A Parliamentary Affair (20 page)

‘Who is it?’

He spoke his name, quietly, and the door opened to let him in. Nigel had removed the bow-tie and jacket and pulled on a frayed cardigan missing two buttons. In the doorway, alone, he seemed a forlorn figure. In his own way Peter had been fond of Jack Hudd and in Nigel, despite the famous name and bonhomie, he recognised the same aching need. That made the man a sitting duck.

Inside the hall Peter put his bags down and stood expectantly. There was a smell of fresh wine on Nigel’s breath. It had not taken long for him to uncork a bottle and gulp down a glass, for courage. Dutch courage.

One of them had to make the first move. Peter put his hand to Nigel’s face and gently stroked the cheek, rough with an edge of evening stubble. The boy himself scarcely needed to shave, his skin luminous like fine china. Nigel placed his own big hand over the boy’s and, moving it palm upwards to his mouth, kissed it slowly and repeatedly, smelling soap and the leather handle from the suitcase. The boy moved cool fingers to Nigel’s throat, sliding under the shirt, and watched the older man’s pleading gaze, blue eyes urging him to wait. There was plenty of time tonight. Then he raised his other arm and with a single movement entwined his fingers behind Nigel’s neck and slowly pressed his firm young body into the old sweater and soft belly. He pulled Nigel towards him, whispering, until suddenly there it was: a full, passionate embrace, mouth to hot mouth, tongue to searching tongue…

Holding the boy in one arm Nigel leaned over, turned out the hall lamp and slipped the latch down on the front door. Pink light filtered down the staircase. Nigel indicated the direction. When he spoke the words came out hoarse and hungry: ‘Up there.’

Peter nodded and moved to the foot of the stair, his slim silhouette outlined against the light. Then with confident grace he started to undress, there and then. Nigel stood rooted to the spot, sweating hard, compelled and frightened. The boy removed his clothes with concentrated solemnity, keeping his back turned, folded the garments neatly and laid them over the banisters. As he finished he took a step up and turned to face his host.

He was sporting a splendid erection, framed in fragile blond curls, hair which caught the pink light, like spun sugar, like candy-floss in the fairgrounds of his youth. Nigel cried out, a great cry of anguish and longing, as he realised for the first time that the boy was offering whatever he wanted – active or passive, male or female, above or below, oral or anal, or whatever fantasy he fancied:
anything
. He began to tug frantically at his own clothing, his breath coming in short gasps. The boy smiled ethereally and turned again, the light gleaming rose and gold on his shoulders and buttocks, an Adonis, a Persian boy to his Alexander. Slowly, slowly, each tread creaking its unheeded warning, the ghostly figure mounted the stairs. And beckoned him to follow.

‘Why, hello there! It’s just great to meet you!’

Nobody but an American could sound so enthusiastic, so
thrilled
to make one’s acquaintance, Andrew reflected drily as he shook hands with the Honourable Walter Shoesmith III, Ambassador of the United States of America to the Court of Her Britannic Majesty. The effusion might even be sincere. The ambassador was over middle height, loud and a little paunchy. His bald head glistened under the lamps in the tiled hallway of Winfield House, the official residence in Regent’s Park, where he stood with his wife welcoming new Members of the British Parliament and other guests for a Fourth of July supper.

The ambassador’s wife was also in her element. A small, florid woman in an orange silk dress and too much jewellery, Maud Shoesmith had given up her own career to support her husband and had pushed him relentlessly, hoping Walter might stand for the Senate as her father had done and maybe someday for the supreme post of the nation. She reckoned she’d have made a fine First Lady. But Walter Shoesmith had no taste whatever for the political front line, preferring to exercise an influence behind the scenes bolstered by hefty donations – with loyalty rewarded by his surprise appointment not long before. Maud promptly resolved that her husband should make the most of the job once held by President Kennedy’s father. There was always the chance that the glamour and hobnobbing with the great might rub off on Walter IV, currently a lankier, pimplier version of his father.

Cradling a glass of Californian red wine, Andrew moved to one side. The main room was already half full. Freddie Ferriman was holding forth in his capacity as Secretary of the All-Party Parliamentary Group for North Atlantic Trade. That meant he could fly off to the USA or Canada whenever he fancied at the expense of the non-parliamentary affiliated members, mostly companies keen to promote trade with the USA. Freddie bartering with reluctant Congressmen could sometimes be very useful. What it cost the companies was buried in their accounts. All it cost Freddie was a bottle of duty-free perfume to keep Mrs Ferriman happy; and sometimes her fares were paid too. Not a bad life.

Andrew used his height to crane over the room. It might be fun to do a little female watching in such a smartly dressed gathering: nothing serious, but his newly awoken awareness was an increasing and delightful distraction. A trim figure in a bold yellow outfit caught his eye. Elaine Stalker was in the middle of a crowd, blonde hair brushed back and secured with a spangled tortoiseshell comb, chatting merrily. Andrew wistfully envied her that sparkle which made her presence so magnetic. He grasped only too clearly why she did so well, particularly on television. She was a lively, even aggressive speaker – unusual in a woman – with occasional flashes of an originality which, try as he might, always escaped him. Her manipulative use of the vernacular, her Midlands accent and her body language helped make her points instantly understood. All so different from his own unbreakably county vowels and self-effacing dullness.

