First Among Equals (28 page)

The judge took
a further thirty minutes to meticulously explain to the jury the legal
definition of manslaughter before Raymond could escape.

He ran down the
corridor and stopped at one of the clerks’ private boxes to make the call. The
dial rotating back into place after each number seemed to take forever.

After he eventually got through three people, a voice said, “Good
afternoon, Raymond”: the unmistakable gravelly tones of the new Prime Minister.
“I think it’s time you joined the Government...” Raymond held his breath “…as
Minister of State at the Department of Trade.” Minister of State: only one
place off the Cabinet.

“You still there, Raymond?”

“Yes, Prime
Minister, and I’d be delighted to accept.”

He put the
phone down, immediately picked it up again and dialed the City office of the
Chase Manhattan bank. They put him through to the chief systems analyst.

“Ronnie phoned
while you were in the bath.”

“I’ll call him
as soon as I reach the House.”

Neither of them
spoke for several minutes.

Then Elizabeth
asked, “Are you dreading it?”

“Yes, I am,”
said Simon. “I feel like a con-demned man eating his last breakfast, and the
worst thing is I have to drive myself to the gallows.”

“I wonder if we
wili ever Itaugh about today?”

“No doubt – when I collect my parliamentary pension.”

“Can we live
off that?”

“Hardly.
I don’t get the first payment until I’m sixtyfive, so
we have a long wait to find out.” He got up. “Can I give you a lift to the
hospital?” he asked.

“No, thanks, I
intend to savor the joys of being a twocar family for at least another week.”

Simon kissed
his wife and left for his appointment with the Chief Whip at the House of
Commons.

The policeman
at the gate saluted as he drove in. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning,”
said Simon. When you salute next time I’ll have to say goodbye, he thought
morosely. He parked his car on the second level of the new underground parking
lot and took the escalator up to the members’ entrance. He couldn’t help
remembering that ten years ago he would have taken the stairs. He continued
through the members’ cloakroom, up the marble staircase to the members’ lobby.

Habit made him
turn left into the little post office to check whether he had any mail.

“Mr. Kerslake,”
the man behind the counter called into an intercom, and a few seconds later a
parcel and a packet of letters held together by a thick elastic band thudded into
an office basket.

Simon left the
parcel marked London University and the letters on the desk in his room and
checked his watch: over forty minutes before his appointment with the Chief
Whip. He went to the nearest phone and dialed Nethercote and Company. Ronnie
answered the phone himself.

“Sacked the
telephone operator last Friday,” he explained. “Only me and my secretary left.”

“You called, Ronnie...” a millimeter of hope in Simon’s voice.

“Yes, I wanted
to express how I felt. I tried to write you a letter over the weekend but I’m
not very good with words.” He paused. “Nor, it seems, with figures. I just
wanted to say how desperately sorry I am. Elizabeth told me you were going to
see the Chief Whip this morning. I’ll be thin-king of you.”

“That’s kind,
Ronnie, but I went into it with my eyes wide open. As an advocate of free
enterprise, I can hardly complain when I turn out to be one of its victims.”

“A very philosophical attitude for this time of the morning.”

“How are things
at your end?”

“The receiver’s
checking the books. I still believe we can get out with all our creditors fully
paid. At least that way I’ll avoid the stigma of bankruptcy.” There was a
longer pause.

“Oh, Christ,
that was tactless.

“Don’t worry
about it, Ronnie. The overdraft was my decision.” Simon already wished he had
been as frank with his wife.

“Let’s have
lunch one day next week.”

“
it
will have to be somewhere that takes food stamps,” said
Simon wryly.

“Good luck,
mate,” said Ronnie.

Simon decided
to fill up the remaining thirty minutes at the House by going to the library
and glancing over the rest of the morning papers.

He settled
himself in a comer of the library next to the fireplace over which hung a
notice reminding members not to have overloud or prolonged convcrsations.

The story of
the probable breakup of Nethercote and Company was detailed on the financial
pages. It quoted approvingly Ronnie’s view that all creditors ought to be paid
in full. Not one of the articles mentioned Simon’s name, but he could already
anticipate the headlines in tomorrow’s paper: “The Rise and Fall of Simon
Kerslake.” Over ten years’ work quickly forgotten, he would be old news within
a week.

