A Woman's Place (13 page)

Harriet had gone on to marry well and produce infants of her own in Hertfordshire. The two siblings retained the closest affection for one another, but in truth most of Anthony's favourite memories were of moments of solitude. It might have helped had there been a brother, or boy cousins or other boys nearby, though he doubted he would have been entirely at ease in a gang of any kind. Instead he could picture in his mind's eye the grave child and youth he was then, content with his own company.

That tendency to solitude had made it harder in adult years to establish a social life. There had been some talk of a skiing holiday, but when he had phoned a few old pals from Christ Church everybody had made excuses – except one who declared himself a committed admirer of Tony Blair and threatened jocularly to spend the entire vacation putting Anthony right. He tried his old address book for people he had known in the bank but with as little success. He had forgotten how many were now married or in firm partnerships. Some had started to produce offspring they were required to show off to proud grandparents, ‘particularly at Christmas'. Two couples, together for years, had
already split up. One girl alone like himself was much too eager to accept; another old acquaintance, a man, was more than pleased to go abroad, preferably at Anthony's expense, in order to escape the depredations of the Child Support Agency.

Anthony was surprised. The perspective created by his erstwhile friends troubled him. Clearly, by contrast, his own needs had not moved on much in the last ten years. Perhaps it was time to take matters in hand, and think seriously about finding a girlfriend and settling down.

He pushed to one side the chilly muddle of the British Rail pre-wrapped sandwich. She would have to be suitable, certainly: a Member of Parliament needed a wife, and that wife must possess certain qualities. However much in love he might fall, Anthony knew he would assess the object of his desire against a subconscious checklist. Not that he had ever been in love – except for a crush on a prefect at school, which had ended with rough embraces in a study with the door locked. He could still recall his puzzled shock when the young man had taken off his shirt and invited him closer. The events of that evening had gone violently against both his principles and his instincts and the love had vanished on the spot, leaving him bereft and miserable. That sort of thing, clandestine or otherwise, was absolutely not for him.

So marry he could, and would. But what should she be like, his choice? If he could determine that with any clarity, the search could start.

Appearance first, though common sense dictated that that mattered the least. He could not readily see himself with a girl with top-model looks. Any element of competition was unwelcome. And probably she'd have to be British. An English rose, then.

What about her dress style? Any woman willing to adopt the role of an MP's wife would need to be natural in the style expected. Suits were not
de rigueur
as for women MPs, but skirts shouldn't be too short nor sweaters too tight. Not over-modish, either. What was fine for Battersea, where sophistication was sported like a badge, was definitely not OK for constituents at Newbury or family events in Cheltenham. Her clothes should have British labels. Quality fabric in clear but not bold colours. Beige, mostly, with real pearls. Jaeger or Alexon.

With a start he realised this image suggested a woman his own age or even older. Ah, that would not do. A woman in her thirties and never married would have her own career which she might be reluctant to abandon. Anthony had no intention of playing second fiddle to anybody or anything else.

That his wife might have an interest to pursue, preferably unpaid and uncontroversial, was just about acceptable, but it would be better if the future Mrs York did not work at all. She would have to engage herself in the constituency: that would mean a constant round of fundraising events, lunches, church and charity and garden fetes. Some she would have to organise and at many she would have to deputise for him. Career girls on several times his parliamentary salary would hardly find the prospect attractive.

Another worry with a woman his own age occurred to him. She might be a divorcée; she might have another man's children. Anthony brooded. It was too much these days to expect a bride to be a virgin on her wedding night, but nevertheless the thought of his future spouse having cavorted with any other man filled him with distaste. If she'd had a bad time he would be sympathetic and protective, but he could not feel happy with the idea that every time their names appeared in gossip columns, as was inevitable, her previous liaison would be trotted out. As for pre-existing children, with the best will in the world he could not see himself as a stepfather. In his generation (and for many MPs) complicated parenthood was becoming the norm. For himself it was firmly to be avoided.

