A Woman's Place (54 page)

To his wife he owed something akin to the truth. He sensed that she knew anyway. Perhaps she had always known. He put his arm around her and kissed her softly on the cheek.

‘Yes, she was lovely,' he whispered. ‘But she's gone. There is nothing for you to worry about. Tomorrow I have to replace her. Any ideas?'

It had been the utmost in grand modernity. At its opening in May 1906 a double room with private bath cost thirty shillings a night and servants' quarters six shillings. Its proprietor was the first to put a jug of iced water on each table for his American clientele without being asked, the first anywhere to offer a bathroom en suite with each bedroom. It was and remains a masterpiece: the arcaded façade is a copy of the Rue de Rivoli, while the interior with its gilded acanthus leaves entwined over every column, its Carrara marble fireplaces and glittering chandeliers is as fine a celebration of Louis XVI as anything the French court contrived. And all in the heart of central London.

As Karen climbed the four steps of the Ritz's Piccadilly entrance the hotel seemed to her the height of vulgarity. That the original backers (according to the leaflet she picked up in the foyer) were the Blackpool Building and Vendor Company Limited seemed entirely appropriate. She strolled through the main lobby and halted before a sculpture of Neptune with a water nymph. The god's triton was carried at a provocative angle while the lady writhed enticingly around an open oyster shell. The blatant imagery made the girl smile.

Yet perhaps Neptune's avid expression was a warning. In an hour or so she could expect a similar ogle on the moustached face of one of England's top tabloid journalists.

She did not want to meet Jim Betts, but he had pursued her with a persistence which had made her falter. He had suggested dinner at the grandest locations, day trips to the coast, even to Paris on Eurostar. Eventually he had hinted over the phone that he was aware that the house in Battersea contained only half its previous occupants; that, he had continued, implied she was living alone with Mr Fred Laidlaw MP, a young man of impeccable credentials, who was carving out a splendid new career in her mother's old department. Betts announced as well that he had been asked to write an
in-depth
article about her mother. There were unanswered questions, too, about Mr Anthony York. Now, was she going to co-operate or not?

The tone of his remarks had sickened her. That Betts knew less than he implied was likely; that he would invent what he didn't know, even more so. He was keen to dish the dirt on any MP, indeed any public figure, for that was his chosen role. Through Karen he had a link, with several. Her mother had gone into hiding, so she was an obvious target. Betts had also made it clear that he wanted her for herself: probably in part because she had resisted him so far, and that he found irresistible.

The moment had come to accept, however reluctantly, his offer of dinner. The encounter would present a unique opportunity. She could find out what he had obtained or believed about Fred, and put him to rights about their relationship. She wondered if ‘just good friends' sounded convincing. She could confirm the good character of Anthony – his decency, his integrity – and counter any speculation to the contrary. And she could mount a fierce defence of her mother.

The worry surfaced that she was being naive. Years of experience had taught her never, ever, to trust the press. Yet should she turn her back entirely the
Globe
would print whatever rubbish it fancied. She had a duty to perform.

Wistfully she traced her finger down the triton. One more deep-seated fear remained. Her previous sexual encounter with Betts years before had been an occasion of too much trust combined with excess alcohol which had ended in disaster. He had snapped: the result had been violent. Her total reticence on the subject since had been the price of Betts's own silence on her mother's affair with Roger Dickson. Had he ever written a word, she would have shopped him. And, though she could look the man in the eye, still he terrified her. Betts, and that memory of him, were devils yet to be exorcised.

Neptune appeared to wink at her. She would have to be careful.

The Ritz and its glories had provoked similarly mixed reactions in the breast of another guest who had
passed her unnoticed and taken a seat at a table under a potted palm.

Varun Bhadeshia was a year or so younger than Karen. He did not have her advantage of university education, but like her was aware of the powers of the press, especially when directed at a parent in the public eye whose behaviour had been less than impeccable.

