A Parliamentary Affair (35 page)

‘I’m sorry if I said something which offended you, Miss Stalker.’

‘No, no, you didn’t. And it’s Karen, anyway. What’s your name?’

‘Me? I’m Gerry – Gerry Keown. Pleased to meet you.’

The two shook hands, formally. Karen felt a little silly. She would have to get used to shaking hands if she were to merge into the background working here.

‘Watch out, miss!’ the other policeman called out to her, as a Jaguar leaving the Commons cruised to a halt, impatient, wanting her out of its way. A stern-faced chauffeur in a peaked cap glared. In the back a rotund figure in a bow-tie smiled benignly and mouthed apologies.

‘That’s Sir Nigel Boswood,’ Gerry explained. He seemed in no hurry to move her on. ‘You coming to work here, then?’

‘Yes, just for half-term. Earn a bit of pocket money.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth Karen could have bitten her tongue. How childish, to talk about ‘half-term’ and ‘pocket money’. If anything branded her still a child, that would.

Her discomfiture had been observed, and smoothed over. ‘Yes, lots of MPs’ children do that. It’s very good practice. You should enjoy working with your mother. She takes an interest in Northern Ireland, doesn’t she? That’s where I come from too.’

‘I don’t suppose I shall see much of her this week.’ Karen began to relax. This man was easy to talk to. His self-assurance seemed tinged with shyness; he was not forward or aggressive like some of the boys at home. ‘This morning she flew off to Sweden on a trip, so I shall be on my tod. Her secretary’s here, of course,’ she added hastily.

Gerry had been considering rapidly. He had no girlfriend at present. Anti-social rotas and his permanent need for discretion mitigated against picking up just anybody in a pub, while clubs and dives were not to his taste. He’d seen too much as a child in Belfast. Life now had meaning and purpose – and a lot of emptiness and dull hours alone, if truth be told.

‘So what would you be a-doing after work this week, then?’ He allowed the Irish lilt to open up. A reputation for blarney could come in useful with a young lass.

‘What, me? Watching TV at home in the flat, I expect. I don’t know many people in London and I promised my mother I wouldn’t go off on my own.’

‘Well, now.’ Keown shifted his helmet, showing his glossy hair and emphasising his status. He put his hands on his hips again. ‘What would your mother say if I were to ask you out to the pictures tonight? Would she have any objection?’

He really meant, would you come? Her ‘No, no’ was the affirmative answer he’d hoped for.

‘Good: I’m off at six, so we could have a pizza or something beforehand. Would you like to meet me at Members’ Entrance, just over there?’ He pointed out the glass canopy where Members wait for taxis.

Karen looked dubious. ‘Won’t you need to go home and get changed, or am I to go out with a policeman in uniform, like I have my own bodyguard in tow?’

That was clearly not a pleasing proposition. Keown laughed and shook his head. Behind him PC Bell was half listening, silently amused. Mrs Stalker’s daughter was a lively little madam.

‘Don’t worry. We don’t go walking around the streets in uniform unless we’re on duty. It’ll only take me a few moments to change. You look at a paper and choose what we go to see. Is it a date, then? See you at six.’

Waiting for the lift up to her mother’s office, Karen felt inordinately pleased with herself. Her first real date, with a complete stranger, and somebody highly respectable at that. She would be safe with a policeman. If he suggested a pub after, even that would be all right, provided she stuck to orange juice.

Choosing the substance of the evening was a bigger problem. The
Evening Standard
listings, pages and pages of them, were an Ali Baba’s cave to Karen. Column after column of movies in and out of town jostled with theatres, fringe happenings, pub entertainment, street events, exhibitions. At home in Warmingshire hardly anything ever happened. The nearest cinema complex was twenty miles away; she had been once in six months; some of the cinemas here showed films she had missed. Her eye roved across the page. Then she found it.

It was obvious:
The Bodyguard
with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. Something for both of them to gawp at, and a talking point too – whether that was how bodyguards operate, or what points of technique Gerry might spot which were incorrect. That would pay him the obvious compliment of putting him in a position of seniority: obvious, yes, but then she did not anticipate that a Metropolitan policeman would be a man of great brain and learning. Good thing too, if she were to keep up without making a complete fool of herself.

