A Parliamentary Affair (28 page)

Elaine leaned forward, a grim smile on her face. ‘Well, if you really want to know…’

Cook licked her lips. The beringed hand paused, hovered, trembled.

‘…I have. We all have. By about three hundred of them. All in one week. And we accepted. There are two brothels in the basement of the House of Commons, all decked out in red plush velvet and staffed by the women Members on both sides. We charge the blokes through the nose and give the money to charity. We do it as a public service so they go home to their wives happy. We’re very good at it. Does that satisfy you?’

Cook put down her pencil, annoyed. ‘I was asking a serious question, Elaine.’

‘Come on. If I had, would I tell you?’

The journalist noted the offhand answer as significant and persisted. ‘I heard a story that somebody sent you a bunch of red roses to your desk a month or so ago in the House of Commons. Is that true?’

Elaine cradled the near-empty cup in her hands and appeared to contemplate. ‘Yes.’

‘Who might that have been?’

‘I know who it was.’ Elaine leaned back and folded her arms. She had conceived a total hatred of the woman opposite her, sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee and asking her impertinent and intrusive questions.

‘Will you tell me? Off the record, if you prefer.’

‘Certainly. You may do with the information whatever you like. It was a really gorgeous chap, a distinguished professional man, older than me. Married, I’m afraid.’

‘Who?’

Elaine pointed at the photograph on the wall. ‘Him. He goes by the name of Mike Stalker. It was my birthday. And now, Ms Cook, if you have no more “serious” questions, I think we had better draw these precious moments to a close. I have work to do.’

The pencil was waved dismissively in the air. Cook was not leaving yet. ‘I just had one or two questions about your family. It is of great interest to our readers that you are a mother. Now, how many children do you have?’

Elaine slumped back in the chair. ‘I have one daughter, Karen, who was born in 1978, a year after we were married. Before you ask, there was no reason to wait. She is fifteen now and doing GCSEs this coming summer. Very grown up for her age, taller than me.’

‘At the local school?’

‘Not exactly. As there’s no one at home to look after her she goes to a nearby boarding school.’

‘Fifteen, you say. What sort of advice do you give her?’

‘We’ve told her she can do what she wants with her life and we would encourage her in most things, but we’re keen to ensure she completes her education by going on to university. She is capable.’

‘Would you advise her for or against going into politics?’

‘That’s up to her. If she wanted to try I’d give her all the help I could. I wouldn’t push her, though, it’s a hard life.’

‘Would you give her advice about sex?’

‘Of course. I am her mother.’

‘What would you tell her?’

By now Elaine was controlling herself with every remaining shred of self-discipline at her command. ‘When the time comes, to behave with care and consideration. I hope she will be like that anyway, in all her dealings with other people, not just sex.’

‘Would you give her condoms?’

‘I have had no reason to do so. They do receive sex education in school now, you know.’

‘Would you, though? Make sure she was using condoms?’

For a brief moment Elaine considered picking up her interrogator by the lapels of her vile green jacket and throwing her out of the house. Anne Cook would make a wonderful crumpled heap on the gravel, stockings torn, hair awry, papers and notebook scattered, scrabbling around in the dirt for a lost earring and expensive contact lenses. And those lipstick-covered false teeth.

The doorbell rang. It was the photographer, flustered and apologetic, clutching four bags of equipment. He was a local man, delighted to get a lucrative national assignment. He knew Elaine from previous work but nevertheless was startled to be kissed heartily by her on the cheek with a whispered ‘Am I glad you’re here!’ He wondered what had been going on.

For the next half-hour Elaine had the satisfaction of watching an increasingly tetchy Anne Cook working for a living as a photographer’s assistant, holding lighting reflectors, kneeling at her feet under instruction from the earnest photographer trying to ensure that the right quality of soft white illuminated the shadows on Elaine’s face. Cook for her part gritted her teeth and concentrated her mind on the double gin and tonic with ice and lemon to come from the train buffet. Not a good day.

At last it was done. Elaine held out her hand to both.

The photographer would take Cook to the station – which relieved her victim of any obligation to offer a lift, or that awkward wait for a taxi, when no one is quite sure what to say and whether it is still on the record. As the battered van trundled down the path Elaine wished heartily it would break down again, preferably not here but a long mile or so from the station so the ghastly Ms Cook would have to walk. She was filled with foreboding at the article to come.

