A Woman's Place (36 page)

The video of the life and achievements of the new Lord Bhadeshia had been cancelled; the plans – outlined with so much excitement by his wife a few days earlier – for the couple to enter in triumph to a crescendo of trumpets as the last scene played on a giant screen had come to nought. Worse, an appearance on
Desert Island Discs
scheduled for the following week had been deferred: the nation would never know Lord Bhadeshia's taste in music or his habit of singing in the bath. Of all the snubs, Jayanti felt this one most keenly.

The party, however, was not yet over. Jim Betts leaned on the fluorescent silver bar, sipped his fourth glass of champagne, and lifted a smoked salmon and caviar canapé from a passing tray. His attendance was official, standing in for his boss, whose name was on the invitation card. His own name, emblazoned in the byline on those articles, might have guaranteed exclusion, but his face was unknown. For once he was neither gatecrashing nor obliged to work, though his journalist's instincts did not miss a detail.

The low room was crowded and hot, its bluish light ethereal and sexy, making white shirts and dinner jackets glow and fade as their wearers moved between tables. The butterfly garments had been replaced by silver and sequins. The Bhadeshias darted about kissing everybody. Many MPs were there including several junior Ministers with spouses or girlfriends, glad of an opportunity of a night out at somebody else's expense. Elaine Stalker had brought her daughter, who was dancing away in a skimpy red dress at the far end with Fred Laidlaw MP. Their housemate, Mr York, was not around – not a party man in this sense. Elaine was talking animatedly to a tall, older man who was a stranger to Betts; his eyes narrowed. Fresh articles were already forming in his brain. Satisfied, he headed out of the atrium into the roof garden.

Had Betts had any romance in his soul he would have responded at once to the delights of a lush country garden under moonlight with paved walks and lawns, fountains, several pools, an
ivy-covered
wall, ducks and flamingos, all on a floodlit rooftop in central London. Created when the occupants were the upmarket department store Derry and Toms (Pramila had eaten lunch there once years before), on the demise of the company the roof garden had been taken over by a private club. The strange location was perfect for slightly louche events and much favoured by London's gay community, who adored its exotic atmosphere.

Betts strolled slowly and watchfully, letting the cool night air make him feel more drunk than he really was. He kept away from the flamingos, which he did not trust. It had been a marvellous few weeks for him; soon, however, it would be time to consider his next campaign and its possible victims. It was odds-on that several were present tonight, given the way one or two of them were cavorting about. How easy they made it.

As he came past one of the lighted doors a young couple bounced out in front of him, laughing – Karen Stalker and Fred Laidlaw; but after a few moments Laidlaw declared himself cold
and returned indoors, promising to save a table place.

‘Evening.'

Karen turned around. It was a fabulous bash, far better than anybody could manage in college. Cheeky of her mother to ask if she might also attend, but Lady Bhadeshia had been graciously hospitable, indeed keen that a few younger guests should come.

She saw a few feet away, his champagne glass at a slight angle, a man of roughly the same height as herself but some years older. Betts's dinner jacket hung loosely on a frame kept thin by cigarettes, one of which rested limply in his lingers, its tip red and smoky in the dark. The moustache was better trimmed than she recalled, the gingerish hairline receding but the hairstyle relatively tidy.

Betts saw before him the young woman after whom he had once lusted frantically and whose refusal and its aftermath had nearly ruined his career. What it had done to her life he did not consider, nor ever had. Karen was fresh, smart as a lick of paint, bright-eyed, though the eyes as she recognised him clouded with suspicion and dislike. She was ripe as a peach. And, if he were not mistaken, she belonged to no one else at present, with the possible exception of Mr Laidlaw. What she needed, Betts decided, was a real man: like himself.

‘We meet again,' he continued easily. ‘You weren't very nice to me last time, Miss Stalker, when I came to your place. I'd no idea you lived there. You still at that address, by the way?'

