A Parliamentary Affair (37 page)

To Betts’s amazement she reached in her handbag and handed him the letter, still in its original House of Commons envelope. Elaine Stalker’s name was written in Dickson’s distinctive hand.

Betts could just imagine what ‘urgent business’ Dickson had in mind. That sentence was almost the standard formula with which a minister might contact a backbencher on his own side, in order to impart particular knowledge which might be politically useful – the start date for a new bypass, for example. Almost but not quite. That sort of thing happened only once or twice in a parliament – not often enough to justify ‘as usual’. A top barrister, George Carman say, could have a field day with that. The ‘R’ instead of a proper signature didn’t matter; all that would be needed in a libel court would be a sample of Dickson’s handwriting, which could be requested right there, in front of the jury. Betts’s eyes gleamed at the prospect.

Now the problem was how to retain the letter. He thought for a moment, then took hold of the envelope in a theatrical gesture between finger and thumb as if it were infected.

‘I think there’s only one thing to do with this, don’t you?’

He put the letter back into the envelope. Slowly and deliberately he tore it in four pieces and put them in the ashtray.

Karen was looking distressed; it was time to cool it. He replaced the tape-machine in his pocket and leaned across the table, patting her hand.

‘I am quite sure –
quite
sure – that there’s nothing in all this and that you are imagining things. Your mother and Mr Dickson are grown-up responsible people and we shouldn’t really be talking about what is, after all, their business, not ours. I will leave her out of my article and we’ll both forget about this letter. That’s a promise. Now: it would be a shame to waste this nosh. Let’s just have a good time together. How does that sound?’

An audible sniff. The girl fished in her handbag for a tissue. He waited as if sympathetic as she blew her nose. Karen appeared to share several characteristics with her mother. The same hazel eyes; the same unguarded friendliness; the same willingness to look on the bright side and not stay miserable for long. The same liking, apparently, for male company. In a few moments the sniffing stopped. Karen smoothed down her skirt and nodded. She picked up her fork again.

For the next hour Jim Betts gave a passable imitation of an ordinary bloke out with a special new girl, watching her every move with pleasurable admiration, solicitous of her welfare, keeping her glass filled, ordering dessert and coffee, offering her a cigarette, which after a moment’s hesitation she declined. He flicked ash on the remnants of the letter but was careful to leave them unsinged.

It was past eleven when Karen, swaying slightly, rose and looked around hazily for the Ladies. Mr James Moustache had given her a good night out, much better than Gerry Keown. Spent some money on her: about time somebody did that. She patted Betts on the shoulder and gave him what she hoped was a conspiratorial wink as she sashayed across the room, her black ribbed skirt riding up over her thighs.

Betts was not entirely sober either. He had been considering his next move, but even while maintaining his deception he had helped Karen Stalker put away a bottle of wine. What might a normal healthy bloke do with a fair bit of skirt after such a night out? He was not too sure about this baby, but it would wrap things up nicely to find out.

When Karen returned to the table Betts was already on his feet and the bill paid. Almost as an afterthought he picked the pieces of the letter out of the ashtray, scrunched them up and casually put them in his pocket. ‘Can’t have anyone else reading this, can we? Mustn’t take chances.’

In the taxi she was talkative and snuggled up to him invitingly. It would have been easy to kiss her there and then, but with an effort he restrained himself and instead merely took hold of her hand. Snogging in cabs was undignified, and unnecessary if you had somewhere more comfortable to go. The rain had stopped.

At the door of her block he got out of the taxi with her and paid it off. The cold air hit his face and made his eyes water.

‘Of course I’ll see you up to your flat. Anything can happen in London, young lady. There might be somebody lurking on the stairs and I should never forgive myself.’

Roger Dickson signed the last letter with a flourish, slipped it back into its official green folder and shut the red box with a snap. He was not looking forward to the return of Parliament, what with all the additional hundreds of parliamentary questions which would surge his way for written answer night after night. Even their Lordships had started that game now; once they had left probing questions to the awkward squad in the Commons, but not any more. He still had to check that consistent replies were given in both Houses, or there might be trouble.

