in formal dress, men stuffed into tight trousers and jackets that no longer fastened over midriffs blessed by the god of plenty, the younger women in Frank Usher black dresses, the older ladies in jersey lurex and real pearls, surged forward until Elaine feared being knocked over. The air was redolent with the smell of cigars.

The house’s owner Mr Townsend, now bouncing before her on the balls of his well-shod feet, was the proud proprietor of Townsend’s Stopovers, a string of late-night garages. He grabbed her hand in both of his and pumped it up and down as his sharp-eyed wife hovered at his side. Andrew and Tessa Muncastle greeted her, then melted courteously into the background.

‘Are you alone? Surely not.’ Mr Townsend was concerned. ‘Did you drive yourself?’

‘Certainly.’ Elaine smiled, but was vaguely irritated. She could guess what lay behind his enquiry. ‘We MPs may have generous allowances but they don’t run to a personal chauffeur, you know.’

‘But you found your way all right? You didn’t get lost?’

‘No problem. You can thank Andrew here for giving me excellent instructions. Why should I get lost?’

‘But a woman! You shouldn’t be driving yourself. My wife gets lost all the time.’

I bet she doesn’t, thought Elaine drily. Women who let men think so, though, are more of a pest than the fools who believe them.

‘I’m here now, and jolly glad to be.’ Avoiding the temptation to be cutting, Elaine turned her attention graciously from host to hostess. ‘What a crowd! Mrs Townsend, your house is lovely.’

Mrs Townsend was a narrow-hipped woman with small dark eyes and tightly drawn skin from a recent facelift. She had supported her erratic husband through thick and thin over thirty years, ignored his philandering, hoarded his money, paid off his gambling debts, run his business whenever it was in trouble and brought up his three children to successful lives of their own. She took Elaine’s arm determinedly.

‘I just want you to say hello to my daily. She’s dying to meet you. Then there’s Lady Wooster – bit old and gaga now, but so generous…’

The daily stood holding a tray of champagne. She dimpled with delight as the two women bore down on her. ‘Saw you on telly last night, Mrs Stalker!’

Elaine had been on a chat show endeavouring, in between silly questions about her life in Parliament, to inject a modicum of serious discussion. Here was a chance to discover if she had succeeded.

‘Really? Was it all right?’

The daily was flattered. ‘Very nice. Very interesting.’

‘But did I make sense? Did you agree with what I said?’

‘Ah, I wasn’t really listening. I was peeling potatoes and our lad called me in to see. You looked lovely, I must say.’ Elaine smiled ruefully. Perhaps Lady Wooster might be more forthcoming. The dowager, a skinny wreck in a shimmery fabric and diamonds, was holding forth in a corner. As Elaine approached, holding out her hand in greeting, the woman fixed her with a gimlet stare and raised a quavery voice.

‘I don’t hold with this equality, Mrs Stalker. I mean, are all these working women really happier?’

The old lady was clearly used to winning arguments, but Elaine resolved to disappoint her. ‘Yes, I believe many of them are. It’s nice not to have to ask your husband all the time for money for the things you want.’

The crone fingered a diamond earring, her mouth working. When she spoke again in a hoarse whisper there was a look of triumph in her eye. ‘Huh. We used to get what we wanted from our husbands – and lovers – and
without
having to go to work for it, either.’

The two MPs began to circulate smoothly around the crowded rooms, spending time with everyone: nobody must be missed. Between them they worked a room, starting at opposite sides, having a few words with each person, face to face; pausing a moment here, sitting for a minute there by a disabled lady, speaking respectfully to a retired colonel, listening to the deputy mayor on refuse collection, quizzing his blushing son about school results. It was part of the job and both were soon totally absorbed by it.

Tessa slipped quietly away down a darkened passage and pushed open a heavy panelled door. The bright light inside made her blink. It was the kitchen. Two middle-aged men in chefs’ white aprons and hats, one tall and skinny, the other short and fat, were waving ladles and arguing fiercely with each other. She began to apologise and back out, but they pulled her inside, delighted to have such an important visitor.

‘I’m Brian, and this is Clarence,’ the tall one announced. His face never stopped moving, jerking and twitching as he glanced down affectionately at his red-faced partner.

‘He’s the stupid one,’ said Clarence with a thumb jerk upwards. ‘We keep the Clarendon restaurant – d’you know it? Left the sous-chef in charge tonight.’

‘Should be quiet there – all our regulars are here!’ Brian hooted happily at what was clearly an old joke.

‘Come for our game pie, see.’ Clarence pointed the ladle in the direction of five magnificent pies on a rack. Their pastry was thick and golden and now cool to the touch. ‘Five kinds of game: hare, grouse, partridge, duck and a little venison. We’ve just finished ladling in the jelly – our own recipe. Then half an hour or so in the fridge, and hey presto!’ He slapped Brian’s lean stomach, all he could easily reach.

The kitchen was warm and homely, with plates and pots full of butter and fresh herbs; the double sink was cluttered with dishes. An innocent joy, based on a knowledgeable love of well-made, wholesome food, pervaded the air. The two men had no desire to talk politics but were pleased at her interest and began to scribble down recipes in a spirit of shared delight in good cooking. Tessa found herself at ease in their company. Brian and Clarence spoke in turns, each carrying the story forward, each watching the other speak, anxious to understand, to please, to pick up the tale the moment it was let go, like two ball players long used to each other’s rhythms. They touched constantly, hand on arm, fingers to elbow, lightly, as if needing repeated reassurance that the other was still there.

Tessa was intrigued. She, a good Catholic, might normally have felt repulsion at these two ageing queers. Instead she found herself laughing at their jokes and enjoying their performance, though the swaying ladles as she had entered suggested they were like that all the time, even without an audience. Centuries ago they might have been monks, running a straw-strewn monastery kitchen, abjuring the sins of the flesh, or most of them. Even now each had his counterpart in a priest of her acquaintance, a blasphemous thought quickly banished from her mind. At least neither was going to make a suggestive remark to her, or try to pat her bottom. Quite suddenly she felt safe.

‘Have you been together long?’ she asked, for all the world as if she were talking to a married couple. Brian was instantly wary and moved protectively close to Clarence, but Tessa was not about to make fun of them. They looked at each other and giggled.

‘Too long!’

‘Thirty years. Isn’t it a gas? Never thought I would put up with him for thirty minutes. Such awful habits he has.’ And they were off again, teasing, poking fingers in the air and gurgling with contented laughter.

Tessa smiled with them, leaning against the closed door, recipes clutched in her hand as if maybe they contained the secret of marital happiness. Of course gays could stay together as devotedly as any hetero couple: her common sense told her that. Famous names sprang to mind – Britten and Pears, Noël Coward and his Gerald. She had simply never met any before and was captivated.

Suddenly essential tasks were remembered. With a great flurry and anxious cries, pies were carried into the big fridge and arranged meticulously on shelves. Knives flashed as salads were chopped, four creative hands in long-accustomed unison, two mouths chattering, Brian, Clarence, Brian, Clarence, like rapidly alternating pistons driving their efforts.

‘I envy you,’ Tessa said softly, but the men were once again absorbed in their work and she was an intruder.

Brian spoke as she opened the door. ‘Thank you for popping in to see us, Mrs Muncastle. Much appreciated. When you get back to Westminster, would you say hello to a friend of ours? Sir Nigel Boswood. We used to know him years ago, but we’ve lost touch. If you get a chance. Give him our …our love. Just say Brian and Clarence, he’ll know.’

‘I will.’