First Among Equals (9 page)

Joyce.
checked
to see that her husband’s dinner jacket was well
brushed, his shirt spotless and his shoes shining like a guard officer’s. His
carefully worded speech-a combination of civil-servant draftsmanship and a few
more forceful phrases of his own to prove to the assembled capitalists that not
every member of the Labour Party was a “raving commie”-was safely lodged in his
inside pocket. His driver ferried him from his Lansdowne Road home toward the
West End.

Raymond enjoyed
the occasion, and, although he was nervous when he rose to represent the
Government in reply to the toast of the guests, by the time he had resurned his
seat he felt it had been one of his better efforts. The ovation that followed
was certainly more than polite, coming from what had to be classified as a
naturally hostile audience.

“That speech
was dryer than the Chablis,” one guest whispered in the chairman’s ear, but he
had to agree that with men like Gould in high office, it was going to be a lot
easier to live with a Labour Government.

The man on
Simon Kerslake’s left was far
more blunt
in voicing
his opinion of Raymond Gould. “Bloody man thinks like a Tory, talks like a
Tory, so why isn’t he a Tory?” he demanded.

Simon grinned
at the prematurely balding man who had been expressing his equally vivid views
throughout dinner. At over two hundred pounds, Ronnie Nethercote looked as if
he was trying to escape from every part of his bulging dinner jacket.

“I expect,”
said Simon in reply, “that Gould, born in the thirties and living in Leeds,
would have found it hard to join the Young Conservatives.”

“Balls,” said
Ronnie. “I managed it and I was born in the East End of London without any of
his advantages.

Now tell me,
Mr. Kerslake, what do you do when you’re not wasting your time in the House of
Commons?”

Raymond stayed
on after dinner and talked for some time to the captains of industry. A little
after eleven he left to return to Lansdowne Road.

As his
chauffeur drove slowly away from Grosvenor House down Park Lane, the Under
Secretary waved expansively back to his host. Someone else waved in reply. At
first Raymond only glanced out the window, assuming it was another dinner
guest, until he saw her legs.

Standing on the
corner outside the gas station on Park Lane stood a young girl smiling at him
invitingly, her 72 white leather miniskirt so short it might have been better
described as a handkerchief
Her
long legs reminded him
of Joyce’s ten years before. Her finely curled hair and the set of her hips
remained firmly implanted in Raymond’s mind all the way home.

When they
reached Lansdowne Road, Raymond climbed out of the official car and said
goodnight to his driver before walking slowly toward his front door, but he did
not take out his latchkey.

He waited until
he was sure the driver had turned the comer before looking up and checking the
bedroom window. All the lights were out. Joyce must be asleep.

He crept down
the path and back on to the pavement,
then
looked up
and down the road, finally spotting the space in which Joyce had parked the
Volkswagen. He checked the spare key on his key ring and fumbled about, feeling
like a car thief. It took three attempts before the motor spluttered to life,
and Raymond wondered if he would wake up the whole neighborhood as he moved off
and headed back to Park Lane, not certain what to expect. When he reached
Marble Arch, he traveled slowly down in the center stream of traffic. A few
dinner guests in evening dress were still spilling out of Grosvenor House. He
passed the gas station: she hadn’t moved. She smiled again and he accelerated,
nearly bumping into the car in front of him. Raymond traveled back up to Marble
Arch, but instead of turning toward home, he drove down Park Lane again, this
time not so quickly and on the inside lane. He took his foot off the
accelerator as he approached the gas station and she waved again. He returned
to Marble Arch before repeating his detour down Park Lane, this time even more
slowly. As he passed Grosvenor House for a third time, he checked to be sure
that there were no stragglers still chatting on the pavement. It was clear. He
touched the brakes and his car came to a stop just beyond the gas station.

He waited.

The girl looked
up and down the street before strolling over to the car, opening the passenger
door and taking a seat next to the Under Secretary of State for Employment.

“
LoH:
)king for business?”

“What do you
mean?” asked Raymond hoarsely.

