A Parliamentary Affair (27 page)

Mike was in the same armchair, glass empty, ruefully rubbing his stiff neck. Evidence that he had moved at least once was provided by the evening newspaper draped across his middle and the greasy wrappers from the fish and chips which had formed his supper. He examined the disorder surrounding his armchair and felt faintly ashamed. He was not bored or lonely, just tired. The thought of joining Elaine at that evening’s beanfeast had not seriously occurred to him, but doing so would have been similar to joining passengers in the arrival lounge after a long flight: unexpected, unnecessary and wearing. The punters wanted to see and hear Elaine, not him. Mike was vaguely proud that his wife was successful in her chosen occupation, as long as she did not insist that he be involved. His presence would, in fact, have been a distraction to her, just as if she had turned up to sit on the flight deck. She would be glancing at him anxiously, particularly at his glass, trying to guess how many he had had. If the argument got heated, she would try and pull him away just as he was winning his point. The body language between himself and Elaine had to be perfect too: there was quite a skill in promoting the right messages. What a pain such evenings could be.

He gazed mournfully at the empty glass and debated heaving himself out of the comfortable chair to fetch a refill. Elaine used to do that for him, once. Wistfully, he would have preferred Elaine as she used to be: her life and thoughts revolving around him. She’d tried hard in the early years of their marriage and he had failed to respond, leaving her alone for long weeks with two small babies, one handicapped, yet she had expressed no resentment. The reserves of spirit and energy she had summoned to deal with Jake hadn’t vanished after the child’s death, but had been directed outside the family into her burgeoning career. He had neither the right nor the urge to criticise. His reaction to Jake’s suffering had been to roster himself secretly on to longer flights without telling Elaine. He had left her to her own devices, denied her the warmth and intensity promised in their courtship, and without rancour she had simply developed away from him and their home. What she wanted in life did not come through her husband, but she got it nevertheless. Another marriage might long since have disintegrated, though of course Elaine had strong reasons for not challenging him too hard: a woman MP would face hurtful accusations of failure over a divorce. Splitting up would always be seen as the woman’s fault for being too ambitious.

Mike yawned, shook his aching shoulders, cracked his fingers one by one, reached for the remote control and changed channels. It was nearly midnight; Elaine had miscalculated again. Still, she might prefer it if he were waiting up for her, slightly reproachful, a dutiful spouse. He smiled at his own acquiescence as her car came up the drive. A moment later his wife, looking weary, was entering the room. He spoke first.

‘Had a good evening?’

‘Not bad. Thank heaven there’ll be no election for a while yet.’

‘You sure?’ The press was full of speculation.

‘Uh-huh. As long as we can maintain our majority in crucial debates we’ll survive. Only strong governments with big majorities, who are well ahead in the polls, call early elections. Don’t worry.’

Mike pulled a face. ‘I’m remembering what happened to the last Labour government. Hesitated till the last minute, then lost, badly, and the next three elections too. Not a good precedent.’

Elaine took off her jacket. ‘Given the highly dodgy nature of my seat, I just hope the election is a long way off.’

Mike shrugged. ‘You could lose anyway, even if the next election is a roaring success.’

She was irritated again. Her husband’s political antennae were almost non-existent. ‘That’s the equivalent of me telling you that one of these days your plane might crash. Thanks a million.’

He was chastened and muttered an apology. Somehow the evening had come to an unsatisfactory end. Neither had intended it that way; there had been no row, no big disagreement. No meeting of minds either. A vague feeling of a missed opportunity pervaded the air, but each was too tired to pursue the matter or express concern at the fact that most of their evenings now were spent apart, and most of the remainder, like this one, ended in stalemate.

‘Your fan club’s at it again.’ Diane Hardy’s voice on the phone sniffed disapproval. ‘Mr Sutton is inviting you to tea during Party Conference. What do you want to do?’ Crouched on the floor of her flat surrounded by scribbled reminders, Elaine cradled the phone between chin and shoulder. ‘Which one’s Mr Sutton? Isn’t he the retired newspaper chap? What does he say?’

