A Parliamentary Affair (31 page)

The bedside alarm roused her from fitful sleep. It was 6.45. She rolled over and opened one eye. She had deliberately left the curtains open in the hope that daylight might make waking easier, but outside was still dark, with a fitful wet wind hurling black gusts at the window. How she hated Blackpool, with its tatty frontages and tight-lipped landladies, its gaudy illuminations and clanking trams, its faded air of long-forgotten rumbustiousness, the all-pervading smell of vinegar. The place seemed out of time, as if the fair had moved on or long since closed down, with only the memory of pre-war laughter and the tinny music of dancing horses still hanging on the air.

The room had a stained plastic kettle, two sachets of instant coffee and four teabags, with four tiny containers of UHT milk and ten sachets of sugar. Northern businessmen, the room’s usual occupants, liked it strong and sweet. She stumbled sleepily across the room and switched on both kettle and television. Better take a quick look at the papers and then get moving.

Page 5 of
The Herald
brought her up short. The photo taken at her home was fine, though it made her simper. The headlines and the first words of Anne Cook’s page were a different matter.

‘I DON’T FANCY ANY OF THEM!’ SAYS NEW GIRL ELAINE.

‘I did not!’ the victim snorted.

‘Makes us sound like ruddy plutocrats. It’s not worth half that. And if I didn’t live there you’d still moan.’

‘I made no such remark, Mrs Stalker,’ the teacher explained later. ‘This reporter asked me to talk about Karen and I refused. Then she asked wasn’t she a bit of a handful at times, and I said of course, as all children are. That’s all.’

‘Cheek! The kitchen was like that when we bought it. So what, anyway?’

Elaine felt sick. Slowly she sat down on the edge of the bed, spilling coffee unheeded, and read the article again. It was a hatchet job. The tone suggested that it was always intended to be so. That its sneering was inconsistent, lurching from painting her as not helpful enough to women to being too liberal with her daughter, was the least of its faults. Her refusal to answer stupid questions had been turned into coyness, her careful explanations of the wrongs of a system which limited the advance of women transformed into criticisms of womankind in general. She had been deliberately misquoted and words put into her mouth; even her quotes had been distorted. The advice she tried to give to her daughter – and thinking about what she had said to the journalist she could find little fault with it –
had become an implication that Karen was to be led by her mother into a life of sexual extravagance. The truth of the red roses didn’t fit Anne Cook’s purpose and so had been ignored. Most of all it made her out to be trivial, sex-obsessed and unpleasant, and turned her from public servant into a parasite.

She should have followed her instinct and thrown Cook out. How could anyone do this and live with themselves afterwards? Didn’t the woman care at all for journalistic integrity? Of course not: Elaine knew the answer herself. Could she challenge it? The slurs were serious, almost certainly libellous. But a court case would cost thousands she did not have, would take months or years, and would require the repeated resurrection of an article she would much rather bury – along with its author. Given Roger, a libel case would have been taking an impossible risk. It was out of the question. Her affair, which gave so much comfort and fun, had inadvertently robbed her of the protection of the law.

Elaine tossed the paper on the floor and allowed herself to feel something painfully close to despair. The faces on the television screen swam before her eyes. My God, what a life.

Mary Bristow hoped her feet would last out. Balancing the tray of drinks on a plump forearm, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, slipping off each battered black shoe in turn and wriggling her toes. Her doctor was right – being twelve stone did not help. Still, needs must. The poor were ever thus: eat what you can when you can, grab a plate of chips doused in salt and ketchup seek comfort in a bag of crisps and a big McDonald’s creamy milkshake. She could just do with one of those now…

Mrs Bristow, forty-five years old, divorced, with grownup children dressed in black with a clean white apron and her frizzy greying hair as tidy as she could get it, stood patiently with two others inside the door of the redecorated Thatcher Room, on the first floor of the Imperial Hotel. Chandeliers glittered and noisy conversation flowed around her as the room rapidly filled and the drinks were poured. This party would go on into the small hours.