“Come on,
darling. You can’t imagine I was standing out there at this time of night
hoping to get a suntan.”

Raymond turned
to look at the girl more carefully and wanted to touch her despite the aura of
cheap perfume. Her black blouse had three buttons undone; a fourth would have
left nothing to the imagination.

“It’s ten
pounds at my place.”

“Where’s your
place?” he heard himself say.

“I use a hotel
in Paddington.”

“How do we get
there?” he asked, putting his hand nervously through his red hair.

“Just head up
to Marble Arch and I’ll direct you.”

Raymond pulled
out and went off toward Hyde Park Comer and drove around before traveling on
toward Marble Arch once again.

“I’m Mandy,”
she said. “What’s your name?”

Raymond
hesitated. “Malcolm.”

“And what do
you do, Malcolm, in these hard times?”

“I... I sell
secondhand cars.”

“Haven’t picked
out a very good one for yourself, have you?” She laughed.

Raymond made no
comment. It didn’t stop Mandy.

“What’s a
secondhand-car salesman doing dressed up like a toff, then?”

Raymond had
quite forgotten he was still in black tie.

“I’ve
. .
Just been to a convention... at the
... Hilton Hotel.”

“Lucky for
some,” she said, and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been standing outside Grosvenor
House all night in the hope of getting some rich feller from that posh party.”

Raymond’s
cheeks nearly turned the color of his hair. “Slow down and take the second on
the left.”

He followed her
instructions until they pulled up outside a small dingy hotel. “I’ll get out
first, then you,” she said.

“Just walk
straight through reception and follow me up the stairs.” As she got out of the
car he nearly drove off and might have done so if his eye hadn’t caught.
the
sway of her hips as she walked back toward the hotel.

He obeyed her
instructions and climbed several flights of narrow stairs until he reached the
top floor. As he approached the landing, a large bosomy blonde passed him on
the way down.

“Hi, Mandy,”
she shouted back at her friend.

“Hi, Sylv.
Is the room free?”

“Just,” said
the blonde sourly.

Mandy pushed
open the door and Raymond followed her in. The room was small and narrow.
In one comer stood a tiny bed and a threadbare carpet.

The faded
yellow wallpaper was peeling in several places. There was a washbasin attached
to the wall; a dripping tap had left a brown stain on the enamel.

Mandy put her
hand out and waited.

“Ah, yes, of
course,” said Raymond, taking out his wallet to find he only had nine pounds on
him.

She scowled.
“Not going to get overtime tonight, am 1, darling?” she said, tucking the money
carefully away in the comer of her bag before matter-of-factly taking off all
her clothes.

Although the
act of undressing had been totally sexless, he was still amazed by the beauty
of her body, Raymond felt somehow detached from the real world. He watched her,
eager to feel the texture of her skin, but made no move. She lay down on the
bed.

“Let’s get on
with it, darling. I’ve got a living to earn.”

Raymond
undressed quickly, keeping his back to the bed. He folded his clothes in a neat
pile on the floor as there was no chair. Then he lay down on top of her. It was
all over in a few minutes.

“Come quickly,
don’t you, darling?” said Mandy, grinning.

Raymond turned
away from her and started washing himself as best he could in the little basin.
He dressed hurriedly realizing he must get out of the place as rapidly as
possible.

“Can you drop
me back at the gas station?”

Mandy asked.

“It’s exactly
the opposite direction for me,” he said, trying not to sound anxious as he made
a bolt for the door. He passed Sylv on the stairs accompanied by a man. She
stared at him more closely the second time. The Minister was back in his car a
few moments later. He drove home quickly, but not before opening the windows in
an attempt to get rid of the smell of stale tobacco and cheap perfume.

Back in
Lansdowne Road, he had a long shower before creeping into bed next to Joyce;
she stirred only slightly.

Charles drove
his wife down to Ascot early to be sure to avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic
that always developed later in the day. With his height and bearing, Charles
Hampton was made for tails and a topper, and Fiona wore a hat which on anyone
less self-assured would have looked ridiculous. They had been invited to join
the Macalpines for the afternoon, and when they arrived they found Sir Robert
awaiting them in his pfivate box.

