A Parliamentary Affair (44 page)

‘I think that’s enough confession for one day.’ Elaine reached ruefully for her handbag and took out powder compact and lipstick to repair her blotched face.

‘Ah! Do you feel absolved?’ Dorothy had been brought up a Catholic. The theatrical voice was back and she spoke like a mad old priest.

Elaine ran her little finger over the lipstick, then turned to her friend. Dorothy was looking frailer than usual. ‘Yes, I do. It’s such a help even to talk to you. I suspect Roger, Mike and I will toddle along as we are for years, unless something happens to change things. I don’t need to ask you not to say a word, do I?’

‘I should be most offended if you thought I would breathe a dicky-bird.’ Dorothy pretended to be cross. ‘Just love them both, if you can. And your daughter. I shall take your secret to the grave, which probably won’t be long now.’

Elaine knelt down by the old lady’s chair. ‘You’re good for many years yet, and you know it. But don’t go without saying good bye, will you?’

Dorothy reached out her skinny arms and placed her hands on each side of Elaine’s face, in a curious imitation of Roger’s own manner when bidding her farewell. It made Elaine feel like an innocent child, as if all the pain and frustrations were somebody else’s. Elaine kissed her on the cheek and gave a gentle, careful hug.

Dorothy chuckled, and waved her away. ‘Go in peace. Give your love freely: you will always receive love in return – maybe not from the same person, and perhaps when you least expect it. Don’t forget; and come and see me again.’

‘It isn’t enough. I can earn that in an hour in Amsterdam.’

‘For God’s sake don’t say that!’

Two half-dressed men glared at each other, like two stags in a test of strength, panting hard. One was slight, young and defiant, almost triumphant, crumpled shirt undone over boxer shorts. The other, noticeably overweight, in a velvet dressing gown tied loosely with a gold cord, was red-faced and angry, hand raised as if to strike. With a helpless gesture he let it fall.

Peter lay back on the basement bed, shapely legs crossed at the ankle, wiggling his toes cheekily. One hundred pounds in notes lay untouched on the pillow beside him. It had seemed wiser to ask Nigel to come into his pad rather than knocking on the door of the big master bedroom upstairs as a supplicant. Here everything was smaller in scale, poorer in quality, less sumptuous. Not that Nigel Boswood went in for lavish furnishings, but upstairs the polished tables and chests of drawers topped with blue vases on which dragons chased old men were antiques and kept spotless; the carpets old, expensive and discreetly faded. Down here was all wool-and-nylon fitted carpet and a few rugs, the furniture not grand at all. Habitat, at a guess. A servant’s room. He was a servant. No problem about that; but the labourer is worthy of his hire.

‘It’s not enough, I tell you. A hundred quid here and there won’t keep me in decent clothes. Can’t you manage a little more?’

Nigel looked suspicious. In a sudden movement he grabbed the boy’s arm and pushed up the shirtsleeve. ‘Have you been acquiring any expensive habits, Peter?’

‘No, of course not. I’m not stupid.’

Peter pulled his arm away crossly and rolled down the sleeve. Pity the old fool, so out of date. It wasn’t necessary to inject it these days. Crack could be smoked, leaving no mark. Not as messy as cocaine. No danger from a dirty needle. Then there were uppers, which an American client had
introduced him to. Amyl nitrate in tiny capsules. Slip one under the tongue, let it dissolve. Stank like a jockstrap, but had a powerful effect. Fabulous for group sex. Made two- and three-hour erections possible if you were careful, though it left you feeling groggy and crazy for days after a big humping session. And Peter was careful. Counteracting the debilitating effects required a good diet, lots of vitamins, fruit juice and the like, with a daily swim and occasional workout. Nothing too energetic; hefty musculature was not in his line. Nor had he dared offer anything to Nigel. The man was a real stuffed shirt these days. Getting to be a drag.

The boy waited, sighed, stretched. ‘Well?’ he demanded in his turn, but his tone was coquettish, not hostile.

‘It’s not as easy as it was, Peter.’ Nigel seated himself gently on the other side of the bed, reached out a hesitant hand, and stroked the boy’s exposed belly. The hair was golden and soft. The summer tan had faded but the skin still had a natural glow. ‘I had to pay over a lot to Lloyd’s and the payments will continue for some time. I was obliged to sell a pile of shares to pay the last lot. That means I lose the dividends as well.’