What a blessing tonight’s guests were recognisable, interesting and not too plastered. As Mary Bristow told her friend Mavis afterwards, there were lots of politicians there as you might expect, and well-known faces from the telly. She loved
Spitting Image
and was surprised to see how much like their gawky puppet caricatures some famous people contrived to be.

She recognised Kenneth Baker. He was very tall, towering over the assembly, exuding jovial smoothness. In the warmth his face seemed oiled, as if centrally lubricated, like a well-made machine. The face of a smaller man nearby also glistened, but with energy and sweat and pleasure in his own cleverness. His Scots voice was telling a joke at somebody else’s expense.

They said Matthew Frank was a young man yet he looked a weatherbeaten fifty. Maybe it was something to do with that fast lifestyle; it didn’t do to have too many girlfriends, as well as editing the nation’s most successful newspaper and having your own radio and TV programmes. An attractive, dark-haired young woman, a head taller than Frank and well-endowed in a low-cut red dress, had arrived with him. No better than she deserved, sniffed Mrs Bristow, then switched her attention back to Mr Frank. There was something wrong with his hair. Mrs Bristow gazed fascinated and wondered if it came off at night. Well, she was never likely to find out.

The place was packed now, people literally rubbing shoulders with each other. A man with a piggy face and gimlet eyes was standing in front of her, staring. She jumped and nearly dropped the tray, recognising the lugubrious features of Sir Nicholas Fairbairn. Her heart beat faster, knowing his reputation with all sorts of females; he wouldn’t care that she was fat and going to seed, he would see the real woman underneath. The MP for Perth and Kinross was bizarrely attired in a tweed jacket, tight tartan trousers and matching waistcoat, a gold watch and chain draped theatrically across his middle. A deerstalker hat with a large golden pheasant’s feather completed the outfit. Rumour had it he designed and made his own clothes.

He gestured at the empty glasses and spoke in an extraordinary gravelly voice, rolling the words round. ‘Now, my dear, you are not doing your job properly. How can you look after a man if there’s not a single full glass of whisky on your tray?’

Mary Bristow was covered in confusion. He had spoken to her. She galloped into action and headed for the bar.

Fairbairn’s mocking tones floated after her. ‘I will be waiting for you right here, my dear. Make it two, or a double, or best of all two doubles, d’you hear?’

Panting, she was soon back and offered him his drink. He looked deep into her eyes, and winked.

Another hand took a whisky from her tray – one of the women MPs, Mrs Stalker, looking smart in black trousers and a silk jacket and big dangling earrings peeping out from her blonde hair. Very nice effect, almost like a film star. Arrived on her own but soon chatting nineteen to the dozen
with one of the blokes Mrs Bristow did not know, a tall chap, good-looking if you like that sort. Giving him a real ‘come-on’ look. Makes you wonder what they get up to in that House of Commons, when the cameras aren’t on them.

‘You look stunning tonight. There’s no other word for it.’ Roger Dickson raised his wineglass to Elaine in mock salute. She giggled and found herself blushing. He bent lower. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve been drinking. It loosens the inhibitions, I’m told. It’s good to see you, Elaine.’

‘So where’s Caroline?’ she replied archly, her head on one side, flirting openly. It was that kind of party.

A dismissive hand was waved gaily towards the door. ‘Not here; gone to a field sports dinner at the Metropole. Tedious people, but she likes them. Not gone home, either, so I’m sorry, but I can’t ask you back for a little drink, much as I’d like to.’

His face was flushed, with a slightly silly smile and an air of thoroughgoing well-being. Standing too close. His body language, usually so impeccably correct, had become endearingly but dangerously affectionate.

‘I’ve never seen you like this before,’ she protested. ‘You have had a couple, haven’t you? It’s really rather comical. Be careful what you say, Mr Dickson. You might start making all sorts of propositions to me, and I might be tempted to accept.’