The library
clock inched toward the hour that he could no longer put off.

Simon heaved
himself out of the deep leather chair like an old man and walked slowly toward
the Chief Whip’s office.

Miss
N(
ITSe, the C’hief’s ancient secretary, smiled benignly as
fie came in.

“Good morning,
Mr. Kerslake,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid the Chief is still with Mrs. Thatcher,
but I did remind him of your appointment so I don’t expect him to be long.
Would you care to have a seat?”

“Thank you,” he
said.

Alec Pimkin
always claimed that Miss Norse had a set patter for every occasion. His imitation
of her saying “I hope I find you in rude health,

Mr. Pimkin” had
brought chuckles to the members’ dining room on many occasions. He must have
exaggerated, thought Simon.

“I hope I find
you in rude health, Mr. Kerslake,” said Miss Norse, not looking up from her
typing. Simon choked back a laugh.

“Very rude,
thank you,” he said, wondering how many tragic stories or tales of lost
opportunities Miss Norse had had to listen to over the years. She stopped
suddenly and looked at her notepad.

“I should have
mentioned it to you before, Mr. Kerslake-a Mr. Nethercote rang.”

“Thank you,
I’ve spoken to him already.”

Simon was
leafing through an out-of-date copy of Punch when the Chief Whip strode in.

“I can spare
you one minute, Simon, one and a half if you are going to resign,” he said,
laughing, and marched off toward his office. As Simon followed him down the
corridor, the phone by Miss Norse’s side rang. “It’s for you, Mr. Kerslake,”
she shouted to their retreating backs.

Simon turned
and said, “Can you take the number?”

“He says it’s
urgent.”

Simon stopped,
hesitating. “With you in a moment,” he said to the Chief Whip, who disappeared
into his office. Simon walked back and took the phone from Miss Norse’s
outstretched hand.

“Simon Kerslake here.
Who is it?”

“It’s Ronnie.”

“Ronnie,” said
Simon flatly.

“I’ve just had
a cail from Morgan Grenfell.

One of their
clients has made an offer of one pound twenty-five a share for the company and
they’re willing to take over the current liabilities.”

Simon was
trying to do the sums in his head.

“Don’t bother
working it out,” Ronnie said.

“At one
twenty-five, your shares would be worth seventy-five thousand pounds.”

“It won’t be
enough,” said Simon, as he recalled his overdraft of 108,712 pounds, a figure
etched in his memory.

“Don’t panic.
I’ve told them I won’t settle for anything less than one pound fifty a share,
and it has to be within seven days, which will give them ample time to check
the books. That would bring you in ninety thousand, but you would still be
eighteen thousand down the Swanee, which you’ll have to learn to live with. If
you sell the wife as well as the second car, you should just about survive.”

Simon could
tell by the way his friend was speaking that Ronnie already had a cigar between
his lips.

“You’re a
genius.”

“Not me –
-Morgan Grenfell. And I bet they’ll make a handsome profit in the long run for
their unnamed client, who seemed to have all the inside information. If you’re
still on for lunch next Tuesday, don’t bring your food stamps. It’s on me.”

Simon put the
phone down and kissed Miss Norse on the forehead. She was completely taken
aback by a situation for which she had no set reply. She remained silent as the
Chief Whip
peeked
his head out of his office. “An orgy
in the Chief Whip’s office?” he said.

“You’ll be on
page three of the Sun next, Miss Norse.” Simon laughed. “I’ve got a crisis on
over tonight’s vote,” the Chief Whip continued. “The Government is reneging on
our agreement for pairing, and I have to get a delegation back from Brusiels in
time for the ten o’clock division. Whatever it is, can it wait, Simon?”

“Yes, ot’course.”

“Can you come
to my office, Miss Norse-if I can drag you away from James Double-O-Seven
Kerslake?”