Diane snorted. ‘Pin your ears back. “My dearest darling Elaine. I do hope you had a very happy birthday – your own day: congrats! What joy, when you wrote and thanked me for my card in your own dear hand. Well, my beloved Elaine, I was so thrilled. I shan’t forget your kindness to me with this beautiful gesture.” It goes on like that for four pages. You want me to read it all?’

‘Makes a change from some of the letters we get. What does he say about the conference?’

‘Um… Ah, here it is. “As you know, my darling Elaine, my poor wife died in 1976 and 10 October would have been our wedding anniversary, so it will be a sad time for me. It would cheer me up so much if you would consent to have tea with me, when you are nearby at your party’s conference in Blackpool. You have been writing me such kind letters…’

‘How sweet!’ Elaine giggled: ‘We just acknowledge the steady stream he sends us.’

‘“…for two years now and yet we have never met. I watch for you on television all the time and it makes my day when I see you there, looking so lovely…” and so on. It’s a bit difficult to read, the handwriting is so shaky.’

‘Poor old sod. Well, why not? We don’t often get a chance to make someone happy. How old d’you think he is?’

‘Search me. But from the feebleness of the writing and the fact he’s been on his own and retired for donkey’s years, he could be nearly eighty. Sounds very lonely. He’s certainly pursued you with energy; the file of his letters is an inch thick.’

‘Fine. Then let’s invite him to tea at my hotel. Make his day.’

Diane sniffed. ‘I don’t think you should. But if you’re determined then I’ll arrange it. And I’ll tell the local press – no, don’t argue – it’s a human interest story. At least then you’ll get something out of it too.’

Elaine put the last touches to her hair, fixed the large pearl earrings which Roger liked so much, carefully applied a bright pink lipstick, checked her tights back and front for holes, slipped her feet into newly polished black patent high-heeled shoes and took a long hard look in the mirror.

How nice it would be to have a day off and slop around in jeans and an old stained sweater. How wonderful not to have to bother with her hair, to dispense with the monthly hairdressing appointment necessary to keep her hallmark blonde. Its real colour was a mystery now. Greyer than last year, certainly. Elaine agreed with Margaret Thatcher, a brunette at her first election, who chided a woman friend for going grey; and so the Iron Lady’s hair wavered between gold and corn, depending on the seasons, her mood and her standing with the electorate, until the week after her fall when like her face it turned ashen.

The face this morning had to be impeccable. Anne Cook, doyenne of Fleet Street’s lady columnists, was coming to her house to do an interview for
The Herald
.

‘A personality piece, darling,’ the throaty old voice had grated down the line. ‘It’s about time! You’ve hit the headlines more than once, dear, and our readers are asking about you. I want to know all about your life as a high-profile new MP. We’ll bring a photographer, then we can have a nice cosy chat.’

Fastening her jacket, Elaine tried to shake off her feeling of unease. Most colleagues didn’t get the chance of a full-page spread in a national newspaper. Most would demur modestly, but in secret would give their eye teeth for such publicity. Ministers in particular would be chary of such an
invitation. Personality pieces about individual ministers suggested ambition, and, being British, that would never do. Some simply did not trust the press, alleging that only bad news would be printed. Elaine was scornful of such attitudes. If MPs and ministers were more media-savvy they might be better at explaining themselves, their policies and beliefs to the people who chose them.

Yet Elaine believed with rare passion that press freedom was just as important as political freedom. Britain’s investigative journalism, at its best, was the best in the world. All the more pity that quality reporting lay cheek by jowl with bare breasts and buttocks and endless sleazy interest in the private lives of public people. This is the price tag of freedom of speech: that the press can say what they like.

