A Woman's Place (29 page)

On second thoughts Betts altered ‘six' to ‘ten', and then to ‘eleven'. Nobody knew how big the house was, though his contact, who had been more than happy to fly up from Jo'burg for a day or two's scouting around, had produced splendid snaps of its former inhabitants ranged miserably on the roadside surrounded by pots and bundles. At least, Betts had to hand pictures of a bunch of scruffy Africans with too many children outside a large white house. That'd do.

Bhadeshia had not yet been approached to check the story, but that was a minor detail. It was his house: the actions had been taken in his name, of that Betts was certain. Bhadeshia's expostulations would make a petulant addition to the next article in which his name would appear. Should the beggar dare to sue, the
Globe
would be covered in court provided that the response – an opportunity for further revelations – had been given due prominence. Just to be safe, Betts added:

The journalist smiled to himself. These activities in East Africa were a mere sideline, a diversion and an introduction to a fresh national villain. Betts's thoughts returned to the preposterous new Lord Bhadeshia and the fun to be had in making a fool of him. The question was wide open as to why and how this name had appeared on the honours list at all.

That was the issue which really intrigued Betts and, through him, his readers. How did some people get to be on the list of the great and good, find their names put forward for honours, receive invitations to Buckingham Palace garden parties and the like, when the bulk of the population, however hard-working and worthy, were excluded? He chewed his moustache. It could not possibly be an entirely honest system: the very term ‘patronage' told its own story. That meant money and, with it, the old tale of who you know. How much, exactly, had it cost? And who benefited from the exchange of largesse? For it was unthinkable that an obscure Asian shopkeeper, and one as insignificant and undistinguished as Bhadeshia, could wriggle his way into the top flights of society, and the peerage, through merit alone.

More immediately there was the puzzle of where Bhadeshia's wealth came from, and how soundly based his finances might or might not be. Betts pondered deeply for several minutes, put the machine on ‘hold' and reached for the phone.

‘When Geoffrey was here' – the distinctive voice of Lady Howe rang out above the hum of the crowd – ‘we put together a little booklet about the place. Yes, we do miss it. Well, who wouldn't? It's gorgeous.'

Elaine had to agree. She had found a lone copy of the brochure on the marble table in the hallway. The chances of her ever becoming Foreign Secretary were remote, but the opportunity to enjoy the current incumbent's hospitality at his official residence at 1 Carlton Gardens was not to be missed, even if the occasion was merely a reception for the friends, committee and sponsors of the forthcoming ball for the European Union of Women.

Outside the porch, television lights were switched off; the society paparazzi melted away. On a quiet night for news the presence of several recently elevated figures had caused a faint flurry of interest, but no more.

Carlton Gardens was not only very attractive but felt like an elegant home. No wonder, Elaine reflected, the Howes had given up their London flat with alacrity in favour of the grace-and-favour residence at the top of this lovely house; then, on his being turfed out of the job six years later, had made such a fuss at the ghastly thought of a return to Morpeth Terrace.

In a moment she would be surrounded by people clamouring to shake hands. Apart from herself relatively few Ministers had come, though there were plenty of
arrivistes
. The Prime Minister was not expected. The Foreign Secretary was in Brussels, where he seemed to spend most of his time these days.

While Elspeth Howe hugged and enthused, Elaine slipped away. A few moments later she found herself upstairs in the blue drawing room with its remarkable Persian carpet, the double doors thrown hospitably open into the smoking room and the white salon nearby.

‘It's a Tabriz, and we really shouldn't be walking on it,' a familiar voice murmured at her elbow. ‘Still, it's probably put up with two hundred years of punishment, so a few more crisps and peanuts won't make much difference.'

‘George!' she laughed, delighted to see him. His height, his lean spare looks, made her catch her breath. Suddenly the evening took on an improved aspect. ‘What are you doing here – is your firm a sponsor? Do you know all about carpets, too?'

‘No, but I know a little.' He took her arm and steered her to the less crowded end of the long room. He pointed at her feet. ‘Here's another – a Fereghan. Glorious colours – wouldn't you adore living with something like this?'

She looked at him and wondered, fleetingly, what he might be asking, but his demeanour was guileless as he squatted down and ran his palms over the fine-patterned silk. If this was a game, she needed to score points too. She spotted a small marble bust, similar to one on the staircase in the Commons near her office.

‘And that's William Pitt. I bet he disapproved of all this extravagance.'

‘He didn't know anything about it, Elaine. He died in 1806 before this place was built. Aren't you people supposed to know things like that?'

She growled good-humoured dissent at him. How odd it was, meeting her lover here like this, in public, unannounced. The thought came unbidden, as they stood face to face, that she would have liked to explore the rest of the house with him hand in hand, find a chamber with a big bed and quietly close the door.

This was not the same as her previous affair. Had Roger Dickson walked in at that moment her heart would have leapt and a flush come to her cheeks; only with a great effort would she have avoided stammering, or revealing how much she knew about the Prime Minister, how much she still cared for him. The fear of discovery – the risks both had run – had flavoured the four years of their liaison. Sexuality had played an important role, but also significant had been the shared conspiracy of two outsiders at Westminster, she the woman and he from a poor background, as well as their mutual need for reinforcement and confidence-building, and their awareness of all they had had in common.

