A Parliamentary Affair (42 page)

There was another option. Not remarrying, but allowing his marriage to slide quietly into oblivion, a no-fault separation, a quiet quickie divorce, so there was no longer any pretence.

Advantages leapt to mind. A single man could have girlfriends. He could then be seen escorting Miranda as his lady, perfectly safely. The gossip columnists would ogle. The unmarried girls of the constituency and their mothers might get excited. The local press would be forever marrying him off to this or that neighbourhood garage heiress. He might even have some fun taking one or two out down in Hampshire, warning Miranda first of course, momentarily raising their hopes, keeping everyone guessing. The start of a new image: a bit of a change for that dull stick Muncastle. As long as it helped his career in politics, and did not hinder it.

The clock ticked towards the moment when heading for the phone would be acceptable. Most likely, he would do nothing, but carry on as now, squeezing every last drop of excitement from his stolen hours with Miranda. Hoping Tessa would recover. Once she had been beautiful, with a delicate smile which touched his heart. She seldom smiled these days. He could accept for a long while yet his responsibility to her, to ensure she was not hurt. And the child mattered: his son was important to him. Though if fresh choices were on offer he had begun to think them through.

‘Do you need me for a moment, Roger?’ Andrew whispered in Dickson’s ear. A quick exchange established that their next departmental meeting was at five. He hurried out with a sigh of relief, and headed for the phone cubicles nearest to Central Lobby.

Her voice sounded strange, not her usual friendly gurgle. ‘Sorry, Andrew. We’ve got problems here. Can I see you tonight?’

Rapidly he checked his diary. ‘We vote at seven, then we’re free. Where?’

A pause. She was talking to somebody else at the same time, not paying him full attention. He was astonished and disturbed.

‘I have to eat, then come back to the office. Can you find Il Portico in Vauxhall Bridge Road? Station end. Small place, good Italian food, not too public. See you there.’

She did not wait for him to respond, but rang off. No endearments, no nothing. He felt cold and a little angry.

Il Portico was easy to find. A friendly place, a family business, it was well accustomed to trysting couples. Andrew arrived first and chose a small table in the darkened extension, all false frosted ceiling and candles in wax-laden bottles. They could not be observed from outside. Should anyone ask, he would say Miranda was doing an interview.

With some surprise he realised that this was the first time he had been out with her. Sliding once more into musing about their relationship, he decided that if she was calling an end to their affair, and if he had the chance to do this again with somebody else, then going out for a meal was definitely on the agenda. With bed and sex as well, afterwards. That’s how most people did it. And if Miranda was about to say goodbye he would keep his eyes open for a replacement. There would never be anyone like her, of course. But never again would he do without a little love and affection. It kept him sane; it made him human. There was more to life than just his job.

A touch of cold air announced her arrival. Normally Miranda bounced into a room, dominating it instantly, kissing everybody, showing off her body, attracting envious whispers. Not this time. Almost at once she sat down and slipped her coat over the back of the chair, her face sombre and set.

It was obvious that Miranda was both hungry and in a hurry. She munched garlic bread in silence and gulped a glass of wine as Andrew sipped his drink and watched her. Only when half a veal escalope
alia pizzaiola
and a pile of potatoes had disappeared did she wipe her mouth with her napkin and put down her fork.

‘That’s much better. The food is OK here. First meal all day.’

‘You’ll get indigestion, eating too fast.’ He was caring but wary.

A flicker of annoyance crossed her features, then she shook her head slowly. ‘I’m lucky to get half an hour out of that place at all today. We let another twenty staff go including production this morning. The recession is knocking our industry sideways.’ In a gesture of great weariness she rested her cheek in her hand.

He pushed bits of white sole around his plate, and waited.

She seemed to relent. ‘I needed to talk to you, Andrew.’ Her voice was low and urgent. ‘
The Globe
is facing a real crisis. It may fold – or, at least, the owner may decide that the losses are too great. I’ve been asked to consider my future very carefully.’

He was not sure what she meant. Cautiously he asked, ‘What’s the timescale?’