It was no coincidence that his particular hatred was also reserved for the same person, Jim Betts of the
Globe
. There were others, of course; but Betts was the best known, acknowledged as the hard man of the tabloids, the one who would defend his profession against all critics with vigour and a total lack of concern for the feelings of those he hounded, and then go out and do it again. The journalist's photo, cigarette defiantly to hand, adorned most of his output these days; his byline on a front page would guarantee a surge of sales. If ever the chance presented itself, however, Varun Bhadeshia would willingly confront the man who had in his view ruined his family.

Varun squared his shoulders. He had taken some care with his appearance; the dark suit fitted comfortably on his solid figure. His father had once in an intimate moment touched the boy's cheek and murmured that his good looks came from his mother. The thought of his parents, now so far away and in such disgrace, made him ache. That trouble about the share purchase was behind him: because of his age it had been decided not to prosecute Varun. For him, however, the sense of loss over the collapse of the business was the more acute, since while it existed his father had demonstrated a confidence in him which he had cherished, and which held out the promise of their working closely together in future. None of that could happen now.

Instead he had to earn a living. Discreet inquiries in the community had drawn something of a blank; it dawned on Varun that outside his immediate family his father's blatant courting of the Conservatives and what amounted to his purchase of a peerage was frowned upon. Thus it was with some trepidation that the youngster had approached the chairman of a shipping broker's, a portly man never seen without a cigar, who had an office in Piccadilly and was known as an active supporter of the Labour Party. The reaction, a prompt invitation to a drink at the Ritz, had surprised Varun but it made sense. He had accepted with alacrity and was half an hour early for the appointment.

He ordered a lager and sat quietly, rehearsing in his mind his credentials and his eagerness to satisfy a potential employer. Then, more relaxed, he began to take an interest in his surroundings.

Had Karen glanced from the draped windows of the Ritz through the early-evening sunshine towards Green Park, she might have spotted a man she would recognise – perhaps more than one, though she would have been hard put to recall exactly where she had met the second. But both men knew her.

George Horrocks wrapped his coat closer. A morning at the Prima office, an extended lunch, a couple of hours at the latest Royal Academy exhibition – all had failed to raise his spirits. The breeze which drifted up from the distant lake reminded him that it was not yet summer, despite the camellias and the showy blossom on the cherry trees. In normal circumstances he would not have allowed himself to feel chilled, but would simply have shrugged and prided himself on health of mind and body. But a bare week after Elaine's resignation he did not feel normal at all; he felt devastated.

He wanted to rage at the world, to stop passers-by and harangue them, to extol her virtues and express his pent-up fury that such a stupid matter could have cut her career so short, so abruptly.

Betty had refused, gently, to help. Much as she loved her brother-in-law her first concern was her MP. She explained Elaine wanted to see no one, not even him. Unable to make contact, since her answering machine was taking all the calls in both London and Warmingshire, he had repaired to his club and sought out whatever company he could find. He wasn't bothered that gossips might link his name with hers: it was on record that he was her escort, one of her inner circle, in so far as she had one.

He saw better than most how wide of the mark was much of the public perception of her. The tabloids had had a field day, crowing about her fall and only later bemoaning the loss of one of
politics' most attractive personalities. She was described in one broadsheet paper as ‘unclubbable'. George knew this to be a bad joke. Elaine was not eligible to join many of the clubs which were home to the cabals and intriguers at the heart of both Tory Party and government: she was a woman. In any case, long evenings dining with cronies dishing the dirt on her honourable friends was not Elaine's style.

George's view that politics was a dreadful way to earn a living had been confirmed by everything that had happened to Elaine. It must be hardest, he realised, on those like her who lived alone. George suddenly realised why family life mattered to so many male MPs. To have somebody supportive at home must be a great joy. Only a devoted wife with limited ambitions of her own would wait docilely for a long-delayed husband and accept his excuses of three-line whips, abstainers and late defections. For outsiders it was a complete enigma, but George could begin to understand. The women believed in their husbands and would win in the end. Long after temptation had faded, the intact pair would enjoy each other's company, bask in the affection of offspring and friends and share comfort for aspirations unfulfilled and mountains never climbed. Both partners benefited.

