A Parliamentary Affair (36 page)

‘Maybe I could take you out again towards the end of the week?’

She did not answer. That he had checked up on her was
infuriating
. Still, going out with him was better than nothing. Maybe he would make more effort if she played harder to get now.

‘I’m not sure at the moment that I know what I’m doing later,’ she answered loftily. ‘Right now, since you’re not going to take me for a drink, perhaps you would see me home?’

Gerry took her arm, laughing. There was an edge about that laugh, as if it was all he would allow himself. He was intriguing. Maybe he had been hurt long ago, and that was why he was mainly solitary these days, why he took on that tedious old security job. She had sat with him through four hours this evening but not got to know him at all. He had told her bits about working at Broadmoor and the loonier patients, but had not been forthcoming about himself. Another mystery.

Gerry didn’t bother to hide the fact that he knew the flat’s address and location, walking her there steadily. She understood the irksome feeling of the woman character in the film, watched constantly, as an object, all in a day’s work. It was a dry evening but he did not suggest taking a taxi, as her mother would have done: he earned a lot less than an MP, nor did he have her pressing need always to save time.

At the door he paused and shook hands again, awkwardly. If there was to be a kiss, Karen was going to have to take the initiative. Oh, blow him. Time enough for that next time, if there was to be a next time. It would have been better with a couple of drinks inside her. Still, she was not yet ready to give up on him. She fished in her bag for the door key and smiled at him sweetly.

‘Thank you. You’ve fulfilled an ambition for me.’

‘Really? What was that?’ He was just being polite. Spending all night with a kid must have been hard work. She felt suddenly contrite and childish, and very tired.

‘I’ve always fancied telling my mother that the police brought me home one night, and then watching her face.’ That was an elegant dismissal. It solved a problem for the young man also, who nodded and grinned, turning on his heel, half hoping the lass would take up his offer. ‘You take care now, and let me know when you’re free.’ 

Jim Betts put the phone down with a sigh, ears still ringing from the curses at the other end, and pulled at his moustache. Why did people get so cross when he asked a perfectly ordinary question, like the identity of a companion at the dinner table on Monday night? Nobody in politics would ever give a straight answer, even if the circumstances were entirely innocent. Which in most cases, of course, they weren’t.

Betts rubbed his face and concentrated. In his view politicians weren’t as good or as bad as the people they represented but much worse: rogues and liars every one. The exposure of such hypocrisy was not a crime, nor an intrusion into private lives. All claims to privacy had been abandoned when first they poked their vain heads over the parapet. In other words, publish and be damned. Let the buggers sue
afterwards
.

He pushed his chair away from the untidy desk and stretched. The Commons press gallery was a mess even in recess. He had been on the phone researching stories for an hour, with virtually no progress. Time to try a different tack. Perhaps his notebook would help. Turning back pages he contemplated the squiggles for several moments. Yes, this lady was promising material, though his call to Warmingshire had drawn a blank.

He flicked through the Commons phone directory and dialled Elaine Stalker’s number.

‘Mrs Stalker’s office, good morning.’ A pleasant voice, young.

‘Er, good morning. My name is James Betts – I’m a journalist. Is Mrs Stalker there, please?’

‘I’m afraid she’s away at present. I’m her daughter, Karen. I’m looking after the office while she’s away. Can I help?’

This could be valuable. ‘I’m not sure, Karen … ah, Miss Stalker. I used to work in Warmingshire on the local paper – long time ago. I’ve been commissioned to write an article on the pressures on MPs and their families – you know, the problems of having spouses and children a long way from Westminster. But it sounds as if Mrs Stalker has her family all round her. Still, maybe you could provide the rosier side of the picture for me?’

Karen prevaricated. It would have helped to hand the phone over to Diane, but the secretary had been called home early to help with her sick mother. As Diane’s confidence in Karen had improved during the week, it seemed no problem to leave the girl briefly in charge. That now posed Karen with an unresolved question. She knew she had to be careful with the press, but Mum had always made a point of being cooperative. She decided to play for time.

‘Where are you from, Mr Betts? You have a funny accent.’

‘Me? Oh, you’re right. I’m not a Londoner, I’m from up north. Find London a bit hard going, to tell you the truth. Especially when an editor is chasing you.’ He lifted the tone of his voice to make it sound younger.

‘I was born up north too. We live in the Midlands now where my mother has her constituency. London can be a pain, can’t it?’

Betts couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Especially if you’re on your own in your first job,’ he ventured. ‘Everything that’s on, you feel you need someone to go with, don’t you?’ Karen agreed. She liked the sound of this voice.