“You must have
left home early,” said Charles, knowing the Macalpines lived in central London.

“About thirty
minutes ago,” he said, laughing. Fiona looked politely incredulous.

“I always come
here by helicopter,” he explained.

They lunched on
lobster and strawberries accompanied by a fine vintage champagne, which the
waiter kept pouring and pouring. Charles might not have drunk quite so much had
he not picked the winning horses in the first three races. He spent the fifth
race stumped in a chair in the comer of the box, and only the noise of the
crowd kept him from nodding off.

If they hadn’t
waited for a farewell drink after the last race, Charles might have got away
with it. He had forgotten that his host was returning by helicopter.

The long tail
of cars across Windsor Great Park all the way back to the highway made Charles
very shorttempered. When he eventually reached the main road he put his Daimler
into fourth gear. He didn’t notice the police car until the siren sounded and
he was directed to pull over.

“Do be careful,
Charles,” whispered Fiona.

“Don’t worry,
old girl, I know exactly how to deal with the law,” he said, and wound down his
window to addrem the policeman who stood by the car. “Do you realize who I am,
officer?”

“No, sir, but I
would like you to accompany me – 2’

“Certainly not,
officer, I am a member of...”

“Do be quiet,”
said Fiona, “and stop making such a fool of yourself.”

“Parliament and
I will not be treated
. .

“Have you any
idea how pompous you sound, Charles?”

“Perhaps you
will be kind enough to accompany me to the station, sir?”

“I want to
speak to my lawyer.”

“Of course, sir.
As soon as we reach the
station.”

When Charles
arrived at the constabulary he proved quite incapable of walking a straight
line and refused to provide a blood sample.

“I am the
Conservative MP for Sussex Downs.”

Which will not
help you, Fiona thought, but he was past listening and only demanded that she
phone the family solicitor at Speechly, Bircham and Soames.

After Ian
Kimmins had spoken, first gently, then firmly, to Charles, his client
eventually cooperated with the police.

Once Charles
had completed his written statement, Fiona drove him home, praying that his
stupidity would pass unnoticed by the press.

“
Y
OU DON’T LIKE tum because he comes from the East End,” said Simon,
after she had read the letter.

“That’s not
true,” replied Elizabeth. “I don’t like him because I don’t trust him.”

“But you’ve
only met him twice.”

“Once would
have been quite enough.”

“Well, I can
tell you I’m impressed by the not inconsiderable empire he’s built up over the
last ten years, and frankly it’s an offer I can’t refuse,” said Simon,
pocketing the letter.

“But surely not at any cost?” said Elizabeth.

“I won’t be
offered many chances like this,” continued Simon. “And we could use the money.
The belief people have that every Tory MP has some lucrative sinecure and two
or three directorships is plain daft, and you know it. Not one other serious
proposition has been put to me since I’ve been in the
House,
and another two thousand pounds a year for a monthly board meeting wouldcome in
very handy.”

“And what
else?”

“What do you
mean,
what else?”

“What else does
Mr. Nethercote expect for his two thousand pounds? Don’t be naive, Simon, he’s
not offering you that kind of money on a plate unless he’s hoping to receive
some scraps back.”

“Well, maybe I
have a few contacts and a little influence with one or two people.

“I’ll bet.”

“You’re just
prejudiced, Elizabeth.”

“I’m against
anything that might in the long run harm your career, Simon.

Struggle on,
but never
sacrifice
your integrity, as you’re so fond
of reminding the people of Coventry.”

When Charles
Hampton’s drunk-driving charge came up in front of the Reading Bench he listed
himself as C. G. Hamptonno mention of MP. Under profession he entered “Banker.”

He came sixth
in the list that morning, and on behalf of his absent client Ian Kimmins
apologized to the Reading magistrates and assured them it would not happen
again. Charles received a fiftypound fine and was banned from driving for six
months. The whole case was over in four minutes.