In such a gathering nobody is left alone long. A young woman staffer approached Andrew, unsure which of several new MPs he might be, asked his name, flashed a toothy smile and firmly steered him towards a suitable group, where a slim man with a wily clever face was listening politely as Freddie Ferriman, glass in hand, held forth on the British economy.

‘I agree it’s not entirely Germany’s fault,’ Freddie was saying sagely. ‘But we went into the ERM too high against the Deutschmark. Our interest rates were tied to yours. And that knocked our businessmen sideways.’

His Excellency Baron Hermann von Richthofen, Ambassador of the Federal German Republic, bowed slightly. He had heard the argument many times before. The weakness of British
business, its inability for years to sell more goods abroad than it purchased, was somebody else’s fault, naturally. All that changed from time to time was the excuse.

‘I think you may find we are all suffering as a result of the weakness of the US dollar,’ he suggested, deftly creating a ‘European’ feel in the group. ‘We too face cheaper imports from dollar areas including Taiwan and Korea. But in Germany we still face enormous problems following reunification.’

Another voice chimed in. Freddie received support from Keith Quin, the stocky little Labour MP for Manchester Canalside. Quin was a bit out of his depth. Despite that, he would issue a press release the following morning based on what he told both Richthofen and Shoesmith, if the latter would ever stop shaking hands long enough to be buttonholed.

‘I always said the government should never have joined the ERM in the first place. I didn’t agree with it at the time. Pity our government has made such a hash of things since.’

Quin pronounced it ‘guvvermun’ and repeated the word like a mantra.

Andrew decided to join in. ‘The sterling crisis was forced on us. Yet every time the British have a choice between modernising industry and debasing their currency, people like you, Keith, prefer the latter.’

The German Ambassador smiled indulgently. When he was a student after the war, one pound sterling bought nearly twelve marks. That morning the rate had been less than 2.50 and falling. He assessed the group. Quin had been a college lecturer in sociology; Freddie had studied Classics in a desultory way at Oxford and had scraped a third; Muncastle had read philosophy and politics. All had struggled and failed with maths; none had ever wrestled with economics. This was the legacy of imperial complacency. It was a fair bet that none of the Englishmen could tell a catalytic condenser from a can of Coke, in a nation which still depended heavily on quality engineering for its economic well-being. No wonder the country was full of Japanese.

Walter Shoesmith, face shining, finished greeting latecomers and clapped his hands to announce supper. With the help of the toothy staffer, Andrew found himself seated American-style, alternating male and female, round a table of ten. Ferriman was on the opposite side and gave an encouraging wave. To Andrew’s right sat a pretty Chinese woman; her husband next; then Elaine Stalker, still chatting animatedly. He wondered if she ever stopped – it must annoy her husband sometimes. At least Tessa was quiet. Perhaps that was why Mr Stalker was seldom in attendance.

The chair on his left was empty and he looked around with curiosity, then peeped at the name card. Ms Jamieson, it said. The name rang a loud bell and his heart jumped as he pictured the woman journalist on the Commons terrace. He had never contacted her afterwards, though she had dropped the hint and called him once. The summer recess had intervened and three months later he was too busy, and emotionally still distracted by Tessa. With a jolt he realised it was almost a year since.

Miranda Jamieson: how splendid! His for the next hour, if she turned up. Quickly Andrew straightened his tie, checked the handkerchief in his breast pocket and wished he had worn aftershave. A little innocent dalliance with that lady might make the evening vastly more enjoyable.

‘I’m Miranda Jamieson, hi.’

There she was: he scraped back his chair in welcome.

‘Andrew Muncastle MP. We have met – do you remember? I was trying to recall which paper you work for, Miranda.’

What a striking woman. Deep red lipstick, and lots of it. Dark glossy hair lightly grazed her shoulders. His eyes strayed to her tanned breasts, which, he noticed, were heavily freckled. She wore a tight lacy black body-stocking and a black velvet skirt with a gold belt and a sequinned jacket. Her legs were bare. The overall effect was stunning.

‘I’m with
The Globe
. Deputy editor, these days.’ Miranda had noted the methodical nature of his rapid once-over. There was no harm in returning it; perhaps this time he would not run from her
like a frightened rabbit. A year in Parliament might have matured him. An undistinguished grey suit, light-blue shirt, modestly flowered tie. Face clean-shaven, trim-jawed, clear blue eyes. Tall, not thin, not well built either; looked athletic – cricket, at a guess. Less forward than most of her escorts. More polite by half. Made her feel safe. Almost.

‘I never know what to wear at events like this,’ she confided, trying to blush. ‘If you dress too upmarket the hostess gets annoyed; too casual and the other women guests who’ve taken a lot of trouble go spare. Difficult, isn’t it?’