‘But you’re rich!’

‘Not quite as rich as I was.’ Nigel’s voice, to a friend, might have revealed anxiety. He was in no danger of becoming a poor man overnight, but he needed his lover to understand that two or three hundred pounds every week on top of everything else was making a big hole in his finances.

If Boswood’s intention was to elicit sympathy his ploy failed. Peter simply did not believe him: the old grouch was being mean. Alternatively, if it were true and the milch-cow was drying up, it would soon be time to make a quick exit. Maybe that was a good idea anyway.

Nigel was crying. Oh, Lord. Peter heaved himself up on an elbow. He leaned across and stroked the old man’s face. ‘Don’t. It won’t make things any better. You knew that sooner or later I’d have to go on my way. I’ve been with you far longer than with anyone else, ever.’ It was not true, but only he knew that.

‘At least stay till after Christmas. You’re coming with me to Davos, aren’t you? That’s all booked and paid for.’

The old man’s eyes pleaded. Year by year the House of Commons challenged the Swiss Parliament to a friendly skiing match in the first week after New Year. Nigel had been attending intermittently for years, enjoying himself hugely, being pitched against ever older and creakier opponents. Younger members of the team were always welcome. In that liberated atmosphere where ski pants replaced business suits for a few days, no questions were asked. All Scout’s honour not to say a word. Several others would be accompanied by secretaries or research assistants. There was no harm in it, being let off the leash for a while, then resuming normal service as soon as possible. Not that he intended to tell anyone exactly what his relationship with Peter might be; discretion was still the order of the day. But going without him now, after all the weeks of dreaming about it, would be a miserable business. He looked helplessly at the boy. ‘Please?’

Peter’s creed included being nice to all his lovers. You never knew when you might need them again. He squeezed Nigel’s hand and smiled up sweetly. ‘All right. I won’t let you down, Nigel.’

Time to make up the quarrel, to reassert the dominance of this relationship. Peter gestured down at himself, with a mischievous giggle. Under the cotton pants he was stirring. Easy to do, with a little concentration, and flattering to clients, especially when they were upset. Concentrated their minds wonderfully. He moved Nigel’s hand to touch his crotch. A gasp, a muffled sob, broke from the old man’s lips.

The tiff ended as it had begun, making love. If that was what one called it.

The card with
The Globe
phone number was still in his jacket pocket. This needed some thought.

‘Yep?’ Betts’s voice was rasping, irritated. He had no idea where this sore throat had come from but it was making life difficult. And the weather was terrible. Getting soaked through in the line of duty wasn’t his idea of fun.

‘Who? Oh, yeah, I know. Yeah, I remember.’ A pause as Peter carefully explained his business.

Betts listened hard, lit a cigarette, blew smoke straight into the air, coughed, banged his chest.

‘In that case we had better meet, Mr … er, Peter,’ he suggested. ‘Same place as before? Certainly.’

At the other end, cradling Nigel’s telephone into the crook of his neck as he wrote down the details, Peter was feeling excited. ‘About six. It gets crowded later,’ he suggested. What he meant was that a potential client came in about eight. A tall, slim chap, well-dressed, velvet collar on his overcoat, usually alone, though once with a group of people. Civil Service type, at a guess. He had eyed Peter several times recently. With a little encouragement he might open up and start chatting tonight. Not for Nigel’s eyes, and certainly not for a newspaper’s.

‘Good evening.’

Betts uttered the formal greeting as he half rose, quickly wiping the beer froth from his moustache with a grubby handkerchief. His mac on a nearby peg steamed in the warmth of the pub’s open fire, sending an unpleasant odour of vinegar and ancient tobacco into the air. A tequila sunrise was already waiting on the other side of the circular table.

The boy was certainly fine looking, with the kind of physique, manner and style likely to attract both women and men. Maybe he picked up wealthy women as well from time to time. There would be better money in faggots, though. Men had access to more spare cash; and, since it was a stigma where it wasn’t illegal, they would pay readily. For a good lay, a lot, presumably, and keep coming back. Exposing themselves to further payments, not for services rendered but for silence.