Simon left and almost
bounced to the nearest phone. He called both Elizabeth and Archie Millburn to
let them know the news. Elizabeth was
ecstatic,
while
Archie didn’t sound ail that surprised.

“Don’t you
think it might be wise for us to stop seeing each other?”

“Whyl” said
Raymond. “Palmerston had a mistress when he was seventy, and he still beat your
precious Disraeli,
came
the election.”

“Yes, but that
was before the days of a dozen national newspapers and investigative
journalism.

FrankIv, it
wouldn’t take a Woodward and Bernstein more than a few hours to discover our
little secret.”

“We’ll be all
right. I’ve destroyed all the tapes.”

“Do be
serious.”

“You’re always
telling me I’m far too serious.”

“Well, I want
you to be now. Very.”

Raymond turned
to face Kate. “I love you, Kate, and I know I always will.

Why don’t we
stop this charade and get married?”

She sighed.
“We’ve been over this a hundred times. I shall want to return to America
eventually, and in any case I wouldn’t make a very good Prime Minister’s wife.”

“Three American
women have in the past,” said Raymond sulkily.

“To hell with
your historical precedentsand what’s more, I hate Leeds.”

“You’ve never
been there.”

“I don’t need
to if it’s colder than London.”

“Then you’ll
have to be satisfied with being my mistress.” Raymond took Kate in his arms.
“You know, I used to think being Prime Minister was worth every sacrifice, but
now I’m not so sure.”

“It’s still
worth the sacrifice,” said Kate, “as you’ll discover when you live at Number
Ten. Come on, or my dinner will be burned to a cinder.”

“You haven’t
noticed these,” said Raymond smugly, pointing down at his feet.

Kate stared at
the fashionable new loafers.

“I nevei
thought the day would come,” she said. “Pity you’re starting to go bald.”

When Simon
returned home his first words were, “We’ll survive.”

“But what have
you done about the resignation letter?” asked Elizabeth anxiously.

“Archie
Millburn said he would return it the day I became Prime Minister.”

“Well, that’s a
relief,” Elizabeth said. “And now that the worst’s behind us, I want you to
promise me just one thing.”

“Anything.”

“You will never
speak to Ronnie Nethercote again.”

For a moment,
Simon hesitated, before saying, “That’s not completely fair, because I haven’t been
totally straight with you from the beginning.” He then sat Elizabeth down on
the sofa and told her the whole truth.

It was
Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.

“Oh, hell,” she
said eventually, looking up at Simon. “I do hope Ronnie can forgive me.”

“What are you
talking about?”

“I phoned him
back soon after you left for the Commons and I spent at least ten minutes
telling him why he was the biggest two-faced bastard I’d ever met, and that I
didn’t want to hear from him again in my life.”

It was Simon’s
turn to collapse onto the sofa. “How did he respond?” he asked anxiously.

Elizabeth faced
her husband. “That’s the strange thing, he didn’t even protest. He just
apologized.”

Charles paced
up and down the room angrily. “Give me the figures again.”

“Nethercote has
accepted a bid of seven million five hundred thousand, which works out at one
pound fifty a share,” said Clive Reynolds.

Charles stopped
at his desk and scribbled the figures down on a piece of paper.
Ninety thousand pounds, leaving a shortfall of only eighteen
thousand pounds.
It wouldn’t be enough.

“Damn,” he
said.

“I agree,” said
Revnolds, “I always thought we were premature to lose our position in the
company in the first place.”

“An opinion you
will not voice outside this room,” said Charles.

Clive Reynolds
did not reply.

“What’s
happened to Nethercote himself?” asked Charles, searching for any scrap of
information he could find about Simon Kerslake.

“I’m told he’s
starting up again in a smaller way. Morgan Grenfell was delighted by the deal
and the manner in which he handled the company during the takeover. I must say
we let it fall into their laps.”

“Can we get any
stock in the new company?” asked Charles, ignoring his comment.

“I’d doubt it.
It’s only capitalized at one million, although Morgan Grenfell is giving
Nethercote a large overdraft facility as part of the deal.”

“Then all that
remains necessary is to see the matter is never referred to again.”

“Dad, can I
have a leather soccer ball, please?”