A Woman's Place (21 page)

Elaine laughed and pointed. ‘You've got a bump coming on your forehead. You all right?'

Ruefully George rubbed it. ‘Ouch! So I have. You've caught me at sixes and sevens. Now don't stand there, come in, come in.'

She entered and slipped off her coat, noting the glance of approbation he gave her blue silk dress which clung and swirled and hinted at the body underneath. Her blonde hair shone and was set off by big pearl earrings. As she handed over the bottle of Vouvray she had brought she gazed around appreciatively.

‘Smells wonderful. I hope you haven't gone to a lot of trouble.'

‘Of course I have. You'd have been offended if I'd offered a simple cheese sandwich. I could have taken you out but I figured you wouldn't mind my efforts. I hope you enjoy them.'

I wish, thought Elaine fleetingly, as she allowed George to fuss over her, I wish my husband had done this just once in the fifteen years we were together. It was above all the knowledge that Mike had resented her career, and expected no more (and no less) of her than cooked dinners on demand in a whistle-clean house that had caused the marriage to disintegrate.

Soon the two were seated and tucking in. Tiredness was forgotten as wine was poured and food served; the sink filled up steadily. The soup was a great success and required a detailed explanation. Then, as she ate the last of the succulent lamb, Elaine paused and laughed out loud.

‘You're a marvel. I can't tell you how good that was.'

He watched her shrewdly. ‘You certainly look more relaxed than when you arrived. “Peaky” is the word I'd use.'

She picked at the remains of a lettuce leaf and shrugged.

‘Ministerial life not quite what you expected?'

‘That about sums it up. Can I bore you for a minute while I think aloud, George?'

‘Go ahead.'

‘Well…' she paused, considering. ‘There is definitely a downside to it. Everybody thinks politics is such a fabulous life. They don't see the frustrations, which aren't what you might think. For example people ask about the pressure but that doesn't bother me. To be totally honest, stress suits me fine and I'd never get a thing done without it. Nor do I mind now being in the public eye. It distressed me to begin with but you get used to it, get hardened. And that's part of my worry – I
am
getting hard. Those aspects of my public image I don't like are becoming truer every minute.'

‘I don't see it like that – you're a thoroughly nice woman underneath, Elaine.'

She grimaced. ‘Thanks, but that's precisely the point.
You
know me in private; others don't. I don't want to be what my image has become, but I've lost control of it. If you'd said that to the world at large, no one would have believed you; indeed, it's essential to be seen as tough and thick-skinned, for the moment the press reckon a Minister's vulnerable they're in for the kill. Only the good guys bleed, didn't you know that?'

George removed their plates and refilled her glass. ‘What I know is that nobody ever resigns these days. If Ministers won't take the blame for what happens in their departments, how can they preach responsibility to the rest of us?'

Elaine pondered. ‘I don't think that's quite fair. So many hands are tied. Ministers are no longer in charge, though we're loath to admit it. There's Brussels on the one side and quangos on the other – agencies headed up by anonymous men who earn a lot more than I do. Decisions are taken by others but the government is held to account. My task tends to be to carry the can when things go wrong. No wonder some MPs don't want the job.'

George put down his glass and leaned over the table to take her hand. Absent-mindedly she let him stroke it, and continued in a low voice.

‘In theory I'm rewarded with the excitement of an inside view – and it is exciting – but that
implies a favoured-observer role, which wouldn't be enough for me. If I behave, promotion might come – I do accept that I have a lot to learn yet. What is also supposed to materialise is the chance to influence policy. Unfortunately that doesn't appear to be happening.' Sombrely she recounted to George her run-in with Bampton.

‘What about the other chap – Harrison? He seems a good sort.'

‘You think so? Well, he's not terribly helpful. I dropped hints to his office that some of the invitations being channelled my way were more appropriate for him. He had a fit and stormed around saying he wasn't taking my leftovers.'

She looked up and to his consternation George saw that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I feel I'm losing control – of how other people see me, of how I spend my time, of how to make a worthwhile impact. Whatever I suggest is pooh-poohed by Derek or Ted. I'm too weary to fight back, and don't know how. I've never before felt so professionally isolated or undermined. The only bit of policy I'm exclusively in charge of is mental illness, and that's because no one else wants it! I am starting to doubt my own judgement – that's never happened before, and it scares me.'