So a young girl it would have to be. One unspoiled, but sufficiently cultured to be a partner, kind enough to become a genuine support and helpmeet, and docile enough to put him first, always.

His face in the window gazed sternly back at him. How very selfish he was. Wasn't this cogitation similar to the cold calculations of Prince Charles when he picked out Diana? That hadn't
worked out at all. Ah, answered Anthony, but I have no Camilla, no great love whom I should have married when I had the chance. In fact I don't love anybody, and never have, so that's not a difficulty.

As for coldness, here Anthony struggled. Of course he was looking for warm emotional ties. But given the horrors of parliamentary spousehood it would be madness, indeed cruelty, to persuade the wrong woman to marry him. Not to mention the damage a public disaster could do to his career and prospects.

It might be worth discussing the matter with his father, though Anthony suspected that, at least in the docility stakes, his mother did not qualify. Their partnership had lasted nearly forty years. Maybe it would be more fun to be challenged by a livelier character: Anthony reckoned that his identikit wife, should he locate her with the attributes so far ticked off in his head, might be a little dull. Better that, though, than a spirit so bright it would be broken by the demands of the job.

The train began to slow as it approached the station. He rose and pulled down his coat and bag. His mind felt marginally clearer. Yet one matter he had resolutely excluded from his musings, for he had no idea how to approach it.

Marriage meant sex, whichever way you looked at it. Anthony took a deep breath and confronted his ignorance. What would she be like? What would she expect? Did all today's young women demand sexual athletes? Would he be able to satisfy her, or would a partnership made in heaven and entirely perfect for his political and personal needs founder in bed?

The train had ground to a halt. He was glad there was no more time to think about it. It was hardly a matter, he concluded grimly, he could discuss with anyone else.

Once back at her new house in the heart of Epping Forest Pramila Bhadeshia parked her BMW, walked quickly once round the garden and spoke sharply to the Irish head gardener about work left undone. With a toss of the head she decided not to leave him a Christmas box. But as she returned up the gravel drive she reflected that despite her current anxieties about her husband's safety she had a great deal to be thankful for.

Not many husbands would have so readily agreed to buy this mansion. Indeed he had taken some persuasion and had complained vociferously about the size of the mortgage. But she had had no choice. Hendon had become drab and common. It was difficult to park at Brent Cross shopping centre, which was terribly downmarket. Essex was far smarter. At Lakeside she could indulge herself to her heart's content.

And it had to be admitted that the house, with its grand rooms and chandeliers and
gold-trimmed
ceilings, was
gorgeous.
All her friends said so. The children had been stunned into silence, and even her mother had at last stopped muttering about how much wiser Pramila would have been to marry Nazmudin, who had been so charming and wealthy.

For a kindly fate had determined that Jayanti had turned out reliable and good-natured as well as hugely successful. He was, in addition, willing to let her dabble in the business, which enabled her to keep an eye on him. Not that she had ever seen him as a philanderer: it was not in Jayanti's nature. But she suspected that, left entirely to his own devices, her husband might have been full of great business ideas never costed or followed up. Faced with opposition he might have given way a little too easily – many men did. Nothing was more cut-throat than the commercial retail world now dominated by the Bhadeshias and other Asians, so much more hard-working than the lower-class Englishmen whom they had replaced. But that left no room for weakness. How fortunate that it needed only one sharp glance from Pramila and a tilt of her head to strengthen her husband's resolve.

The result was an entirely happy partnership which suited them both. Jayanti took great pride in making the money and receiving the credit due, and Pramila as proudly spent it. Her domestic role meant she kept the family on an even keel and insisted on the maintenance of the highest standards, both British and Indian. All that was still lacking was the recognition, the national labelling of her
husband as a success and as the very model of a modern British Asian. That grated; he deserved some reward, especially now she had hers.