The Blackpool hotel was old and scruffy and miles from the conference centre but was all that was available. The best rooms were bagged months in advance. Elaine dumped her suitcase heavily on the hotel bed, opened it, shook out and hung up her best two blue suits and carefully pressed matching shirts, as well as a new silk jacket and black evening trousers for Wednesday night’s drinks party, arranged her cosmetics the right way up by basin and bedside, sniffed at the stained bath and searched for a drink. Out here beyond the edge of North Shore it seemed no one had ever heard of hotel minibars, or had figured out why, given the whisker of a chance, the British prefer to stay in almost any country’s hotels other than their own.

There would be plenty to drink later. Her first appearance would be at the Midlands Area reception in the Imperial Hotel, home base for the duration of the Prime Minister, Cabinet and top party officials, and location of invitation-only social events. It would be a noisy, cheerful affair of 500 or more comrades celebrating the survival of another year and greeting each other over-loudly. The following morning would be her first taste of the conference itself.

It seemed an age since she had last attended, before the election. Mike might watch on television; he would probably see more of the debates than she would. As an MP she would be expected to circulate, to chat dutifully with delegates drinking execrable coffee, to stroll among commercial, political and charitable stalls collecting unwanted leaflets and lapel stickers, and generally to put herself about. Choosing instead to listen to a debate, luxuriating in intellectual argument (such as it was), would have been the height of bad manners. Conference, like most other aspects of her life these days, was not what it seemed.

The Imperial was a hive of activity. Additional staff above and below stairs had been vetted and hired. Several were members of Special Branch, now disporting themselves as waiters, kitchen hands and cleaners. For a month the hotel’s guests had been subjected to unusual scrutiny, their antecedents checked, baggage discreetly searched. During conference itself the Imperial became known as Fort Knox. Getting into the hotel was comparatively easy for Elaine as a recognised face, but still she was required to queue alongside journalists and hotel guests for security clearance. In front of her she recognised the upright figure of Tom Sparrow, Roger’s agent, who had attended her Christmas party. The interminable checks would be repeated on every entry to the combined hotel and conference centre complex, rapidly becoming irksome. By the end of the week tempers would be wearing thin.

Once she was inside, the picture changed completely. The majestic foyer, its stucco and architraves fresh with paint and new varnish, heaved with a great barrage of smartly dressed people, brightly lit by television lights, the din making the crystal chandeliers shake and judder. At the bar, tall young men waved fifty-pound notes and attempted to buy overpriced champagne. At the reception desk harassed clerks were trying to accommodate additional VIPs wearing pained expressions; there
were always some who turned up late, insisting that reservations had been made, openly offering backhanders to be booked in. In the kitchen a perspiring chef cursed guests who wanted real mayonnaise on a night when the eggs were curdling. Behind a glass door on the terrace BBC technicians prepared a makeshift studio among the potted palms, their cables criss-crossing the floor like liana vines in a jungle, waiting to trip up unwary studio guests. The breakfast broadcasts would beam to the nation a dismal view of storm-tossed seas beyond Blackpool esplanade to the chagrin of the town’s tourist officer.

Elaine headed towards the largest reception room. Under the lights the noise was deafening as a crowd of delegates greeted each other with unfeigned affection. Quickly she availed herself of a large orange juice. Mr and Mrs Townsend were standing inside the doorway and pounced on her, talking at the tops of their voices and demanding her return to Vane Hall. Mrs Horrocks and several South Warmingshire ladies waved a welcome from the far side of the room. Elaine gestured helplessly as the crowd pressing in prevented her moving. Half listening to the Townsends’ insistent chatter gave her a chance to look around.

With relief she spotted Roger. Sir Nigel Boswood was present too; as a Cabinet minister his more agreeable duties included doing the rounds of as many area receptions as his constitution would allow. Andrew Muncastle, his new PPS, was nearby, Tessa beside him.

‘My dear Elaine!’ Boswood boomed, and kissed her heartily on the cheek. He was looking more rotund and contented than ever. She smelled good red wine on his breath, and, remembering Roger’s approval of him, responded warmly: had he had a pleasant recess? Was he looking forward to the new session?

‘Ah, I fear we may have a hard time in the coming months.’ Boswood’s assessment was delivered in a low voice. What was to be shared between fellow MPs was to be hidden from the delegates. ‘I’m glad you’re on board. Could do with a few more like you.’