Karen stopped herself from answering his question. Where she lived was none of his business. Her voice was frosty.

‘Can I help you, Mr Betts? I'm getting cold and I want to go inside.'

‘Help me? Oh, yes. You could, a lot. You look lovelier each time I see you, Karen. I haven't forgotten that you were special for me once upon a time. I could still feel the same way – if you'd allow me.'

The proposition was so bare faced that the girl was caught off-guard. But like the lonely housewife who knows as an unwanted caller hisses obscenities in her ear that she should put the phone down at once, yet continues to listen, Karen lingered.

Betts took a step forward and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘There! I'm not so horrible, am I? Big success, these days. Likely to get my own news editor's job before too long. Worth knowing, Karen. How about it?'

Karen gazed coolly at the man who had raped her so many painful years before. She should lead him to the parapet and throw him over, for everything he had done to her and had threatened to do to her mother. The breeze ruffled her hair and brought with it calmness and dignity. There was no point in being as unpleasant or as unprincipled as he.

‘Well, James. The answer is no.'

‘I should like to know why you took it upon yourself to push Mr Bhadeshia's application for this grant. And I want every detail, Derek, however unedifying.'

Roger Dickson perched his backside on an ornate table and glared at the group seated before him. He had deliberately chosen a formal state chamber for the interview. Only the table lamps were switched on, giving the room a gloomy, conspiratorial atmosphere. His face glowered: his mood could not be mistaken.

On an ivory-silk sofa sat the Chief Whip with the Party Chairman, his face creased with worry. In an armchair, head thrown back defiantly, lounged Derek Harrison. Ted Bampton sat upright on a chair, his glass untouched in his hand, his mouth turned down grimly.

Bampton wondered if it was his fault. Had he been hard enough on Harrison? He'd laid down the law and tried to stop the man being a complete fool, but to no avail apparently. This mud would stick to the whole department, himself included. Uncomfortably he wondered if a more experienced Secretary of State might have spotted trouble sooner and more quickly nipped it in the bud. He would
know better next time.

‘I'm waiting.' Dickson drummed his fingers on the table.

‘I know him – and he's Lord Bhadeshia as from this morning, in case you've forgotten.'

Inwardly Harrison was fuming. He could see no point in pretence or argument. They were all in this together, and therein lay his best chance. The arrogance of his tone brought exchanged glances; behind him Bampton shook his head in disbelief.

‘Did he pay you?'

‘I've been looked after, yes. What of it?'

‘Steady on, old chap…' the Party Chairman felt obliged to protect the Minister from his own stupidity.

Harrison had been drinking at the party and had downed the undiluted Scotch offered on his arrival. He deeply resented the cloak-and-dagger effort that had whisked him away to this ridiculous inquisition. The press had used a leaked letter, probably by subverting somebody in his office. That was in itself reprehensible and should have brought his colleagues into supportive line on his side, yet it did not seem to be happening. ‘I said, what of it? I'm not the only one. Everyone does it. Can't afford to survive otherwise.'

The Chief Whip intervened smoothly. ‘Permit me my curiosity. Why Bhadeshia? Couldn't you have picked somebody a little … more suitable?'

Harrison did not miss the hint. He might still ditch his business partner and, in so doing, defend himself. Some long-buried decent instinct nudged him.

‘Makes me sick,' he muttered. ‘Just because Jay's Asian. It was the same with Asil Nadir. And Robert Maxwell, I'll bet. Take their money – oh, yes. Fawn over them. Shower them with titles and honours. No, not give – sell them. Then when things go wrong, boot 'em out. Prejudice, that's it. Race prejudice.
And it's wrong.
'

Roger Dickson grunted impatiently but the Chairman was anxious to sound sympathetic. ‘That's right. Like the Rothschilds last century. Paid for the Suez Canal shares. Disraeli thought the world of them –'

‘Thank you, but this is no time for a history lesson. Nor does it justify, or explain, what Derek has done – which plainly he does not deny.' Dickson wondered what had possessed him to appoint the chap to the job. If that was to be his defence it ran the risk of incredulity on the part of its hearers. That Bhadeshia's sense of exclusion, which he had obviously communicated to his erstwhile friend, was genuine and might well have underpinned the whole affair was dismissed by Roger without further consideration. Right now his government's reputation was all that mattered.