The clash of pans and raised voices from the kitchen indicated that her mother and sister were fighting once more with the cook. It might be better to skirt well clear of their territory. That evening she would have to be effusive in her praise of each morsel for fear of upsetting either relative. The cook didn't matter.

The in-tray in her small office would keep her busy for an hour or two. It might be wise to flick through the mail, Jayanti's included, in case anything was urgent.

She hesitated at the item marked ‘Confidential' and turned it over cautiously. It was a long white envelope in fine-quality paper. On the back was a crest. Short-sighted, she peered for a moment, then with a reluctant sigh perched her spectacles on her nose and looked closer.

A red crest in an oval circle. A horse – no, a unicorn and a lion. Crowned. Small, neat lettering. With a gasp she let the envelope drop as if it had burned her fingers. ‘Prime Minister', it said.
A letter from the Prime Minister
!

This was too important to await her husband's return, and too precious to be entrusted to the vagaries of the post. He would understand. She would have to open it.

With trembling fingers she reached for the letter-opener with the crystal handle she had given to her husband on their tenth anniversary. Pulse racing, she slid the knife blade under the lip of the envelope and squealed in delight as it opened without a tear. Everything, including the envelope, would be kept for posterity.

A moment later the kitchen door crashed open and Pramila stood swaying on the threshold, clutching a piece of paper in her hand and yelling as if all the devils had got her. The three women inside stopped scratching at each other and stood stock-still in astonishment. A large pan of soup hissed unconcerned, then started to boil over. Everyone ignored it. Even the cook, tiny, illiterate and cunning, was mesmerised by the sight of her mistress, usually so glacial, in a state of terminal madness.

At last Pramila made them understand. ‘Jayanti! He has an invitation – from the Prime Minister! He's to go to lunch there, next month. Downing Street! Oh, my goodness. He will have to get a new suit – I must ring his tailor. And shirts – where's the phone book? And shoes – and I will buy him a tie-pin, a diamond, bigger than the one he has now. It says he is invited “in recognition of his donations to charities and his standing in the community”. My goodness: my Jayanti! Oh, I must sit down…'

But she did not sit, and instead danced round the steamy kitchen, hugged everyone in sight, ran outside and told the gardener and gave him £25 and the rest of December off, scurried over to neighbours and boasted to them, accepted several unaccustomed drinks and at last had to be rescued by her mother, apologetic and tiddly, still holding the letter to her bosom as if it were her very life.

She had run out of excuses. Boxing Day might be a bank holiday but the paperwork had to be done: the post office would call in the morning. Elaine carried the ministerial boxes into her study, fetched a bottle of wine and a glass and set to work.

‘I should be most grateful if, before PS leaves, she could glance through Professor Sims's preliminary report and agree that it can be published during the recess.' The note was initialled ‘MRPC' – that would be Martin Chadwick – and gave his telephone extension number.

Not that Chadwick would be around during the holidays. Somewhere Nordic was his destination, to make contact with opposite numbers in Helsinki and Stockholm, so that he could return to demonstrate his knowledge of the health systems of Britain's new European Union partners.

No doubt he would try the skiing and smorgasbord at the same time. Nor was there any question who was to do the work meantime. ‘PS' meant herself – the
Parliamentary Under-Secretary. The common shortening to ‘PS' made her feel an unnecessary and forlorn postscript. Quite deliberately she had ignored Chadwick's demand and stuffed the script into her bag to be dealt with after Christmas, and not before.

At least she could study the thing properly and tranquilly at home. She poured herself a drink and settled with the box – black for a PS, not red – on the sofa.

Professor Sims's analysis of the pattern of homicides in England and Wales committed by mentally ill people was important stuff. Given that ‘mental health' had appeared unbidden by her name in the list of ministerial responsibilities, she should read it thoroughly.

Half an hour and half a bottle of wine later, Elaine was deeply worried. The short report needed more than publication – it needed action, but it was not at all clear what she should do.