Her face was so doleful that any thought of levity was banished from George's mind. He rose and moved to her side of the table, raised her to her feet and folded her into his arms. For a long moment he held her, as he had on New Year's Eve, and stroked her hair. His own heart was beating fast: he lifted her face, wiped away the hot little tears with his thumbs and kissed her softly until the spasm passed.

‘We haven't had dessert yet!' Elaine protested, laughing. ‘I bet you've made something wonderful. What is it?'

‘That's better,' George murmured approvingly. Then, as he released her: ‘It's my version of tiramisu – Italian trifle with marsala – with two sauces, chocolate and vanilla.'

Elaine followed him into the kitchen and watched as he placed the sliced cake, plates, small white jugs of sauce, spoons and the rest of the wine on a tray.

‘Enough of the formalities,' he said. “Time to eat somewhere more comfortable.'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Upstairs?'

‘Certainly. Up you go.'

‘Yes, sergeant-major!'

‘I was a colonel, and don't you forget it.'

And there he spooned her pudding as she sat, then leaned back on the bed; the alcoholic sweetness lingered on her tongue, and was shared with him, and she ran her finger over her lips and asked for more. In answer he put the dishes to one side, reached up and removed her earrings. Deftly he unbuttoned her dress down the front, slipped a hand inside, found her breast and caressed it. Then she pulled the dress up over her head and unfastened her bra as he allowed himself to touch and linger, and feed her a little more.

‘I think it would be wonderful if you would take the rest of those pretty undergarments off, and roll over on to your front,' George ordered.

Elaine, amused and relaxed, obliged. Quick rustling sounds behind her suggested that he was no longer clothed either, but there would be plenty of time to see. She stretched out, her head pillowed on her folded arms, and closed her eyes.

Then he began. Starting at her neck his strong hands proceeded to massage the tired muscles, kneading and pressing, shifting knots and stiffness, over her shoulders, touching the sides of her breasts with his fingers, lightly, down on each side of the slim waist and firm hips, caressing and rolling, as she began to move with the rhythm. As his hands came to the cleft of her buttocks and then to her thighs she moaned and raised her hips to him.

‘That's marvellous, George. Don't stop.'

‘Not yet. We need some massage cream,' he told her and reached across for a half-full jug.
‘This may be a bit cold. Don't wriggle or you'll make a mess.'

She felt the trickle of chocolate cream between her shoulder blades, and opened one startled eye to see a naked George, a wide grin on his face and clearly ready for her, dribble the dark stream right down her spine, making her gasp. With the edge of his thumbs, which had wiped away her tears a few moments before, he drew circles on her skin. Then he parted her legs and knelt between them, leaned over her back and gently, thoroughly, starting once more at the nape of her neck, licked it all off.

Only this time, when he reached the base of her spine, his fingers continued and slipped inside her, while his other hand slid around under her waist and lifted her up; and so he entered her from behind, deeply, and she arched her back and they drew together, flesh to flesh, warm and sticky and sweet and loving. She whimpered: she felt full, engorged. He grasped her haunches tight and pulled her into him to make her rear up, and seized her breasts, so that he could nuzzle her neck as a lion does his lioness. Then he became more urgent and she went down and grabbed a pillow and balanced on all fours to brace herself against his strength, shuddering as he drove home. She felt him thrust far inside her, again and again, until at last a great cry came from him. For a moment he held her, both gulping for breath. Then he slackened, not leaving her, but let her down inch by inch until she lay prone. Still panting he covered her entirely, from head to foot, with his own warm body.

She shifted: he was surprisingly heavy for such a trim man.

‘If you don't move soon, George, I'll suffocate,' she whispered. ‘What a way to dine! Did you have this in mind when you stirred that chocolate sauce?'

‘Not guilty,' sighed George regretfully, as he eased himself out and stretched comfortably at her side. The room was heated; she would not get cold. In any case, he had merely paused, not finished for the night.

She rolled on to her back and spoke with mock sternness. ‘Chocolate stains, you know. I hope you got it all off.'