She shook her head vaguely. ‘We don’t know, though obviously it would all be neat and tidy if it closed on January the first. We’re cutting costs sharply. If we survive through this winter things may pick up. All bloody depressing, I can tell you.’

The waiter discreetly poured more wine. An old man with a warm heart, he was concerned; he did not like his customers to be unhappy. Had he known them better he would have begged the
beautiful
signorina
to cheer up, maybe presented her with a single flower. But these two were strangers to him. She might be offended. He retired to the warmth of the bar, defeated.

‘Are they telling you you’re sacked?’ He kept his voice neutral.

She opened her eyes wide and seemed about to protest, as if he had said something foolish, then stopped. She continued: ‘No: but it means I may have to move. In fact I may have to go back to Australia.’

It hit him, hard, somewhere in the solar plexus. So the end had come, just like that. He swallowed, then was ashamed of his own sarcastic tone. ‘You surprise me, Miranda. I thought you were well in at
The Globe
. With the owner, I mean.’

Her look hardened. ‘I am, in a manner of speaking.’ So it was true: some of her grafting had been done on her back. ‘That doesn’t help the balance sheet. For the moment my job here hasn’t finished: the editor and I will turn the thing around if it kills us. If we don’t succeed, then it’s
The Globe
itself which will die. But I needed to talk to you tonight, before you MPs all slip away for the Christmas recess. If the thing collapses, I will probably be snoozing a few hours afterwards on board a Qantas plane. I might not be able to explain why, or say goodbye.’

He sat back, mouth open. The naked suddenness of it floored him.

Then good breeding told. His manner became stiffer, more controlled and formal. He leaned forward.

‘I am so very sorry to hear all this, Miranda. I had no idea the business was in such trouble. Am I to take it that this could be the end for us?’

Her head was bent, hair almost black, falling around her face. In the candlelight her expression was hidden. She nodded her head. Then she raised her eyes, and he saw the tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

‘Oh, Miranda, don’t…’

Her distress matched his, moving him to the very quick. All his new-found resolutions about passing on from her without a qualm, about seeking a replacement as soon as possible, vanished in a trice. He pulled a clean folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and proffered it. She pressed it to her mouth and cheeks, a look of abject misery on her face.

There was nobody nearby. The waiter, wise in the ways of lovers, stayed hidden. Andrew placed his hand over hers and squeezed it.

‘I think I’d better get to the point, and quick,’ she muttered. ‘Then I must get back, or it really will be the sack, special relationship with the owner or no.’

She tossed her hair in defiance; a little of the old fire flashed.

‘If I have to go back to Australia, Andrew, I want you to consider coming with me.’

Once more his mouth opened and no sound came out. He took a deep breath, but she cut in.

‘No: listen. I’ve had a lot of men in my time, Andrew, but no one ever like you. You’re so formal, and British, and considerate, and kind. You’re manly, but without all those miserable macho elements that bedevilled all my other blokes. You make me feel special, so womanly – oh! God.’ For a moment she could not continue. ‘I earn my living as a journalist but I can’t find more than a few banal words to tell you what you have come to mean to me. It’s as if I didn’t really exist before I met you. I wasn’t a whole person. Now I am. Am I making sense?’

Gently he refolded the handkerchief as she wept and wiped first one cheek, then the other. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s as if our … what we do together … is a spring of water falling on stony ground, bringing life, and joy in living. Now a flowering tree grows, and its fruit are perfect, invigorating. All you have to do is … reach out and eat. Am I getting close?’

She smiled at him through her tears, a look of sweet accord, as she did sometimes after lovemaking. ‘You were going to say, our
love
and you stopped, Andrew.’

She waited, but he said nothing.

‘It’s time for me to say I love you, Andrew. So very much. I guess I didn’t realise until suddenly this morning it looked as if I might never see you again. That’s why I panicked and phoned. So now I’m here to tell you, and hope with total conceit and vanity that you may feel the same way. You don’t have to say a word, or decide now. That would be crazy, with a wife and child. I do recognise the difficulties.’

‘Those,’ whispered Andrew wryly, ‘are not the only “difficulties”, as you put it.’