‘A few more like you, Sir Nigel, and we would have fewer difficulties.’ Elaine raised her voice and nearby guests nodded agreement.

The remark was sycophantic but none the less true. Too many Cabinet names had been bandied about in the press recently as plotting in secret with supportive backbenchers. The objective was to force the Prime Minister to sack ministers from the moderate centre of the party, which could be trusted to give him their faithful backing, and replace them with men of less certain loyalty and views more to the plotters’ taste. It was a disreputable business and Boswood would have none of it. He raised his glass in graceful salute and moved smoothly away.

Elaine waded over to greet the Muncastles but found Andrew caught by several elderly female fans, leaving Tessa somewhat lost on the edge of the group. She was wearing a short-sleeved pink dress which set off her slim figure quite well; her expression had a faint air of petulant resentment. Elaine frowned, recalling the exchange in the Strangers’ Cafeteria eighteen months before and the tinge of hysteria then in Tessa’s voice.

Lightly she touched Tessa’s arm. For a moment the woman was unwilling to respond and appeared preoccupied, but Elaine was already speaking, breaking the ice.

‘Hello; Elaine Stalker, remember me? How is your little boy – Barney, isn’t it?’

Tessa shook herself out of her reverie and held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Stalker, he’s fine. You were so nice to him that day with the chocolate cake.’

Elaine gestured at the packed room. The heat was making her perspire. Her voice was sympathetic. ‘Do you still find all this difficult, or are you more used to it by now?’

‘Still uncomfortable, I’m afraid. I’m not very good at all this.’ Tessa’s hand flew to her neck and rubbed at a sore spot behind her ear. ‘Andrew is very sweet about it, but it’s a life which suits some people and not others.’

Elaine sought some way of reassuring Tessa that she was neither alone nor beyond the pale. ‘Andrew’s lucky. At least you come; he must appreciate that. My spouse doesn’t turn up at all. He has a living to earn, of course, but it must be nice to cuddle up warm in bed with someone you love after all this hullabaloo.’

To Elaine’s surprise Tessa blushed bright red and looked at the floor. Her discomfiture and unhappiness were plainly visible. But whatever was wrong here was none of Elaine’s business. Becoming a confidante of the distracted wife of an MP was not in the game plan; if she had to choose, Elaine’s instinctive empathy was with her colleague, not with his partner. She knew which side she might be on in this conflict and it was not Tessa’s.

‘Sorry. Did I say something wrong? Forgive me. Anyway, have a nice evening.’ Rapidly she made her escape.

Roger Dickson was at her elbow. His sudden presence made her jump and her pulse began to race. Before she could open her mouth he announced formally, a warning light in his eye: ‘I don’t believe you have met Caroline, have you?’

She froze. Till now it had always been easy to avoid meeting Roger’s wife. Caroline Dickson came hardly at all to the Commons; her time was spent in the constituency where she was now a successful and well-liked Joint Master of the Hunt, which guaranteed contact with virtually all the influential supporters of the local party, including puppy walkers and hunt followers who after a good day’s outing returned home flushed and happy to their council houses.

‘No. I’m delighted to meet you.’ Elaine shook hands with the strongly made woman standing before her.

Anyone less like the pained misery of Tessa Muncastle could not be imagined. Caroline was slightly taller than Elaine. She wore a dark-green velvet suit which fitted well across her broad shoulders, a blue silk shirt and real pearl earstuds. A matching velvet hairband wound with gold and small pearls kept her brown hair off her face. The style was slightly old-fashioned, Sloaney, timeless; the effect casual, friendly, stable, normal. Her skin was tanned and even weatherbeaten, her eyes bright blue and candid. Caroline looked healthy, bold and confident, unfazed by all the noisy clamour around them. A complete person, at ease with herself, as absorbed in her own life as Tessa, as Elaine even, yet more content than either. Caroline would have no doubts, no anxieties, other than Toby getting into Sandhurst or a fallen horse or the summer fête. Her approach to life would be shrewd and perennially positive: politics was Roger’s job, and she was happy to leave the thinking to him, though of course both he and the constituency could count on her reassuring presence as required. She would not hassle him for promotion but would offer automatic, vague encouragement whatever he chose to do. This was the rival, then. That Caroline had no suspicions of her was immediately apparent in her open grin as they shook hands.