It was her signal to start the ritual, the elaborate verbal foreplay which preceded their lovemaking, the reminder that they were not a married couple, that neither was to be taken for granted. Since the private occasions were so rare, each moment was precious; the preparation had to be meticulous. Even if nothing came of it, getting the tone right mattered. Married people and long-term partners have their rituals too, a special phrase, a pet name, a caress, a smile across a room. Sometimes through long practice the signals become so abbreviated as to have almost disappeared – a touch on the arm, a single word. Those marriages may be in trouble if the magic has vanished along with the ritual. But married people who love each other can afford to get it wrong sometimes and misunderstand a mood, for there is another day. Secret couples have no such second chance. The opening skirmish which invites as it reassures must be right first time; an aborted approach may mean a long lonely wait.

‘Tempted? Of course I’m tempted, Ms Stalker, when you walk in here all alone, dressed to kill and clearly in need of a man’s protection. I offer myself as a gentleman to a lady, Ms Stalker. Within the limits of what I am permitted to offer, naturally. Let me look after you. Can I get you another drink?’

He was fooling around and it dawned on her that he was not quite as drunk as he was pretending. Damn Caroline; damn having a hotel so far away. She held out her glass. ‘This isn’t the first party you’ve been to tonight, is it?’ He shook his head. ‘No, but it’s the first I’m welcome at. I’ve just been down the corridor to Jeffrey Archer’s. He has a champagne and shepherd’s pie bash during every conference. Top notch: Cabinet, newspaper editors and suchlike only.’ He helped himself hungrily to a slice of pizza from a passing tray. ‘Nigel Boswood gave me his invitation. He’s not feeling too chipper and went to bed early. So there I am, a distinguished member of Her Majesty’s government – I am distinguished, aren’t I, Elaine?’ (She nodded agreement.) ‘Yes, I think so too. Where was I? Ah yes. So this angry little man comes up to me and pokes me in the stomach. In a loud voice, he says, “Who are you? I didn’t invite you to my party!” So I tell him who I am: Roger Dickson, Minister of State. “Oh really!” says this little chap. He is little – I had to bend down to him. “Well, whoever you are, you’re not important enough to be here!” And he insisted I leave.’

‘You’re kidding!’ she laughed.

‘I’m not. Serves me right for gatecrashing, but still! I therefore downed my glass of champers, polished off another for spite, and that’s why I’m no longer quite myself. And enjoying every minute.’

Nodding agreeably at her over the rim of his glass, Roger was happy and relaxed, more than she had seen him for a long time. She put her head on one side and listened appreciatively to the tale of Lord Archer’s selective hospitality, then as he finished, dropped her own voice: ‘Roger, you look marvellous when you’re tiddly. I mean it: listen to me. Usually you seem a little fierce, a bit forbidding, as if your authority depended on distance. Maybe it does, but you have the sweetest smile and you should use it more often.’

In response Roger pulled a face and made her laugh again, but it occurred to her that he might have been practising in front of a mirror as she had recommended him to, for his manner and stance were definitely more assured than before the recess. It left her feeling a little uneasy; sometimes the pupil outgrew the teacher.

The two talked and flirted a while, and then he glanced around the noisy room and checked his watch before turning to her: ‘Are you staying here much longer? Or may I walk you to your hotel – which is it?’

‘No, it’s quite a long way. But you could walk with me along the seafront until we see a taxi. That I would appreciate. It’s a bit dark and wild out there.’

Mary Bristow watched the tall man and the pretty blonde woman move away, collect coats, walk together down the stairs. The party was still in full swing; nobody else made a move, though one or two people watched them leave. How she envied them, these famous, glamorous people. Of course they were all very wealthy too, which helped. Not that she would know what to do with a lot of money. People made utter fools of themselves when they won a million pounds on the pools. It didn’t buy happiness. For herself, she would like just a bit more, though it was best to be satisfied with what she had.

Miranda had been more than pleased to accept Matthew Frank’s invitation. He was an old friend but not a current lover; for the time being, at least, there was only one.