On the other hand, a lover, male or female, could easily become frustrated by juggled diaries. Why had a date been cancelled, or what could possibly be more important than dinner for two at Simply Nico's? A lover might not hang around for an explanation. The exceptions were those women who dreamed of displacing the MP's wife and becoming wives in their turn. For a few, ambition would be fulfilled; but, for the majority, to be strung along for years and then discarded was the fate which awaited them, and most knew it.

How different was married life from an affair – as different as could be. George began to brood deeply. He walked head down along the pathway between the giant plane trees, the sole species which could thrive in London's polluted atmosphere. Their bark was peeling as it did every spring: large pieces of blackened fibre fell away from the trunks revealing pale green membranes already turning khaki, which would stiffen and darken with age. He ran a hand over his head and was troubled to find stray hairs in his palm. He could not recall a moment before when he had been quite so conscious of the passage of time.

His proposal to Elaine had been bungled, he could see that now. He had not prepared her. Nor had he taken his own offer seriously enough: it had been made almost in a casual way and she had been right to refuse him. How arrogant of him to assume that she would just fall into his arms. He cursed himself roundly.

His mind ran over her response. She was not sure she was cut out to be a wife, she had whispered, and cited the failure of her marriage. The proof of that, he supposed, was that her
ex-husband
had promptly found a replacement. Elaine had declared herself to be ‘certainly not the conventional kind' of wife. He could not argue with that.

With a wrench he also saw that he had wanted to marry her because he hoped to own her, as if she were a wonderful piece of furniture. To see her every day, her golden hair spread out next to him first thing in the morning. To have breakfast at her side – to hand her her coffee, to order two different newspapers so they didn't fight over them, to indulge her preference of radio programme in the morning while he chose the late viewing. To share treats with her: the theatre, a film, a stroll in the park, an ice-cream on a hot day. To roll her over, his hand on her firm rump, and slide his fingers down in the warmth, seeking her and making her laugh and lift into his embrace. Ah, yes. Together. For ever. That would have suited him very well.

What he had not considered, not for a moment, was what Elaine would get in return. To convince her would require him to conduct himself in another fashion entirely. He would have to get inside her mind and soul and work out what it was
she
needed.

He was close to the road. To his left sat the squat pile of Lancaster House; the sound of chatter floated through open windows. Another government-sponsored jolly. To his right Buckingham
Palace loomed like a forgotten wedding cake, the upper tiers missing, its fluted architraves slightly grubby as from a thousand fingerings. The Mall, shady and calm, beckoned to his left. It would soon be dusk.

He had ambled this far with no deliberate purpose other than a desire for fresh air, but perhaps his subconscious had been active nevertheless. If he continued across Birdcage Walk, past Wellington Barracks and the Guards Museum he would be in striking distance of Elaine's flat.

Her name was last week's news already. The press rat-pack would have thinned out. There was always other quarry. Maybe she would be home. He could leave a message as he had tried to do several times. He could even emulate the pressmen and camp out, hoping to catch her. A three-line whip was anticipated that night at ten o'clock – speculation had been rife over the narrowness of the government's majority. So if she were home she would have to emerge eventually, or return later. He was determined to talk to her.

It was desperately important that she should know that somebody still loved her. And he did, very much.

The second, shabbier man in the park had come to much the same conclusion.

Elaine was not to be found in her house in the country: he had travelled there. The property had a desolate air. Newspapers lay uncollected on the step. The letter-box was stuffed with post made limp by overnight rain. In the window stood an abandoned vase of tulips, their stems drooping, brown-tinged petals fallen on the window-ledge. A young policeman was on duty at the gate. He had not liked to speak to him. Boredom might have driven the officer to ask awkward questions.