‘No problem: I didn't miss a drop,' he teased. For a moment they lay quietly and drank the remaining wine, contented in their closeness. Then he bent and kissed each nipple and traced a finger over the flush which suffused the smooth skin over her breastbone. ‘You are lovely, Elaine. I don't know what to say to you, often, and I can't compete with your tales of the great, the good and the infamous, but this is one place where you will always be welcome.'

She giggled, but was pleased. How neatly George judged her mood. Had he started to pledge his undying love she would have felt uncomfortable; but what seemed to be on offer, at least for the moment, was an appealing blend of companionship and romance.

Both pudding and chocolate were gone. He leaned across her for the second jug with the vanilla sauce, and smiled happily down at her.

Roger Dickson paused in front of his wife's long mirror, adjusted it to his greater height and surveyed himself critically.

Over six-foot tall, moderate build, broad shoulders; strong features, fine brow, deep-set brown eyes. The silver streaks through the once dark hair no longer troubled him, for a Prime Minister should not look too young or unmarked by experience, a handicap poor Tony Blair had discovered the hard way. Instead, greater maturity allied with self-discipline and long hours had brought Dickson not a crumpled visage and a thickened waistline but a firmness to the mouth and a cool economy of expression which had not been there before.

He turned away, satisfied. The man in the mirror looked authoritative, trustworthy, competent and calm. The image doctors had done well with their advice to wear navy-blue suits with simple pale-coloured shirts and understated ties. For the sake of the cameras he had shed a stone, slowly, to avoid attention and silly questions about diets. In his pocket nestled a mini-electric razor to keep down that insidious growth of beard which once had plagued him. Everything was under control.

He was always on show,
always
. There was never a relaxed moment: he could never rub his face absent-mindedly, scratch his cheek, hitch his trousers or blow his nose without checking first that there wasn't a camera pointed at him. Out of grim necessity he had developed virtually a sixth sense – he could tell where hidden watchers might lurk, as if some invisible antennae were ever vigilant.

Dickson sighed, picked up his jacket and put it on, adjusted his tie and patted the clean handkerchief in his breast pocket. He took the small lift downstairs, walked along the corridor, turned right, bid a gruff ‘Good morning' to the two blue-uniformed attendants and pushed his way through the baize-covered doors which connected his home with the Chief Whip's official residence at Number 12 Downing Street.

He was greeted quietly by the two Chief Whips and the Party Chairman. The four men, all with grim expressions, exchanged brief remarks and sat down. Dickson poured himself a coffee from the Thermos flask in the centre of the table. Before him he placed a small notebook and a silver propelling pencil. ‘I'm listening. Bad news first.'

James St John Gordon, tenth Earl of Hamilton, ran his fingers through faded red hair, pursed his aristocratic lips and grimaced. ‘We have effectively lost control of the Lords, Prime Minister,' he began. ‘When you asked me to take on the job as Lords Chief Whip, you felt an hereditary title might appeal more to their lordships than a life peerage, since our majority is so dependent on the … ah … traditional element. Unfortunately it isn't making a scrap of difference. We've lost twenty-two votes this session, with more to come.'

He rubbed his eyes. ‘The old boys are willing to attend for the day, but most are elderly and toddle off by eight – we can't keep them. We certainly can't persuade any to get out of bed at two in the morning when there's an ambush, as there was last night. Add to that, our few supporters among the life peers are often busy and can't come in at all, whereas Opposition and cross-bench peers seem to have a bee in their bonnets over just about everything and are fearsome attenders.'

‘The problem which has emerged recently,' the Commons Chief Whip concurred, ‘is that the rebellions are led by our own side, and very capable they are too. Ex-Cabinet Ministers in the Lords are no longer content to troop through the right lobbies. Too many are seeking revenge. Look at the industrial training cuts. The campaign's co-ordinated by the former President of the Board of Trade, Lord Heseltine, now nutty as a fruit-cake, but with eyes agleam at the prospect of outsmarting those Ministers you appointed to replace him.'

Lord Hamilton nodded gloomily. ‘You'd think the chaps would show some loyalty, but they get the bit between their teeth and they're off. It doesn't matter how much damage is done. They just laugh and tell us to draft better legislation.'

Roger wondered silently how that might be done, given that there was seldom enough time, with Conference demanding populist policies and tax cuts above any other consideration.