Dickson stood and stared down at Harrison, who was examining his own reflection in the glass in his hands. Drunk, or doped perhaps, the man seemed divorced from reality.

‘Sorry, Derek. You have twenty minutes to offer me your resignation. There's some House of Commons notepaper on the table. The Chief will help you draft it.'

Harrison jumped up angrily. Somebody was to blame for this mess but it wasn't him. The person in charge, then. He jabbed an accusatory finger at his leader. His voice had the edge of recklessness.

‘John Major used to let his Ministers stay. He'd back 'em. What they did in private was their own affair, he said. You're sacking me, or as good as. What's the difference?'

Roger Dickson rose to his full height, eyes hard. The lamplight on his silver-streaked hair made it look like a halo of ice. ‘The difference,' he said coldly, ‘is that I am
not
John Major.'

He took a deep breath, finished his own drink and pointed to the alcove where a writing desk waited.

‘And you, Mr Harrison, are no longer one of my Ministers.'

The mother understood and couldn't get out quickly enough. The sister set up a soft wail which, after a little practice, he found he could exclude from his conscious mind. But his wife, aware in an instant that he had been hiding things from her, turned her pent-up fury on him, and that was the hardest. Seated next to him in the back of the Jaguar as it sped first home for hastily packed luggage and then to the airport, she screeched angry questions and rained repeated small blows on him, until he felt battered and helpless.

Where had he gone wrong? Why was it so blameworthy to ask a distinguished colleague, the pliant Mr Harrison who had always given him such sound advice, to speak on his behalf to
purse-holders
in the ODA? He had asked Mr Horrocks to recommend him at the Tarrants Bank board meeting and nobody regarded that as a crime. And what in heaven's name was so wicked about rewarding a close friendship by the allocation of a few shares? Nothing at all, in truth. He could see the point about the purchase of large blocks of shares by his son Varun and his friends, but they had merely allowed over-enthusiasm to expose their activities. The boy still had a lot to learn. As for giving Derek an engraved watch, it was too trivial for words. To exclude Ministers from such tokens of regard and affection was ridiculous. The British were mad, if that was their approach to business. And their press was appalling and should be curbed. No wonder they'd lost an empire.

Pramila was sobbing at his side. In Terminal Four as he waved tickets and passports Jayanti suddenly feared she might refuse to accompany him. He took her hands and implored her, as the mother of his children and his wife of over twenty years, not to abandon him. There was only one way to calm her. In a moment of weakness he promised her that their flight was temporary, to enable him to obtain further funds. However flimsy an excuse, it gave both a face-saver. She dabbed her eyes, lifted her head and followed him through the darkened terminal.

In one last fling he had booked first-class seats on a credit card which would be cut off within days. As the Boeing 747 heaved itself into the air above Slough, then settled for the long flight towards the sun, Jayanti kicked off his shoes, stretched his legs, removed his jacket and handed it to the stewardess. The food would be edible, the wine excellent. The chance to indulge at that standard might not present itself again for many a day.

It was sultry – oppressively so, with a hint of thunder in the air. A leaden sun sent steely shafts of light through double-glazed windows which could be neither opened nor shaded. The glare moved unstoppably over wood and metal, leaving them blistering to the touch. After its passage papers curled up and drifted to the floor. Dust danced and shimmered. It was almost too hot to move.

Elaine abandoned any pretence of coolness, removed her linen jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. She bent over the red file once more, annotating points with a pink marker pen. Nearby two piles of green folders awaited her attention – letters written by MPs and others of sufficient importance to command a ministerial response. In Bampton's absence on holiday she had his to sign as well as her own. Promotion to the job left vacant by Harrison did not seem to have reduced the paperwork at all.