‘Look, it would help me very much if you could tell me a bit about what it’s like, being the daughter of a famous MP. It can’t all be hard work, manning the fort when your mother is away. It must be fun sometimes. And I wouldn’t ask you anything unpleasant. I’m not that kind of chap – just want to write a light-hearted piece.’

She wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t know…’ He pressed his advantage. ‘The editor has given me an expense account, so I could take you somewhere if you like. A restaurant – a really nice one. What would you say to that?’

Betts’s instinct was correct. Gerry had been all right but a bit dull. Being taken to dinner sounded much more like it.

It would be in public, so nothing could happen. If he was horrid she could simply get up and leave. Even if the bloke wasn’t much, the food might be good. Better than egg on toast alone in the flat.

After negotiation they decided on an Indian meal; Betts arranged to meet her that evening in Dean Street in Soho, at the Indian restaurant known as the Red Fort.

As she put the phone down Karen felt excited and pleased with herself. This time she would change and put on something more alluring. There were a few more jobs to deal with and then she could call it a day.

Her mind on her date, she slit open the remaining second-post letters quickly and began to sort them. It was not until halfway down the last letter, handwritten on House of Commons notepaper, that she realised she had made a mistake, and was reading material intended for her mother’s eyes only.

Puzzled, she fished the envelope out of the waste-bin. It was also made of characteristic cream Commons paper with the green portcullis crest on the flap. The front was addressed to her mother, but it was marked ‘Personal’. Its tone suggested a friendliness that was surprising. And it was signed ‘R’.

It was him again. She sat confused for a moment, trying to think. Then the clock reminded her to get a move on. She put the letter back in its envelope, started to return it to the pile, hesitated, and then put it in her pocket.

Elaine stifled a yawn and bent her head to make a note. It would not do to let her hosts see that she was bored, but, however fascinating Sweden might be to the Swedes, it held no excitement for her.

What a pity the team leader was Freddie Ferriman and not a colleague with more intellect or drive. Freddie’s best earnest style was on full display, but the vacant expression on his face suggested that he too had lost the gist of the argument and that his mind was elsewhere. Ten minutes ago he had asked the Minister for External Affairs to explain why Sweden wanted to join Europe. The explanation was taking a long time.

Nevertheless she must make the best of these few days. The following morning there would be a trip north to reindeer country and a promised stay in the hotel boasting the largest mixed sauna in Europe. Freddie had become quite flushed at the thought. Elaine would have preferred different company.

She wondered if all was well at the office, then dismissed her worries. Diane was more than capable of running the whole caboodle virtually indefinitely without her intervention, and she had Karen to help. It would do the girl good.

It had settled to a fitful grey drizzle by the time Karen arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early. Despite its address in the heart of Soho, the Red Fort was larger and smarter than she had expected. For a fleeting moment she was alarmed. Inside, the plum-red decor was exotic, inviting. Thick carpets softened all sounds. The uniformed waiter, small, dark-skinned and friendly, settled her in a wicker chair in the window, brought a Coke and a bowl of Bombay nibbles and flashed her a big smile.

Betts had been home, showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and changed. It had not occurred to him to suggest more esoteric food from the extraordinarily diverse range available in London: Spanish, say, or Japanese. Like much of the British population, Betts had been weaned on Saturday night takeaways from leaky aluminium containers and his preference was curry.

Appearances mattered tonight. He wanted to pretend he was about five years younger than his real age; if she asked, he would claim to be twenty-four or twenty-five. The more uneven fragments of
his moustache were now clogging the wash-basin plughole in his flat and he was wearing aftershave – not too much. Better to be innocent, gawky, but doing his best. That would put Miss Stalker at a serious advantage, when she might talk more freely.

Outside it was already dark. Several men and women were seated with menus in the pre-dinner area, but only one was alone and looking at him invitingly. Betts’s spirits rose as he examined Miss Karen Stalker surreptitiously and he struggled, with the waiter’s help, out of his damp mackintosh.

Long-legged, long-necked, short dark hair, pretty. Big sophisticated dangly earrings. Got up all innocently in a black stretch tube outfit which started several inches above her knees and clung all the way up. Nice-looking bird. Bit of a surprise; it had been such a rush he had not had time to look up the family details properly. As she rose with a hesitant smile from the low chair, she looked very fetching indeed. This evening might do more than fill his notebook.

Formally he shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, asking her to call him James, as if he were some kid trying to make the big time, all most respectable, needing her help. Choosing from the enormous red menu was difficult, but glorious smells of coriander and cumin from the kitchen downstairs whetted appetites and increased confidence. Karen kept her eyes demurely down; partly to conceal her disappointment that tonight’s companion had a moustache and was shorter and not nearly as nice-looking as Gerry. She was, however, also doing her best to hide her enjoyment at being so pampered.