‘The point, Roger, is that we need about twenty fresh true-blue supporters in the Lords, people who'll turn up on command and vote for us no matter what. Preferably under sixty and in sound health. Loyalists who will toe the line.' The Commons Chief Whip was worried. ‘Otherwise we may have to abandon half our bills – at this rate we'll be proroguing Parliament at Christmas instead of October and the next State Opening won't be till Easter.'

That was an exaggeration, but the dilemma was genuine. The Upper House had power only to delay, but its ability to be awkward was legendary. Roger frowned and pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose.

‘So do you have a list of such paragons?' he asked, an edge to his voice. ‘Men and women so fascinated by politics that they'd adore the appointment, sufficiently distinguished that such honours appear deserved, and docile enough to oblige from the minute they arrive?'

‘I don't think we have much choice, Roger.' Party Chairman Peter Aubrey had been silent but now responded testily. ‘And yes, I do have a list. You've met quite a few of them.'

Roger grimaced. ‘Donors?'

‘Donors. So what? At least they'll know which side their bread is buttered. And so will we.'

Roger examined the list with a murmur of distaste, then flung it on the table and brooded, hunched, seeking an alternative. None came.

‘I appreciate what you are trying to do, but we have to be so damn careful, Peter. Asil Nadir gave us four hundred thousand and it did us no good, nor him either. And what do we know of some of these names? Look at that chap who offered the Labour Party five million – Moosa bin Shamsa. Claimed to be a writer and thinker in Bangladesh but it turned out he ran a manpower agency and had been beaten up by people he'd promised to arrange jobs for. A con-man, in other words. You sure about the bona tides of everyone here?'

‘Look,' Aubrey explained patiently. ‘We've had them screened, as far as possible. They come with recommendations from local party chairmen, Ministers, MPs…'

Roger held up a hand. ‘Don't put me off even more.' He tried one final time. ‘James, you need your votes. Peter, you need your money. But if I were to say I loathe the whole business of linking the two and do not wish to proceed the three of you'd think I was losing my marbles, wouldn't you?'

The Chief Whip, who considered Dickson a mite too soft to be an effective leader and coveted the job for himself, smiled.

‘Well, Prime Minister, I couldn't have put it better myself.'

‘Dad.'

‘Um?'

‘Dad
.'

Jayanti Bhadeshia looked up impatiently from the jumble of papers on his desk. ‘What is it? I have to check this VAT return. It is overdue again because my fool of an accountant is so lazy.'

Before him the young man pouted but did not budge. Bhadeshia put down his pen with a sigh and switched off the calculator, but in truth he was not averse to the interruption.

He examined his younger son with barely concealed pride. Varun was the handsomest of his four children, the one who physically most resembled his mother. Amit, the eldest, was more serious and engrossed in his medical studies at St Thomas's; the girls – Priya and his adored youngest, Sabita – had heads full only of boys and pop music which, he supposed, made them normal young women. But Varun, solid, charming and equable, had shown the greatest interest in a future in commerce and thus had increasingly attracted his father's approbation.

Bhadeshia's voice softened and he relaxed. ‘So, my son. Come and sit here. What can I do for you?'

‘The other way round, Dad. I want to help you,' the boy responded with a new solemnity of manner. ‘I've heard you talk to Mum about the East African scheme and all your plans. I'm eighteen now and old enough: I don't intend to go to university. Do you want me to go out there to oversee the project?'

‘My goodness! But you are too young for that. And I have managers who are very good.' It was not, however, such a stupid idea, Jayanti reflected to himself. At least his son was someone he could trust.

‘Oh, go on, Dad. I have to start somewhere.' The eagerness made his father smile indulgently.

‘You should start by managing a shop.'

The boy pulled a face and pointed out with some asperity that he had frequently been placed in sole charge of shops at various times since he was fourteen years old. As he spoke his father watched him carefully and became thoughtful.

‘There is something you could do,' Jayanti remarked at last. After shuffling files he found what he needed and showed it to his son. ‘This is a schedule of my bank loans. As you can see most are secured on assets including the shares of our main company. If the value of the shares rises we can borrow more.'

Varun nodded. He could see what was coming. ‘You want me to buy some shares, Dad, is that it? And get a few more people to do so too? My cousins, for a start. We've got plenty of contacts in the community. Small placements, some new shares, some from the market, nothing to attract attention. Shouldn't be too difficult for a sound business like ours.'