Still, while recess had its advantages, stimulation wasn’t one of them. He had to confess to a feeling of lassitude. There was plenty of work to do, naturally, but, as his department were not engaged in any heavy legislation in the autumn, he could expect a relatively straightforward year. All being well, there would be plenty of time for spending with Elaine. He checked his watch and wondered what she was doing now, on her freebie to Scandinavia.

Her hotel phone number was tucked in the smallest pocket of his wallet. He debated if it would be safe to call her, but decided against. That new girl in Elaine’s office had sounded distinctly suspicious. It would not do to get careless, not now just as his career was beginning to take off.

It was natural to invite James Betts in. He had given her a great night out. He had not touched her in the taxi. He had been jolly nice about Mum and that awful man Roger Dickson. They both had drunk a bit – well, a lot, for her, really: her head was spinning as they climbed the stairs and she had to hang on to the banister. She needed a coffee. Nothing wrong with asking Mr Moustache up: nothing at all. And if he kissed her, so what? Maybe it was time to find out what that spiky wet hair really tasted like. Curry, in all probability. Karen giggled.

Betts stood in the doorway and looked around, journalist’s eye to the fore. He longed to take out a notebook but thought better of it. The flat was small, only two diminutive bedrooms, a bathroom, a larger living room and a minute kitchen set into an alcove. Even so, being close to the Commons it must have set the Stalkers back £100,000; the mortgage would be costing Mrs Stalker more than half her parliamentary salary. And no tax relief, for this was a second home.

The living room was simply furnished. A large carved desk with a green leather top, possibly a family heirloom, dominated most of one side, a word processor and old printer on top. Bookcases were filled with a mixture of political biography, parliamentary papers, modern novels and P. D. James. He pretended an interest as Karen fussed with coffee. She peered out at him.

‘That one –
A Taste for Death
– is about an MP who gets killed,’ she informed him. Making the words come out was evidently proving difficult. ‘It’s good but makes you think all MPs are wealthy aristocrats with Lady Something as their mum, and fancy labels to their names and
Rolls-Royces
in the garage. They’re not. Most MPs are very, ordinary.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said under his breath. The flat was warm; he took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the door, patting its pocket with a smile. Karen had her back to him, chattering as she
struggled ineffectively to open a new pack of ground coffee. Her fingers would not do what she wanted.

He turned to take a good look at her, and whistled through his teeth.

The girl was standing, her weight on one foot, her buttocks outlined under the close-fitting dress. As she talked she shifted to the other foot and the curves rolled provocatively. It was a long time since he had had a woman.

Time to get a return on that dinner. He walked over, planted his hands on her hips, then slid his arms around her waist from behind, clasping them tight and pulling her in towards him. She was about the same height and her body smelled good.

‘Forget the coffee. That’s not what I’ve come for. Time for a little kiss.’

Karen giggled and swayed, half knowing what to expect. Of course he had a hard-on; she was gorgeous, wasn’t she? At a suitable moment she would tell him he would be more attractive
clean-shaven
.

Betts adjusted his position until he was rubbing himself against her bottom. Pushing his face under one jangling earring he nuzzled her shoulder, nibbling the firm flesh under her ear, then moved his mouth around till his tongue was gently licking the nape of her neck, just on the point of the bone.

‘Take your earrings off, they’re getting in the way.’

As she reached up obediently to do so, his hands moved up to her breasts. The nipples were taut and the girl murmured as he brushed his fingers over them. The earrings tinkled on the kitchen counter.

His hands were moving all over her breasts and shoulders now, producing in her a mixture of sensations. There was still the smell of curry clinging faintly to him, a reminder of the lovely evening he had given her, and for which she was appreciative. He began to squeeze her breasts. Yes, she thought, that was what bosoms are for; that is what men like. In a minute she would turn around and kiss him.