Miranda pulled a face. ‘Oh, your political career. Does it mean that much to you? Seems to me you’re paid peanuts to be trodden all over, working insane hours, too much responsibility and no real power. And as you climb higher up the greasy pole you just increase your visibility for the tabloids to throw shit at you. There’s a better life than that, Andrew, if you want it.’

‘Where? With your owner’s company?’ He was incredulous, but a politician’s wariness led him to find out as much as possible.

She shrugged. ‘Don’t knock it. It’s a hell of a big corporation with interests all over the world, not only in Australia. You could earn big money, and have something worthwhile to do.’

He sat back with a faint laugh. In a curious way, despite all her bad news, life was looking up. ‘Plus yourself. You make it all sound tremendously tempting.’

Her pain had eased, but she was still troubled. ‘I have to go. Thanks for supper, sweetheart. Like I say, it may never happen. But I wanted you to know. If it does, think about coming with me, or coming later, at a suitable point. You’d never regret it.’

She had not asked, do you love me? She had not wanted to know whether he would come. Perhaps she had sensed by his muted, guarded reaction that her assessment of the alternatives was not the same as his. Neither was the idea wholly preposterous. Maybe she realised he could indeed be tempted by such an exotic proposition, but needed time. The bait had been cast. He would only be caught, her English gentleman, if he wanted to be.

They parted there and then, Miranda pulling on her coat without ceremony. He rose hesitantly in his place. With a quick movement she took hold of his face in her hand and kissed him, thoroughly, full on the mouth. The waiter, hovering, smiled: the lovers had made up their tiff.

After she had gone the place seemed suddenly empty. The bottle of wine was still half full, the cheese board available. He sat down again slowly and motioned to the waiter. Time for some deep thinking, alone.

Two angry men faced each other across a paper-strewn desk in the inner office of the North-West Warwickshire Conservative Association. The door was shut tight and the men were speaking in low, fierce voices. Anyone listening through the thin partition would have deduced that there was a row going on, but the plasterboard-muffled syllables ran together in an indistinguishable mumble and gave nothing away. Only the tone, of controlled anger on one side and fury on the other, told a tale. Not that anyone else was listening. The moment for the confrontation had been chosen with some care, long after the two staff and volunteers had closed desks and drawers, left notes out for the milkman and gone home.

Agents were known to be fiery people. A choleric temper was tolerated. To keep the show on the road, to ensure all committees, councillors and candidates did their duty required an unusual combination of talents. The party’s professional agents, particularly those of long service and with a background in Her Majesty’s armed forces, were allowed short fuses. Cherubic types would riot have lasted five minutes.

The agent was permitted to shout at the MP. Indeed, the agent was often the only person permitted to bawl out a recalcitrant or erring Member. It was the chairman’s job, really, but many chairmen and women were overawed by a famous or long-serving Member. A chairman’s rebuke was more likely to start with a self-deprecating grunt and a ‘Look here, old boy. The committee have been
wanting me to have a word with you…’ – which the Member had long seen coming. An angry agent was another kettle of fish entirely.

Tom Sparrow could smell trouble a mile off. Twenty-two years in the Royal Fusiliers all over the world, rising through the ranks to warrant officer, had stamped him with character, resolve and courage. He needed then to face his Member of Parliament in the worst mood he had ever seen. Roger Dickson, normally so urbane, charming and considerate, was staring at him across the desk, his face contorted with fury, pounding his fist.

‘What did you
say
to the buggers, Tom?’

‘Now then, Roger. I gave nothing away. What do you expect? But when the
Globe
journalist comes on and asks for Mrs Stalker, and then says, all innocent-like, that this is the number she left if anyone was to contact her, I was a bit flummoxed. I thought it was a mistake. So I asked why Mrs Stalker should be leaving your number instead of her own. And that’s when he told me.’

Dickson was breathing hard. He enunciated the words with precise care. ‘Exactly what, please?’

‘That you and Elaine Stalker were very friendly – gossip had it, too friendly – and that she was going round saying she had a special relationship with you.’