A cheery wave of fresh arrivals followed the end of another boisterous party nearby. Miranda had put a message on the board at the conference, telling Andrew where she would be. Her attachment to her rather ordinary Member of Parliament still took her by surprise, she who was always so in control. Her heart jumped as he came hesitantly into the room, accepted a drink, spoke to another MP, then detached himself from the group and approached.

In the weeks since the American Ambassador’s dinner she and Andrew had managed to get together several times. The follow-up had involved her leaving a phone message, quite simply, on the Commons message board, just as any other journalist chasing a story might; only the call-back number was for her flat. He called so quickly that there had hardly been time to tidy up. The amazing events of that first coupling had been repeated. His unaccustomed mixture of courtliness and sexual dominance was turning him into a lively and adventurous lover. Even as he walked towards her now, that slightly sheepish half-smile on his face, she could feel herself pulsing and going moist, her body sending out signals of readiness to him.

‘Hi.’ She kept her voice casual, as if this consorting was entirely coincidental. Her arms stayed at her sides but her hands modestly smoothed the tight ruched fabric of her dress down a little. He refrained from touching her. A close observer might have noted far more reserve in her overt behaviour with this man, and wondered at it.

‘Hello. Has it been a good party?’ Andrew always seemed taller than she remembered. He was thinner – no, trimmer – than in the summer and it suited him.

It was an effort to keep his voice steady. He could smell her – not just the heady perfume, not only the expensive conditioner in her glossy dark hair, but something else, a deep sweet odour, so faint, so obvious. Andrew caught his breath.

It made sense to dispense with niceties. After all, she had summoned him.

‘Miranda, I’m on my own. My wife has gone back to look after our child. Might I offer you a drink somewhere more private?’

She threw back her head and laughed, the dark hair fanning back in a wave. ‘Oh, you take the biscuit,’ she chuckled. ‘You’re so formal, Andrew. So bloody English! Considering what you’re planning, that is really funny.’ She dropped her voice. ‘The answer is, sure. I’m ready to go now if you want.’

‘You’re under no obligation,’ he said stiffly. He felt offended that she had laughed at him in public.

Miranda was contrite. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, touching his arm. Producing Andrew’s
po-faced
look had been unintentional, but it was handy. To any curious onlooker, it suggested she had given him a gigantic brush-off. ‘Tell you what: you flounce off as if you’re very put out. Just take your coat and go. I’ll meet you outside in a couple of minutes. OK?’

Once outside, the collar of his new wool coat turned up, he was moving into the windy dark as she caught up and thrust her arm into his, snuggling close. That was their signal for intimacy, as it had been the first evening outside Victoria Station. Tessa never allowed him to hold her hand or take her arm in public – not that she allowed it now in private either. He took a lungful of the sweet air surrounding her and his mind began to race, as it always did, with how and where on her body he would start their lovemaking.

As for Miranda, no man she had ever met before, except perhaps her father, had bothered to behave with such good manners, to dignify her with such an old-fashioned honouring of a woman, so that her need to lean on him in the biting wind was an advantage, a restatement of their bond as strong male and weaker female.

Oh, she loved it: how she loved it. Having Andrew was a wonderful addition to her life. The power and kindness of him filled her with amazement and gratitude. His ardour had not cooled, but then that was no surprise, for Miranda was accustomed to men pursuing her long after the moment of passion had passed for her. The puzzle, which she relished, was that she was still keen on him, more so each time. She felt genuinely apologetic for hurting his feelings. As soon as they found themselves behind closed doors, she would make it up to him.

The party was ending; it was past one o’clock. Ignored by the myriad visitors, a slight figure in a thin raincoat huddled inside the Imperial’s portico and considered packing up for the night. Jim Betts had been scribbling notes all evening, observing who arrived with whom, and, more important, who left with whom – often not the same person – and in what state of inebriation or otherwise. Already half a dozen stories suitable for the gossip column had been gleaned, though so far nothing leading to the major piece demanded by Nick Thwaite.