Elaine drew away from the mirror, still apprehensive, and checked the kitchen and living room. If the interviewee were a man, piles of Hansards littering the sofa would produce indulgent remarks about devotion to duty. If a fine smell of roast beef emanated from the kitchen his choice of competent caring partner would be praised. It was different for her. A woman never gets the benefit of the doubt. Any mess would imply incompetence at the monumental twin tasks of running a home and a career, and that she was foolish to try. Dinner in the oven, proper cooked dinner, would suggest an obsession with trivialities. A pile of unwashed laundry hidden at the back of the washing machine would be gleefully spotted and quoted as evidence of sloth. Either way, tidy or disorderly, the implication could be drawn by a grumpy journalist having a bad day that she was a pushy bitch who did not love her husband or children. For, if she did, how could she leave them behind?

Female feature writers were the worst. Often the top females in journalism had become embittered with their own struggle; few had successful private lives and simply did not believe it was possible to manage both. Anne Cook was better than most, but even she assumed there must be cracks in the edifice on show, and that it was her job to find them.

The train slowed near Ratcliffe power station’s giant cooling towers and turned west. Anne Cook folded her newspaper, put out her cigarette regretfully – it could be the last for hours – retouched her lipstick and reached for her coat. A tall woman, once handsome, with wide shoulders and thin hips, she wore a green wool jacket with black reverse and massive shoulder pads over a tight black skirt, slit at the side, revealing veined flesh in shiny dark stockings. Today’s expedition to the sticks was in the nature of a day out. She was not looking forward to the winter. Forty years’ hard slog was giving way to drifting fears of old age. Not retirement; old journalists never retire, they just grow old and mad, until the last deadline is missed and the phone rings no more.

Outside the station a convoy of run-down blue and white taxis waited hopefully, their cheerful Pakistani drivers chattering in heavily accented English. No one seemed to have heard of her destination. A noisy conversation in Punjabi ensued with much gesticulation and finger-pointing, everyone pitching in with advice. Nor was there a map. With a sinking feeling Ms Cook realised she had travelled way beyond A–Z maps. Clutching her coat, bag and briefcase she tried again.

‘It’s Elaine Stalker’s house. The MP. Does that help?’

It did. The leading driver’s face broke into a mass of smiles. Why hadn’t she said so in the first place? As the cab moved off Cook reflected grimly that similar systems exist as far afield as downtown Tokyo and upstate Bangladesh. A postal address is for banks and the taxman; to arrive physically at a destination you give the name of the occupant and the approximate location, describe both briefly, and off you go. She hoped to God the house had modern plumbing.

The two women greeted each other warily on the doorstep, both overdressed for the event, both unduly bright and effusive. Cook’s glance took in all the artificial effort at once. Both realised this contest mattered far more to Elaine than to Cook.

The agency photographer, driving from Leicester, telephoned that his van was broken down and he would be late. It was decided to continue without him. Anne Cook settled herself at the kitchen
table, politely accepted a cup of instant coffee and studied her notebook. Younger writers used a tape; she prided herself on her spidery shorthand, written without once taking her eyes from her subject’s face. It was an extraordinary talent. Elaine found herself distracted and disconcerted. It gave the woman a creepy air, like an automaton, the furiously scribbling right hand working quite independently of the rest of the taut, concentrating body, the gaze connecting permanently with her own face, the head nodding slowly to a completely different rhythm.

‘Now, Elaine – may I call you Elaine? – what first took you into politics?’

Elaine had been expecting this one. ‘My family were an argumentative bunch and my father was always very interested. And I was at university in the mid-1970s – there were two general elections in quick succession while I was a student, plus the end of the Vietnam War and Watergate and Nixon’s impeachment. I found the whole thing totally absorbing.’

‘When was that?’

‘I was at college from 1974 to 1977.’

‘And you were married soon after?’

It was a question, not a statement. The facts, the bare bones of her life, were all in the
Who’s Who
entry which she had written and vetted herself, as all entrants do.

‘Mike and I were married the day after we finished exams.’

‘Was there any particular reason for that?’ The voice was bland, non-committal, the mouth squeezed into a smile. A flake of red lipstick disfigured the distinctive Cook front teeth.

‘Not really. We wanted to get married and felt it was best to wait until the exams were over.’