At that his father began to talk eloquently of turnover and profit margins while the young man listened intently, asked brief questions and made a few notes. Then Varun grinned.

‘There's only one problem, Dad. I haven't any money. Come to that, neither have most of my friends – at least, not the sort of numbers which would make much impact on the share price.'

Jayanti pulled out the company's cheque-book. ‘That's easy,' he answered as he wrote. ‘It's all going back into the firm, one way or another. Anyhow, it's the bank's money, not mine.' He handed over three cheques and the boy whistled.

His father shrugged. ‘So? You'll use it well. Don't cash them all at once – be discreet. Just one more thing: don't tell your mother. She's never happy about what we owe, and I doubt if she'd feel comfortable with your little operation. So mum's the word, yes?'

At the threshold of Elaine's office her Private Secretary Fiona Murray paused. Behind her Anthony York stopped also. The Minister appeared not to have noticed their arrival.

Fiona glanced around. Some Ministers made no impact whatever on their rooms, apart from the obligatory family photo. Others showed off shamelessly. Kenneth Baker had filled one wall with his remarkable collection of political cartoons, many featuring himself. David Mellor as Heritage Minister installed an elegant glass-topped coffee table, the better to display large illustrated books, including the latest publication of whichever great personage was about to pay him a visit so that he could get it signed.

Mrs Stalker's room showed evidence of a lively if unorthodox personality. Most items were gifts. A stuffed-carrot doll came from a healthy eating campaign in Stroud. An enormous blue hippopotamus named Michael was a gift from Scottish Young Conservatives. An ugly vase from the Finnish Minister for the Family was filled with flowers, paid for by Elaine, as was the fruit piled up in a matching bowl on the table.

‘Are you ready for us, Minister?'

Elaine looked up. ‘Is Mr Chadwick ready?'

‘He's in the office now, Minister, and other officials are on call if you need them. And Mr York is here too.'

‘Fine. Come on in.'

The following day was set for First Order Questions, when the Department of Health, Welfare and the Family would be on duty at 2.30 p.m. sharp. The questions had been placed on the Commons order paper a fortnight before, some of the more helpful ones having been planted via friendly backbenchers by Anthony, though naturally everyone would vigorously deny it. Nor was it technically illegal to put down questions of value only to commercial interests. A fuller reply would have been available to an enquiry by letter; but that would have diminished the mystique of the Commons, not to speak of a seriously deleterious effect on the income of the Honourable Members involved.

The public scrutiny, on a four-weekly rota, lasted forty-five minutes, and, since Prime Minister's Questions followed, it was televised to the nation and, via CNN, around the world. As a result Elaine had received religious literature on the iniquities of teenage sex from Tucson, Arizona, a video proposing the legalisation of drugs from Hawaii and two proposals of marriage from the Philippines, complete with photographs of the ugliest men she had ever seen.

The preparation of responses was routine, but Elaine, still feeling insecure, feared the unscripted supplementary which might trip her up. She opted to do her homework the day before.

With Fiona, Anthony and Chadwick she ploughed through the order paper. At the right-hand side of each question were scribbled the initials of Bampton, Harrison or herself. Only one of Elaine's was likely to be reached before time ran out, an anodyne query about a new clinic in Southampton. She sat back listless: all this work, apparently for nothing. She understood suddenly those Ministers who don't bother to prepare for dispatch box appearances, then recalled with a shiver the many occasions when such complacency had been caught out.

She forced herself to concentrate. ‘Satisfy my curiosity,' she said. ‘Who decides which questions are allocated to which Minister? For example, Mr Bampton has the one on community care, but it's my brief.'

Chadwick raised an eyebrow and considered. ‘Ah, we do, at least as a preliminary. But that's Question One and the Secretary of State likes to get into his stride. So he's taken it, though he'll expect you to be up to date on the matter.'

‘I see. In case he changes his mind at the last minute. So you want me primed to say things like' – she flicked through to the suggested reply – ‘“We recently issued guidance on the discharge of patients from psychiatric hospitals. Patients should not be discharged until it is safe to discharge them.” Not exactly a reassuring or fresh approach – or deathless prose, is it?'