Elaine did not hear the door of her office open. Not until a shadow fell over her desk did she look up, startled.

‘I'm so sorry, Minister of State.' Martin Chadwick smiled oleaginously, but placing himself so quietly before her had been a game. ‘I wanted to check how you were settling in, and if there was anything we could do for you.'

You could start by not creeping around, Elaine thought crossly. Chadwick looked a little odd. He must have been to the dentist. His front two teeth had been capped, giving him a rabbity expression which sat uneasily with his superior manner. She glanced around before replying.

‘Thank you – there are one or two things. Can we get rid of the ashtrays, for a start? It
is
Whitehall policy to have smoke-free offices. I prefer it that way, whatever my predecessor felt. And I'd like a long mirror in the dressing room next door – would the budget run to one?'

Chadwick did not make a note. A sign of his higher intellect was that he needed no memory aids. He acquiesced smoothly. ‘I'm sure that can be arranged. And we have some portable
air-conditioning
units arriving tomorrow. I'm sorry it's so unpleasant in here.'

The listed buildings in Richmond Terrace had been saved from developers in the mid-eighties and refurbished at an official cost of over £38 million. The crowning success of Norman Fowler's tenure as Secretary of State for Health and Social Security had been to beat off the Secretary of State for Education's competing claim to the new premises. Excellent insulation, modern lighting and thick carpets made the accommodation cosy in winter. In a heatwave it was ghastly.

‘Shame it wasn't included first time,' Elaine commented. ‘Typical. Who was responsible?'

‘The PSA.' That told her everything. She grimaced. The Property Services Agency had been one of the great bogies of the old administration, with an incompetence which was legendary.

Chadwick cleared his throat to obtain her attention. ‘The new Parliamentary Under-Secretary would like a word, I believe.'

‘Sure. Show him in. And could we have some sandwiches and cold drinks? Prawn mayonnaise on brown bread for me.'

It had not taken long to eradicate every trace of Harrison. As the news of his resignation hit the press tapes, Elaine's name was announced alongside as his successor, complete with a potted biography. Her replacement as junior Minister had followed within half a day on her recommendation as endorsed by Bampton. She wondered whether, when eventually her own career ceased, she would be dispatched as efficiently; or whether she might leave behind some monument or action of which she might be proud. Enoch Powell had warned that all ministerial office ended in tears. Was it too much to hope that hers might be the exception?

The door opened again. Chadwick, who had apparently appointed himself Elaine's minder pro tem, ushered in the tall figure of her new subordinate.

It was Anthony York. For a brief moment he and Chadwick were together in the doorway,
face to face, bodies close. Anthony blushed furiously, lowered his head and pushed his way inside.

‘Something peculiar, almost sinister about him.' Elaine indicated the now closed door. ‘I wouldn't trust Mr Chadwick an inch. Yet he's one of the ablest Dep Secs around, so it's said.'

‘Pity we can't choose our staff as they do in America,' Anthony agreed as he sat down. He seemed flustered; Elaine took it to be the heat. ‘I wanted a quick word, Elaine. I was surprised and honoured to be given your post when you were promoted, and I am delighted to be working with you. Your old staff are sad to lose you. Is there anything in particular you would like me to do?'

She considered. ‘I just hope we can work together as a team rather more than I did with Derek, that's all. Here's an example: I've been asked to speak at the annual conference of MIND, the mental illness charity. It isn't till next spring but we should start to think about it as an opportunity to change our approach. I feel twitchy about our community care policy and would like to start edging the department around to my point of view. Frankly, I think we've closed too many hospitals. The result is mentally sick people sleeping on the streets or getting themselves into trouble. Derek wasn't interested. Are you?'

Anthony examined his fingers. ‘Mental illness – yes, I'd agree with you. There's not much help available. Doctors aren't that sympathetic, or knowledgeable.'