‘Did you have to get married? I mean, were you pregnant?’

Elaine gasped. Bloody cheek. She looked closely but the face opposite her was expressionless.

‘No, but we were unusual in other ways, I suppose: most of our friends thought we were very old-fashioned getting married at all.’

‘Ah, I see. Highly commendable. Is that because you were sleeping together?’

Elaine stiffened. ‘I’m really not sure that’s any of your business.’

‘But everybody did in those days.’

‘I think we had better move on to the next question.’ Elaine hoped she sounded frosty.

Cook turned a page and spent a moment studying her notes. ‘Do you enjoy being an MP?’

‘Oh yes, enormously. It’s a fascinating job and I am particularly lucky to be representing South Warmingshire. People here have been very kind to us as a family, and as you can see it’s a lovely place to live.’

That was a fairly standard answer. Cook shifted restlessly. ‘It must be difficult being one woman amongst only a handful of other women, surrounded by all these men in the House of Commons?’

Elaine sipped coffee. She was going to have to be extremely careful. ‘It is difficult, yes. I would much prefer there to be a lot more women. It would be good for the country, apart from anything else.’

‘And what does your husband think about your activities? It can’t be much fun for him.’

Elaine winced as she realised that she and Mike had not had a serious conversation for months. That Christmas fiasco had put a serious dampener on everything, so almost by mutual consent they had spent relatively little time together since. Still, she was not about to air any personal worries in the press. Too late: the journalist had noticed her hesitation and slight frown.

‘Mike has an important job in his own right, you know. He is not in politics himself but I find that helpful. I wouldn’t want a post-mortem on every speech the moment I came home.’

‘Of course.’ Cook spoke smoothly, with a reassuring smile. The tongue flickered and transferred more lipstick. ‘Now, let’s return to the strange life you lead, surrounded by all these male MPs. Do you find the men attractive?’

‘What did you say?’

‘Do you fancy any of them – your male colleagues?’

The woman was waiting for an answer, her eyes glittering. Elaine felt an angry flush spreading across her neck.

‘I don’t think that’s what I or they are there for, frankly.’

‘So you don’t fancy any of them. Aren’t they attractive? Some of them must be. What about the Prime Minister – do you think he is attractive? A lot of women do. They say he gets the women’s vote. Would you agree with that?’

Elaine allowed herself a prim look. ‘I wouldn’t know. Most people voted for him in my view because they saw an honest, decent, capable, caring
person
. And that’s what he is.’

Cook turned the page. Most of the article was already written in her mind, but a little local colour was always helpful. Pity Elaine wasn’t rising to the bait more.

‘Why do you think there are so few women MPs?’

Elaine was tempted to say, because we have to put up with crap like this and most capable women have far more sense. Instead she pretended to think deeply for a moment.

‘It has a lot to do with most people’s image of an MP as a chap in trousers aged thirty-three with a wife and two children,’ she answered. ‘Women at that age are tied down with children, even if they are working as well – the priorities are different. By the time most women interested in politics get started they’re already in their forties and a long way behind. That makes it harder. Apart from anything else it affects their confidence. And I think women also find it straightforwardly objectionable to have to leave families behind, which is in the nature of the job and unavoidable. The men don’t like it either, but they’ll put up with separation, whereas women often simply refuse to contemplate it.’

‘It must be hard for the men MPs too, with their wives away. Would you say that?’

‘Yes, I would. The problems are exactly the same for male MPs as for women. Everyone forgets that.’

‘Does it tempt them into affairs?’

‘Possibly. I wouldn’t know.’

‘But do you think the separation makes these men MPs vulnerable?’

‘Probably. Why don’t you ask them?’ The interview
stank
. Elaine was getting very angry.

‘Well, then, I’ll ask you. Do you have affairs?’

‘
I beg your pardon?
’

‘Do you have affairs with your male colleagues? There you are, all thrown together, attractive men and women – you’ve admitted that you find the men attractive – spouses away, the MPs will play. Haven’t you ever been propositioned?’