She was late. Quickly she headed through the main archway, across Commons Court, and cursed as the lift eluded her. It was nearly 9.15 before she poked her head sheepishly around the office door.

Diane was waiting, tapping away at the typewriter rather crossly; the keys clicked in disapproval. Elaine’s secretary had never learned how to use a computer and now felt herself too old to try. A rapid and accurate typist for whom the correcting mechanisms of a modern word processor were almost unnecessary, she did not believe claims that computerisation saved paper and space. Not if other MPs’ looms were any guide.

Without stopping, Diane nodded to a large bundle of mail still tied with string. New hands could be a nuisance, requiring to be told everything.

‘If you’d like to get that lot opened, staple letters together so we don’t lose any pages and paperclip any other bumf, then sort into piles. Pick out all the constituents’ letters – there’s a map on the back of the door if you’re not sure – and put them on top. Your mother’s reputation rests on our getting it right for her voters. Everything else is optional.’

‘Will it all help on election day?’ Karen asked, eyeing the heap warily. She reached for the paper-knife and waste-paper bin.

‘Who can say?’ Diane did not take her eyes from her typing. ‘Your mother has a highly marginal seat. Even the best MPs get defeated if the swing’s against them. Still a good Member has a better chance. Or so we all like to believe.’

Diane’s refusal to acknowledge Karen as a person, other than as a presence in the room, was beginning to grate. Her grumpiness did not arise out of malice or jealousy; but, since Diane had no children and not much to do with young people, it would not have occurred to her that her behaviour was discouraging.

Karen sensed that she was expected to sit down quietly and get on with her allocated tasks. It would take a good hour to open this lot. For a while the two worked without speaking. The Commons was relatively quiet, for the excitement of the party conference season was behind them and the new session had yet to begin. After half an hour Diane had finished typing one batch, yawned and stretched.

‘I could use a coffee. Coming?’

Time to be equally standoffish. Karen shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll get on with this lot. Taking me longer than I expected.’ She was about to say, ‘It’s boring, isn’t it?’, as she might have done at school, where all adult activity was ‘boring’, but thought better of it.

‘Suit yourself.’ Diane shrugged. ‘I won’t be long. You can answer the phone while I’m away. Take any messages – don’t let them go without saying who they are.’

Without the older woman’s tap-tapping, the small room was hushed and Karen made progress. The heap of unopened envelopes shrank satisfactorily. Thoughts of her unexpected night out flitted through her mind. What might he expect on a first date, a sophisticated Londoner? Wait – he wasn’t a Londoner. What should she wear? Would dashing home to change seem too eager? He was a policeman; he would be sure to notice. She decided against it. Mustn’t look too keen. Anyway, he might be awfully dull and not worth seeing again.

The phone ringing in the stillness made her jump. It was a man’s voice. For a split second she imagined it was Gerry about to cancel, then realised that the soft Ulster accent was missing. This voice was faintly familiar but one she could not place.

‘Sorry to trouble you. Is Mrs Stalker available please?’

‘No, she’s not here. She’s away.’

Not the smooth, sophisticated secretary yet. She should at least have said ‘Good morning.’

‘Ahh.’ The voice paused. ‘Where might I find her – in London, or at home?’

‘Neither. She’s in Stockholm. She went this morning.’ Maybe telling this person was unwise. Karen felt a bit scared.

‘I see.’ The voice sounded disappointed. ‘She did mention her trip, come to think of it, but I must have got the dates wrong.’

‘She will be back next week. Can I take a message?’

‘No … yes.’ Karen sensed from his hesitation that the caller realised this was not the
ultra-efficient
dragon who normally looked after her mother. ‘If you’re in touch with her, just tell her I was asking after her and send my best wishes, and hope she has a lovely trip.’

Karen scrabbled for a pencil, mindful of Diane’s last instruction. ‘Who shall I say called?’ Got that bit right. Sounded much more sophisticated.

‘Just say Roger. She’ll know who.’ The phone went dead, leaving Karen puzzled and troubled. Roger who? She looked at the handset for a moment before putting it back.