‘They don’t use curry powder in a place like this,’ she whispered. ‘You sure you can afford it? I don’t fancy having to do the washing up.’

Got her where I want her, thought Betts. He established that she was only helping her mother out temporarily and was planning to go to college the following year. Persuading her to share a bottle of wine was unexpectedly easy, as he ostentatiously placed a small black tape-machine on the tablecloth. Its ruby light winked steadily, as if it were a chaperone, watchful but indifferent.

‘Now I have to do my job, Karen, so while we’re tucking into this excellent chicken tikka kebab – a very good choice if I may say so – let me ask you about your mother. I must say I admire her. Do you and your father see much of her?’

Karen fiddled with the candle as she spoke. ‘Not a lot. I see more of my mother than my dad. He’s away even more. At least Mum is home most weekends. I mean, she sleeps in the house, though often she complains that in winter she never sees it in daylight – last in, first out.’

‘Would you say it was a happy home?’

‘Oh yes. I mean, I don’t plan to leave.’

‘Your mother never complains about her lifestyle, never says she wishes she were doing something else? Doesn’t she ever say, “I wish…”?’

Karen fidgeted and considered. This James bloke was being so sweet, not pushy at all, but his editor would expect something. And keeping to herself matters she did not understand, with no one to consult, was an uneasy burden. She ran her finger around the top of the wineglass.

‘Well – I think she would like my father to be around more and to take more interest, but he says politics isn’t his style. He supports her, but it’s not like the men MPs with a wife, is it?’

Their main course was placed before them and for several minutes Betts concentrated on his plate. The saffron lamb was bloody good, and a lot cheaper than some English places where he might have taken her. It was a stroke of genius to have suggested Indian. The glasses were refilled, the tape turned over.

‘Your mother has become famous quite quickly, hasn’t she? Has that created any problems for her?’

‘She’s just good at her job.’ Karen sounded defensive. Her face was a little flushed. The curry was mild but still its pungent flavours made her thirsty. ‘It’s not right when the papers say she isn’t popular with her colleagues. A lot of that is only jealousy. She has lots of friends, close friends.’

‘Is it easier to be friends with somebody in politics than someone outside?’

The girl paused and swirled the red wine, watching scarlet, silver and black form and break up in the flickering candle flame. Her crowd drank lager or cider, not wine. She was silent.

‘Would you say she has anyone special in politics – someone she might especially confide in?’

The girl drained her glass, pursed her lips and looked straight at her dinner companion. Her eyes were troubled. Betts leaned over and switched the tape recorder off. He held her look and spoke softly.

‘You know there are stories circulating about your mother, don’t you? That she is especially close to one of the other MPs?’

Karen swallowed hard and looked down at her plate. Betts put down his fork and took a deep breath.

‘They were seen together at Blackpool. It’s Roger Dickson, isn’t it?’

She said nothing, but bowed her head. She was very still. ‘Look, I won’t say anything. The machine is off. All you have to do is tell me it’s not true, and I’ll believe you.’ Big, dark-ringed eyes lifted. She was not crying, but neither was she entirely in control. Her mouth trembled. ‘I don’t really know what to do. There was a note from him. Said how marvellous it was to see her at Conference and hoped to see her again when the House returns. It was marked “Personal”. Diane, Mum’s secretary, had gone home. She told me that anything marked “Personal” I shouldn’t touch. I didn’t mean to.’

Betts was cheerful, reassuring. ‘That doesn’t sound much! I don’t suppose it means anything at all.’

The boot was on the other foot. He had obliged Karen to try and convince him.

‘But, James, if there was nothing in it, why bother writing? After all, lots of MPs saw each other in Blackpool, and they will all see each other when the House resumes. And why mark it “Personal” if it was so innocent? It wasn’t, anyway. He finished it, “Thinking of you”. That’s a bit much. And there’s more – he phones; he phoned the office the other day, and he calls Mum at home. I’ve heard her talking to Roger Dickson several times.’

‘Maybe he has a good reason to talk to her?’

‘Oh, I could understand that he might if he was her whip, like last year. But the library told me he’s a minister now. Why should a minister be phoning a backbencher at home during the recess, and sending her notes marked “Personal” if there wasn’t something funny happening?’ Bingo, thought Betts. That’s how it happened – when he was her whip. That meant it had been going on some time, wasn’t just a quick fling at Party conference.

‘I don’t suppose you kept the letter, did you?’ Casually. Don’t sound too interested.

Dumb pain showed on her face. ‘I really didn’t know what to do with it. Diane doesn’t know about it and of course Mum hasn’t seen it yet. It’s so unfair. I think he’s leaning on her – he’s so much more important and experienced than Mum is. I wish he would stop.’