Elaine nodded vigorously. For several minutes the two Ministers discussed themes and how the monolith of Westminster received opinion might be shifted. A plate of sandwiches covered in cling film arrived with a litre carton of tepid orange juice. Both were hungry; Elaine ate the lettuce and tomato garnish as well. She wiped her fingers and sat back.

‘Well, Anthony, it's a great pleasure to have you in office with me. For the first time since I arrived here I've enjoyed a discussion. Are you specially interested in this subject?'

Her companion drained his glass and without responding immediately gathered up the remains of lunch and removed the tray to a side desk. He paused, hands in pockets, and looked out of the window towards Parliament Square. He was a handsome man, Elaine decided, polite and stolid, though there was a charmless awkwardness about him. He did not seem, to use a phrase common in her daughter's generation, at ease in his skin. She was so intrigued by his manner, with the thought in the back of her mind that this was also one of Karen's closest friends, that she did not realise he had been silent for several minutes.

Anthony gazed at the anonymous mass of people who passed below. Judging by their clothes they were on holiday, mostly, and free from constraints, rules and frustrations other than their next destination, the next meal. Most were contented, yet others would have suffered despite unhappiness as he had. A few, perhaps, knew the meaning of clinical depression; some had this misery yet to come, for themselves or a member of their family. He had a duty to each one. Elaine was right; and she could be trusted.

He returned to his seat and faced her. ‘Yes,' he said simply. ‘I have some personal experience of mental illness.' And so saying he removed his cuff-links, unfastened his watch and rolled up his sleeves a few inches. Then he held out his arms, palms up, fists clenched, towards her.

She saw the bluish marks across the wrists and gasped.

When he was sure she understood he rolled down the sleeves. ‘Nobody knows – my parents do, of course, and our family doctor, but no one in politics. Certainly not the whips, nor anyone at Newbury.' He spoke quietly, a tremble in his voice. ‘It was ages ago – at school. I was being … bullied. Driven crazy. This seemed the easiest way out.'

‘But you've had no trouble since?'

There might have been the slightest hesitation before he shook his head.

‘Then well done. You must have had a terrible time, but you've come through it. And made a huge success of your life.'

Anthony began to demur but she leaned forward and touched his hand. ‘To me that
demonstrates strength of character, not weakness. Your secret is safe, if you wish to keep it a secret – and that might be best. I'm delighted to have you with me.'

‘Wowie!'

Karen climbed out of the Peugeot and ran to the sea wall. The sunlight hit her with full force, but it was welcoming and luxurious. Its heat played at once on her bare shoulders and arms. Before her delighted gaze the great sweep of the bay at La Baule extended for miles to left and right. The sands were dotted with umbrellas, brightly coloured towels and bare torsos. At ten in the morning it was inviting; by three it would be packed.

Behind her Fred in a multi-hued shirt more suited to Hawaii than southern Brittany hauled luggage out of the car. He paused for a moment and looked up, shading his eyes. ‘Not bad,' he conceded. ‘Anthony has taste. And we've got the apartment to ourselves for a week while he's sweltering in London, poor sod.'

‘Lachlan's coming out on Thursday, remember,' Karen corrected him, ‘so we'll have to keep the place tidy.' She relented and came to help.

It had been Anthony's suggestion that the four should stay together for a month of the parliamentary recess. Aware that his resources were greater than theirs, he had taken upon himself the rental of a flat overlooking the sea at a spot in France where he had enjoyed childhood summer holidays. The cost was much the same, he had reasoned, as if he went alone, which he did not relish. The others could contribute for housekeeping and food, and pay their own travel fares.

The large flat was airy and clean. Karen quickly allocated the biggest bedroom to Anthony and took the smallest herself. She stripped off the crumpled clothes in which she had travelled and donned a one-piece swimsuit; then on second thoughts replaced it with a bikini. A T-shirt, shorts and sandals completed the outfit and with a towel, suntan cream, sunglasses, a few francs and a paperback of
A Parliamentary Affair
borrowed from her mother she was ready.

