A Woman's Place (34 page)

‘You presume too much, brother,' the man remarked smoothly, ‘when you say all Asians are Tories by temperament.'

‘Surely it is true –' Jayanti began. The man held up a hand and half smiled.

‘Some of us, as you know, are trying to persuade our brethren to join the Labour Party. We had a big crowd for the dinner we gave for Tony Blair. It was
very
successful.'

He puffed his cigar in challenge. Jayanti felt his blood pressure rise. ‘You only do that because you have no faith – you think Labour will win the next election. You are an extremely cynical man.'

‘And you're not, I suppose? If you thought your wonderful Mr Dickson was about to collapse, how much would you – or anybody else – be handing over? The Tories are of interest to you and these worthy people' – he indicated the departing backs – ‘because they're in government. What they do seriously affects our daily lives. But change is coming.'

‘They are my friends!' Jayanti was nearly hysterical.

‘Really?' The fat man chuckled, as if he knew something Jayanti didn't, then turned ponderously and waddled away.

Roger Dickson rolled over restlessly.

‘You were not at your best tonight, darling,' his wife murmured as if she felt it necessary to state the obvious. ‘I think the job is changing you. You can't plead tiredness every time, surely.'

‘Thanks a lot,' he muttered. He felt for his slippers and padded to the adjoining bathroom, where he washed himself with a flannel. By the time he' returned to the darkened bedroom his wife was asleep, or pretending to be.

He sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed and brooded. Then he rose and went into the next room where he sat down at the old carved desk with its many small drawers and secret compartments. The cheque from the Café Royal had already been dispatched to the Party Treasurer and had passed from his mind completely. He switched on the lamp.

Caroline was right. His performance in bed had become perfunctory and incomplete. Infrequent, too. The fact was, he was too weary after a long day and a big white-tie dinner to take any trouble, and not sufficiently attracted to his spouse to be more than marginally aroused. Since she was the epitome of the loyal and supportive parliamentary wife, and had confessed to him that she relished her public role as the partner of the Prime Minister, it was unlikely that she would make a fuss or contrive to add to the difficulties of his life. So there seemed little need to bother much; and, the truth was, he didn't.

He had married her because she was suitable. More than that: she was perfect for his needs, he the rising star from a poor background in Brixton who had dreamed of some day entering Parliament and becoming … who knew what? … important, recognised, admired. It was his nature to be wary of love, anyway. It was love that had got the girls down his street pregnant and tied them into poverty. It was love that had obliged a decent young man to marry his girlfriend against his better judgement, then see the meagre weekly pay packet vanish into the Freeman's catalogue and fish and chips on a Friday night, with no chance of escape or betterment. By contrast it was a wise choice that had brought him to the altar with Caroline, daughter of his boss at the bank. She had made the play, he had seen his chance. Their home life was a model of affectionate conformity. And it was ambition, and luck, and guile, which had led to the door to No. 10 as the nation's leader.

Roger bowed his head. In the past there had been love-making to make his heart sing, with Elaine Stalker. Her image floated into his mind and he stifled a groan. The blonde hair; the lovely flashing smile, the carefree, cheeky air which brought her features so alive. The dancing hazel eyes whose mockery during foreplay could make him gasp with excitement. The things she did, dammit:
the touch of her hands on his belly, the taste of her mouth on his own, the sensation of her lips and tongue as she explored his nipples, his navel, his most sensitive parts, as she released him from the pressures and restraints of the day. Her knowledge of his worries, the nuances of their joint world. He could not talk to his wife about his career, not in the detail which Elaine would follow. He could not explore his wife's private places as he had with his lover, knowing what gave the most exquisite pleasure, for Caroline would frown at the wrong moment and draw away, calling all that ‘silly' or worse.

Elaine had looked sad recently. Her marriage was long over; a contact in the whips' office had mentioned that she was squired sometimes by a George Horrocks, without realising the twinge of misery the news had caused its hearer.

He had been deeply in love with her. He had known that at the time. Yet he had never told her and had deliberately been vague about his feelings, though she had been open about her passion for him, a devotion which had sustained him for four years. In some ways the affair's intensity had carried the roots of its own destruction, for had the two been more laid back it might have been possible to continue, casually, from time to time. But a love like that demanded space for itself which neither in the end – both married, both under intense scrutiny, with divided loyalties – could easily give.