Miranda certainly outshone the other women in the vicinity and was the recipient of cold disapproval from the Chinese lady. Elaine was sufficiently self-confident and good-looking in her own right not to care. He was remembering now: Elaine had been cross with Roger Dickson that day, thinking Miranda was his girlfriend. Perhaps she was; they had all become a lot less innocent since those early days. To his acute embarrassment Andrew caught Elaine watching him. She winked conspiratorially as if wishing him luck, and returned to her own conversation.

‘I think you look very nice, Miss Jamieson,’ Andrew offered gravely. He raised his glass in salute and it was immediately refilled by an attentive waiter. He had always resisted attempts to tutor him in how to chat women up, recoiling instinctively from that game; now he wished he had taken more notice.

She threw back her head and chortled. ‘My, you sound just like the Prime Minister. Is that style catching?’

He inclined his head. ‘I’m a supporter of the Prime Minister, you know, so I think I’ll take that as a compliment. I hope you’ll accept my remark in the same way.’

Miranda considered his buttoned-up manner: it might be interesting to find out more. With a grin she acknowledged him. Immediately he had the sense of being admitted to a charmed circle.

Etiquette required that Andrew divide his time between the ladies on each side. It was easiest to allocate them one course each. So Miranda received Andrew’s engrossed attention during a peppery clam chowder, which made him thirsty, while she chatted about seafood and argued about the chances of a woman ever becoming Prime Minister of Australia. To his right Mrs Lin also turned out to be more than merely decorative. Andrew felt almost deferential as he learned she was a Member of Hong Kong’s Legislative Council, virtually an MP in her own right. Half flirting, half seriously pumping her for information and practising his new-found worldliness, he found the lady an engaging conversationalist through the tournedos, French-style in cooking but American in size, which quickly defeated her tiny appetite. Sandwiched between two beautiful, wordly-wise, non-European women, both so different to his wife, Andrew Muncastle was becoming deeply conscious of more than his lack of travel experience.

By the time an enormous slice of pumpkin pie arrived, Andrew had drunk several glasses of wine and was feeling full and happy and a little careless. Miranda Jamieson’s powerful presence a foot away was making it hard to concentrate. Looking across the table to where Ferriman was equally deep in conversation with an attractive young American, Andrew suddenly glimpsed how and why so many colleagues played around. Miranda, Mrs Lin, that American junior diplomat opposite – all were graduates, all ambitious, all eager to please, to entertain, to learn, to make a big impression, on a man’s level, in a man’s world. Only briefly at university had he come across such a dazzling collection. He was reasonably sure it was not just the wine addling his brain. Had Tessa been here she would have commented sarcastically on the woman flaunting her body so blatantly. Had Tessa been there the talk would have turned to children and school holidays; but Tessa was not there and none of these women, he realised with a slight shock, had children or any comparable preoccupations.

Miranda wasn’t married, he had established that. Guiltily he caught himself wondering if she had a regular boyfriend. She had not mentioned Dickson at all, so probably he could be discounted. Some other journalist, probably: her world was as incestuous as his own.

Women without children were a different breed, especially if they were young and lovely and smart. Andrew hesitated, then considered why, and how. There were no distractions; no energy dissipated changing nappies, fetching to and from school, sewing on name-tapes, doling out pocket money and going without to save for school fees; no attendance at parents’ evenings and prize-givings, no tearful examination days or post-mortems, no anxiety over chickenpox or whether that headache knight be meningitis or if the kids were safe on their bikes. Such women had time to read serious newspapers and
The Economist
and
L’Express
and
Die Welt
, and good novels and the latest literary biography; time for the theatre and art galleries and cinema, and not only Walt Disney. Their bodies, too, were more under their control, with time and money to work out or have a massage or play tennis or go skiing – no sagging breasts or stretch marks, no Caesarean scars; no miscarriages. Abortions, maybe, as the punishment for carelessness, but early abortions left no scars. Their money could be spent on themselves – no wisps of hair turning grey, no spreading girth, no fingernails broken from weeding. Women without children – provided singleness was a matter of choice, not of anguish – looked and smelt and sounded different. To Andrew they did, at least. Most of all, if it were their intention, such women could make the man of their choice feel truly special.

It was time for coffee. The ambassador’s guests had polished off several cases of Opus One from Robert Mondavi, king of the Napa wine industry, and the atmosphere was noisy and jolly. Among them Andrew was slowly losing his shyness. Clearly well in with at least two handsome women at his table, he was earning envious glances from other men nearby.

Andrew left Mrs Lin supporting her husband in heated discussion with Elaine, and turned his whole being over to Miranda. The wine had brought a soft pink flush to her skin. He could almost feel her body moving under her clothes. A renewed urge to touch her forced itself into his consciousness.

‘You’re young to be deputy editor of a big paper, aren’t you?’

‘Not really. I’m nearly twenty-nine. People get promoted fast in journalism and I’m almost ancient compared with some. How old are you? Forgive my asking, but had I known I was sitting next to you I’d have looked you up in
Who’s Who
.’