By the time Diane returned there had been three more phone calls, all requiring immediate action. In the resulting flurry of activity Karen forgot to report the first call. It had not seemed significant, yet the voice had been expectant. He had wanted to see Mum, wanted at least to speak to her. He hadn’t said casually that his business could wait till her return, nor that it wasn’t important. He hadn’t left a number or even his full name, so Mum might know him very well. He had sent his good wishes, sounding apologetic and regretful, just as Daddy might if he had forgotten the time of departure and rung up too late. A warm, caressing voice, very manly. Very sexy. Who was he?

Instinctively the conversation left her uncomfortable. Mentioning it to Diane did not seem right somehow, though it could have easily been Diane who’d answered. Perhaps the man would not have said anything at all to Diane. Why did she suspect that he had been a little more open with her, a new presence? ‘Have a lovely time…’ How odd.

Then a cold hand took hold of her. ‘Roger…’ Her mother’s voice, speaking quickly and lightly, using the phone on the hall table at home, before it was moved into her study. It was indeed someone her mother knew well, whose number was known by heart. He had phoned her in Warmingshire sometimes, when Daddy was away. She always sounded pleased and excited to hear him, though the calls were brief. Karen had no way of knowing whether it was the same voice. At home most phone calls were politics, so she never bothered to answer, even when it would have been helpful to do so, for example if her mother was in the bath or outside. It was one way of entering a grudging protest at the domination of their lives by her mother’s job. Who was Roger? Another MP? She reached for the
Vacher’s
directory but it was out of date. Somehow she knew who it was.

The niggle of anxiety stayed with her all day, as bits of those hurried phone conversations came floating back. Mum always seemed so happy when he called. The ‘Roger’ on the other end then had been her whip, she had said once. Tomorrow the Commons library might be able to help. Was it the same man?

Six o’clock and time for her date with Gerry. The phone call slipped from her mind. Karen brushed her hair, tweaked the earrings, smoothed down her skirt – was it too short? – applied fresh lipstick, bolder than her daytime shade, and headed downstairs.

Out of uniform the man waiting for her looked more Irish, dark-haired and slim. He wore grey slacks, a check shirt and a light-blue pullover under a big navy donkey jacket. Not exactly a raver, then: not the sort to draw attention to himself. Not good-looking enough to be a film star, but pleasant manners, a bit stilted. She got the impression that he didn’t often take girls out. She wouldn’t let on that she hadn’t been out on dates, much. Unless he were to change radically later on, he didn’t seem the type to jump her.

Her faint worries about being out in London alone with a stranger began to dissipate. His behaviour was a model of decorum. She relaxed, showing off a bit, determined to be fun to be with, though clearly he wasn’t fooled. Once or twice she caught him looking at her with a slightly sardonic smile, as if he found her trivial.

The pizza was ordinary, but there were no pizza parlours near home, so sharing a large juicy mouthful with a new acquaintance in the crowded Pizza Hut was more like a kid’s treat than a first date. Both were nervous to begin with. The movie, however, was perfect for an evening out. Both could enthuse, she at the singing, he at the action bits. There was to be no hand-holding, it seemed, though Karen would have raised no objection. He did not take her hand or touch her, even in the sexy bits on screen. She kept her own hands busy eating popcorn. A sidelong glance found Gerry apparently watching the screen in rapt absorption, arms folded across his chest, the donkey jacket over
his knees. Irish. Maybe Catholic – a bit religious? No harm in that, of course. But it was not very
exciting
.

As the movie finished and the audience rose to leave, Gerry commented appreciatively. ‘That was great: thank you for suggesting it. Now in the normal run of events I would ask you for a drink, but I gather that you are a bit young for pubs – would that be right?’

‘How the devil – how do you know that?’

‘I looked you up, of course. Your pass application is on file in the security office. Needed to know who I was spending the evening with!’ He chuckled.

Karen felt annoyed. Bloody nerve. So that explained the hands-off approach.

‘Now, if it had bothered me, I would have cancelled our date, wouldn’t I? But you’re good company and I’ve enjoyed myself, better than for ages. Done me good, that has. I was turning into a bit of a monk, I suppose. But I don’t take too many chances on breaking the law – it’s more than my job is worth, quite literally.’

He waited. She was extremely pretty as she pouted in annoyance. No doubt with a few drinks in her she could be quite a handful. Lucky the man who bedded that one in a year or two.