With George matters were simpler. For a start there was no real problem about disclosure. She was divorced and so was he: two adults, with no ties, nobody to hurt. Discretion obliged her to say nothing about him to anyone, not even to hint at his existence. As far as the outside world was concerned she was celibate, as MPs without current spouses were expected to be. She sensed that George preferred it that way. A dignified reticence, almost self-preservation, was very much to the fore in his character. In one sense, he was operating against his instincts in taking her out at all; how fortunate that his gentlemanly manner never hinted that he might be doing her a favour.

But his caution made sense. Nobody in public life needed to be reminded how unremitting the unwanted attentions of the press could be. She would never have contemplated an escort whose next action might be to talk to the papers, who might be willing to admit that yes, it was he, and it was she, together on a bench in the park or holding hands in the darkened theatre. Despite her good looks, Elaine's well-known face, so much a part of both her public and private persona, was a severe disability when it came to forming relationships. She was all too aware, and deeply disheartened by it, that many men would not come near her.

It had to be admitted that she had changed also. She was no longer an ingénue but successful in her own right. Left behind was the assumption that she had to live her life through men, or indeed through anybody else. Since her only child was grown and independent she was free to choose her own entertainments. In fact, her assumptions were much closer than previously to those of her male colleagues: the dominant priority was her job and career. She would shy away from anything which might interfere.

Yet here she stood near George, and wanted very much to touch him. George, with his slightly mocking brown eyes and deep bass voice, his enthusiasms and vigour and courtesy: he was an escort of grace and reliability – the kind of man one could lean on – and utterly desirable. But he was not the love of her life. Not yet.

The two paused together by the side door and surveyed the crowd. In the centre a deal of noisy chatter rose, its focus a small dark man in an irascible state.

‘We sponsored the champagne and it looks as if the new Lord Bhadeshia has had a glass too many,' George remarked drily.

‘It's understandable – he had a real pasting in the tabloids today. Apparently he's been using violence against the blacks to run his operations in East Africa – at least, that's the implication. Nasty stuff: you don't know what to believe.'

George nodded. ‘And trust
Panorama
to jump on the bandwagon. They're going to make a documentary in which he will feature. We had them on to my office this afternoon asking for an interview, but the fact is I hardly know the man. It appears he gave my name as a contact who would speak up for him.'

Elaine regarded him curiously. ‘And did you agree?'

‘Of course not. I tend to run a mile from publicity for a start, as you know. Your talents with the media are not mine. I grant you that in his limited dealings with me he's been above board, but how could I give him a clean bill of health when I haven't the foggiest idea what he gets up to elsewhere?'

Elaine frowned. ‘He probably suggested you because of your good standing in the city.'

‘Thank you, Elaine. And I intend to keep it.' His voice was almost testy.

She watched as Jayanti waved his arms in agitation, a glass of champagne slopping in his hand. He had spotted a junior Minister from the Foreign Office and charged alarmingly in that direction, words of protest on his lips.

‘His body language is wrong. All that excitability makes him look guilty,' she remarked quietly. ‘It makes me sad – we are so exclusive in this country, so suspicious of foreigners and what appears to be foreign behaviour. Then we accept for years a liar like Philby, who betrayed everything he was brought up to, simply because he knew how to drop an eyebrow instead of an aitch. Yet the newcomers, these immigrants who've brought real energy and initiative into business, are sneered at in this sort of assembly. I admire them enormously, George – I hate that sort of prejudice.'

George had never stepped outside ‘this sort of assembly'. His understanding of the sensitivities of several of those present was slight. He was not, however, about to allow political correctness to warp his judgement. He took her elbow and began to steer her back into the mainstream.

‘It's just as much prejudice, dearest Elaine, if we refuse to believe that such individuals can be crooks. There's at least a chance that Bhadeshia's commercial ethics might be a little different from … let's say, mine. And now I think you are expected to mingle, aren't you? Any chance of supper later?'

‘I've got two boxes –' she began to protest.

‘Fine. Then you can do them afterwards. I'll look out for you in an hour.'

His face had a set which said he would not easily be deterred. Her greatest fear when her husband left, when she deliberately ended the affair with Roger, had been loneliness. That dark monster lay at her door, blowing chill air in whenever she was alone. To spend even a couple of hours with George would mean reading till 2 a.m. to catch up; but it was worth it, to keep that spectre at bay. ‘Thank you. I'd like that.'

Pramila was in tears. ‘Is it true, Jayanti? Did you have these poor people beaten up?'

‘No. At least I don't know.'

Bhadeshia pulled at his tie and sat heavily on the bed. He had achieved nothing at the reception except, as he was acutely aware, to have made something of a fool of himself. He should not have touched that champagne; he had been upset enough without it. An occasion when he should have acquired admirers and allies had turned into a miserable mess.

Pramila raised her head from the newspaper. ‘All day the phone has been ringing. Mostly my friends tell me that these Africans deserve it: they did the same to us. But we should behave better, especially now you are a lord.'

Her husband jumped up and paced the room. ‘I could not stop it – at least, I knew nothing about it. It seemed like a good idea, to recover ownership of my family's old house. It was very beautiful and would have suited our needs exactly. I mentioned it to the President's assistant. That is all. Then I had a message to say it was ours and the occupants had left. Nobody told me how they were removed. I had no role in it, none.'