Then those hands slid down her front, still holding her hard against him from behind, down quite fast towards her crotch, not all the way, pressing her abdomen and giving her butterflies, then up again. His erection was pressing hard in the small of her back. Of course, it was quite natural. Time for that grotty moustache. She turned around, opened her mouth as in all the magazines and movies and let him kiss her hard.

It was rotten being fifteen – knowing what was supposed to happen and never getting a chance to try it. All those glossy magazines,
Just Seventeen
and
19
and
More!
and
Mizz
, were full of how to capture the man of your dreams and what to do with him when you got him; agony columns discussed
exactly
where to put your tongue, when to take a breath. Even how to put on a condom, not that she had ever seen one. She knew from
19
magazine that coming on strong could turn a boy off – but this one seemed keen and, apart from the taste of curry, which no doubt he was getting from her too, he was reasonably acceptable. What did that article say? ‘When you’re overwhelmed by a desire like this you feel helpless.’ Helpless was precisely how she felt, so she must be doing everything right.

Karen could not believe she was being kissed with such aggressive determination and she kissed him back, laughing with excitement. Her head was spinning with the wine, but with more than that, with a heady delight in her own unexplored sexuality and her power to turn this daft bloke on.

The kisses obliterated control for Betts. He hadn’t had any for too bloody long and now was his chance. The girl was responding, thank God. For a moment he’d worried that she might be a bit prissy, but she appeared to be participating willingly. Feverishly he pulled down the fabric of her top.

She leaned back invitingly, as in all the magazine photos. He took a deep breath and began kissing her breasts, tugging at the fabric. His moustache was tickling, but it helped her keep tabs on how far he had got. Must show him I’m enjoying this, she thought woozily and caressed his head as
he moved down. She gave herself up so completely to being held and kissed that it was a moment before she realised he was nuzzling her nipples and not so gently, sucking at them and making her gasp. Twisting her hand up behind her back, she quickly discarded the redundant bra before he tore it. Is this how it was supposed to happen? Oh, heavens…

He was rubbing up and down the inside of her thighs and muttering about tights being a bloody turn-off. Obediently she pulled them down and kicked them away, And, since it was now ruched up around her waist and it seemed the appropriate thing to do, wriggled out of her dress too. It lay like a reproach, an unwanted skin, on the floor.

He grabbed her hand and pressed it on his penis, hissing at her to touch it, to grip it through the trouser fabric, then to slide her clasped finger and thumb up and down it, not too fast. She obeyed as much out of curiosity and heard him moan with pleasure. If that’s what he wanted… It was larger than she expected, longer and firmer; he sniggered when she told him so. He was whispering something she couldn’t hear. Karen sensed herself crossing a barrier. Wait till she told the girls at school about this – none of them had been this far, with a proper bloke, not some hairless schoolboy.

Betts put his hand firmly between her legs, touching the fabric of her panties and the moistness beneath. He was starting to feel in a hurry and pressed his fingers into the gap. Then he began to rub her.

Suddenly he knew he had made a mistake. She yelped and pushed him away, eyes blazing. ‘No! You can’t do that.’

‘Oh, come on. If you want me to stop, just say so. You’re so beautiful, Karen, and you’ve really turned me on.’ Panting and helpless, he looked at her like an appealing dog.

She wrenched herself away from him, but the sight of her standing there mother-naked except for the bikini-style pants, young breasts thrust at him, made him nearly frantic. It was not going to stop there.

‘I think you’re ready,’ he announced, and started to unbutton his shirt. Karen looked at him aghast.

‘What do you mean – go the whole way? But I’ve only just met you. I can’t … no, no.’

‘Look at yourself. Look at the state you’ve got me in! You can’t fucking say no now.’

‘I can and I do.’ Karen was doing her best to be firm. Reality was establishing itself in her still fuddled brain. She tried to step back but was jammed up hard against the kitchen counter. Betts fumbled at his belt and started to take his trousers off. He reached for her panties and yanked them down, shoving his hand between her legs.