Maybe there was a little black book of names and addresses which might be worth a bob or two. Even a biography. Madam Cyn’s had been a very lucrative operation, leading even to a
bittersweet
film of her childhood,
Wish You Were Here
, which won its teenage star an Oscar. You could go a long way on the memoirs of goons like this. But Cyn’s book was enlivened most of all by those strange sad photos of fat middle-aged women and half-naked tubby bald men, specs on nose, with besotted expressions. They cuddled the homely prostitutes for Cyn’s camera as they might their wives, if only their wives would let them. The wickednesses of that generation were trivial and absurd. People laughed, then wondered, then pitied. A distinguished Cabinet Minister with his pretty boyfriend was a different matter.

‘You mentioned a figure when I met you a few weeks ago.’

The skirmishing had started. Betts put his head on one side. He had checked his notes but wasn’t letting on. ‘Did I now?’

‘You did. Twenty-five thousand, you said. That doesn’t sound enough to me. I shall be risking prosecution. My name and face will be well known. I should expect more than that.’

Betts spread his hands self-deprecatingly. ‘It would not be for me to decide. And it all depends how good the information is. We should need dates, times. And … methods.’ He paused significantly.

‘How he does it and how good he is?’ Peter laughed, a cynical edge to his voice.

Hastily Betts gestured. ‘Keep it quiet. You never know who’s listening. We should want to know everything. It’s your best protection against him claiming that it’s all lies, see? We’re a big company and if there’s anything we can’t use because of … er … newspaper policy, there may be another in the group. In Australia, perhaps, like the Prince Charles and Camilla tapes. A country which is, shall we say, a bit braver, prepared to stick its neck out. They all pay.’

Peter sipped his drink. ‘Would we be stopped publishing anything?’

‘What do you mean? Well, there are laws on pornography. Prosecution under that heading is pretty unlikely, however, given the naked bodies you can see flailing around these days on the telly. Tits and bums everywhere, nobody has standards any more.’

A bout of coughing seized him. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust. Perhaps it would be wise to gargle before turning in tonight, just in case.

Betts wheezed a few times, then continued. ‘Do you mean censorship? Privacy laws, that sort of thing? Nah, they can’t get us. If one party goes to the press and invites us to infringe his privacy, then we’re in the clear, see, even if the other party would rather all concerned kept their big mouths shut. You’d have to sign your willingness to cooperate in front of our lawyers as witnesses, of course, before money could change hands. That’s normal practice.’

‘Who’s manipulating who?’ Peter was speaking softly, almost to himself. ‘The story of my life, that is.’

Betts misunderstood the remark. ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what we’re after, the story of your life. Particularly since you met our famous friend. We would need to know all about him. You would come into our office, or to a secret location – a hotel, maybe. We’d take several days over it, taping all the time. All on the record, unless you wanted to stop. But it’s best on the record: protects you.’ The scene was moving nicely. If Peter, so wary, so clever, so arrogant, could be persuaded to see the paper as friend and protector, the job was half done.

‘And the money?’

‘One-third into your bank account the moment the contract is signed. One-third after the interviews, when we’re satisfied, you know, that you’ve fulfilled your part of the contract. And
one-third
on publication.’

‘Any currency I like? Abroad?’

Betts had no idea but was not about to prevaricate. ‘Sure.’

‘And I could clear off immediately after the interviews – I don’t have to hang around till publication day?’

Betts scented danger. ‘No … oh, but we’d need to know where you are. This would be an exclusive contract, Peter. That means you contract not to talk to anybody else. Otherwise no money.’ Peter was thinking hard. He changed tack. ‘You mentioned photographs. What kind? You couldn’t publish pictures of us naked. That would be going too far.’ Betts’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. ‘You got any pictures with him naked?’

‘No. Not yet. I doubt if I could get any either, so don’t raise your hopes. Nigel’s not a wanker like that. Not the sort to do it in front of a mirror: proper gentleman. But we’re on holiday soon and it would be very natural to get some pictures of us together. Then he couldn’t claim he didn’t know me from Adam.’

‘Certainly. Those sort of snaps are essential. No snaps, no story. Get him to hug you. For your personal album, your eyes only, that sort of thing. See if you can get him to dress up a bit at a party. The fairy queen, or some such. Pictures like that would be worth a fortune. Or wearing football strip. You know, like David Mellor. And you, get in there and give him a kiss. Just as the flash goes off. But don’t bury yourself, see? Face the camera. We need always to know it’s you.’