‘C'mon, Fred,' she commanded, ‘if there's a hole in the ozone layer I want to see it. Let's go.'

In a few minutes their rusty French was in action as the two arranged a month's hire of deckchairs and a green canvas beach tent which would provide the sole shade on the baking expanse of sand. Karen ran around squealing with delight at each new discovery. Showers and a café were to hand; visitors were mainly French and English. The place had a natural, friendly air. The type of aggressive German tourist who might have made their lives a misery obviously preferred more glamorous locations.

At last she laid out her towel, tugged off her shorts and pulled the T-shirt over her head. Fred kept his eyes averted and pretended to read the English newspaper he had bought that morning. In the distance a French youth in tattered shorts pushed an ice-cream barrow energetically from one potential customer to the next, yodelling his wares in fractured Franglais. A sea breeze stirred little eddies of sand.

Fred could smell the sun cream as Karen spread it liberally on her thighs. Then the open bottle was thrust under his nose.

‘Would you do my back, please?'

He swallowed hard. This was the moment he had been waiting for – had been dreading. He kept his voice steady.

‘Sure. Turn over.'

Obediently Karen rolled on to her front and pillowed her dark head on her folded arms. Fred squatted down beside her and squeezed a hillock of cream between her shoulder-blades. His fingers tingled; already her skin was hot. With as firm a motion as he could produce he smoothed the cream
along her shoulders and down her spine, massaging the bony ridges to make her giggle. He wondered if she realised he could have done the job a lot more quickly. As he worked she wriggled and sighed in contentment. Her rump, well muscled and firm, reminded him of an audacious landscape – he found himself imagining how it might be to ride up and down those curves and slide deep into the crevices. The faint hairs on her thighs and forearms stirred under his efforts and made him catch his breath.

To finish the task Fred slid his fingers under the back strap of the bikini. With an impatient gesture Karen reached behind, undid the clasp and tucked the ends forwards under her breasts. Shocked, Fred sat back on his heels; it was a second or two before he could start again. He knew that if his hand slipped he would touch that soft whiteness under her armpits. The public beach was not the place. He made one last hesitant pass and patted her as done.

‘Thanks. You're good at it, Fred,' she murmured sleepily. She did not offer to reciprocate. He could not tell whether she was teasing him as she closed her eyes.

He had not expected this chaotic churning in the region of his heart so soon into the holiday. It was agony to be in such close proximity to her young, healthy body, one which he had tried more than once to make love to, and had failed merely through his own crassness. Yet she was too
sweet-natured
to make him deliberately uncomfortable – he could manage that all by himself, simply by gazing under his lashes at the tanning flesh only a few inches from his own.

Karen lay still, apart from her gentle breathing. Fred had a sense that he had been dismissed and that she would not respond if he started a conversation. She was totally in control but, as he squinted up at the sun and realised he had left his sunglasses in the car, it was evident that he was not. Feeling disturbed, yet with the conviction that he ought instead to be enjoying his predicament and might do if he figured out how, he stretched out on his own towel and began to brood.

George Horrocks, however, was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was, he had long recognised, a natural enthusiast and thus a misfit in a world crammed with cynics. He was never happier than when sinking his teeth into a topic, whether at work or at play. Like today, even if only two journalists and local TV had materialised. It was the devil's own game pulling publicity for stunts in August.

It had been the same throughout his life. His army career had been a quiet success because he had immersed himself in it and risen through energy, application and intelligence. Likewise, when he cooked or entertained the results had to be of the highest standard. No half-measures crept into his kitchen. If that meant the postponement of a favourite dish because the right ingredients were not available, he would do so without a qualm: George would never get caught out serving
pêche flambée
with tinned peaches for lack of fresh white-fleshed fruit.