He would tell her. He would let her know how he had once felt. How he still felt, if truth were told. Who knows, he thought savagely to himself: some day I will not be the incumbent in No. 10. I will then be free, if I wish it. Maybe Caroline would then want her freedom, or would not care if I had a discreet personal life, as long as she was not publicly humiliated. That is the way of these MPs' wives. They are team players. But then would Mrs Stalker still be available? Maybe I should make sure of it. Maybe I should write her a letter.

He opened a drawer and found sheets of his printed notepaper. His mind cleared as he began to write: the prose flowed, unaccustomed words of love and admiration, sexual descriptions which filled him with desire even as they took shape on the page, terms of endearment he never used to his wife. He did not hear Caroline come silently to the door. She gazed at her husband's back as he scribbled, then returned to their empty bed.

At last it was finished. He signed it with a flourish and placed it in an envelope. After some hesitation he wrote her name on the front, then sat staring at it in the lamplight.

All at once he felt utterly exhausted. He could not send it, of course. At least, not yet. But nor could he destroy it, this missive which encapsulated the sweetest moments of his life. It had to be put away somewhere safe.

He knelt down and fiddled with a key. The housekeeper who had worked in Downing Street for years had shown him gravely on his first day how everything worked, but with no need of the information he had forgotten most of it. The key caught and he grunted with triumph. The drawer slid out; behind it was another, a tiny box which he had to reach for. He placed the letter carefully inside, reassembled the drawers and locked the outer one. It would be secure there.

He moved heavily towards the bedroom. It was as if he had spent the last hour with Elaine, and she had whispered to him and comforted him. Now he could sleep.

The best idea, first thing in the morning, was to wriggle cosily down under the bedcovers, turn over and carry on snoozing; yet it was never possible. With a groan Elaine half rolled, half fell on to the floor, killed the alarm and headed, eyes still closed, for the bathroom.

When she had first arrived at Westminster she had been appalled at the constant tiredness induced by fifteen-hour days six days a week, exacerbated by the dearth of social life other than in the company of those equally fascinated by politics. Gradually she had learned to pace herself. MPs had the recesses at Christmas and Easter in which to recover, as well as four almost unbroken months free from August to November. For a member of the government, however, it was another matter entirely.

The realisation had hit her with a shocking ferocity: Her Majesty's Ministers were permanently on duty. A snatched few hours at home could vanish the instant a crisis threatened, while the longest rest any Minister (especially junior ranks) might manage was a fortnight. Those with a European brief would be lucky to stay in Westminster three days a week, while conferences and sessions on the Continent ate up spare days and weekends. Young children did not recognise their fathers, spouses drifted into petulance and despair. The result was an air of bewildered exhaustion, particularly during the hot months. Yet the treadmill could never be eased. One summer a beleaguered Prime Minister had ordered his tired team off for three weeks' holiday in the hope that no government was good news. During their absence the opinion poll gap widened to over 30 points. The experiment was not repeated.

As she blearily brushed her teeth Elaine remembered it was Tuesday. That meant her first engagement was not until 10 a.m. She let out a low whoop. Moving quickly, she pulled on leotards and trainers, grabbed her smart day suit and shirt and drove off to the House of Commons gymnasium.

The car park was in the courtyard of the old Scotland Yard building in Whitehall, renamed Norman Shaw House after its architect. It was still forbiddingly blackened on the outside, and its refurbished interior retained a depressingly institutional air. The basement, cramped and
low-ceilinged
, had found a particularly welcome use. At this hour of the morning it was packed.

Gingerly Elaine stepped over heaving bodies on blue mats and started her warm-up. The routine eased stiff joints and loosened cramped muscles. She began to concentrate. Six minutes on the gyrobike had her panting hard; the previous week she had skipped a session, an omission for which she would pay. As she settled on to the rowing machine the sound of high-pitched conversation from the office made her look up.

‘It is very important that I should be fit for my new role!'

The voice had a strong accent; Dave, the senior instructor, tried to respond soothingly but the other man interrupted.

‘I need a severe programme – not something namby-pamby. I used to be very fit, you know. Played cricket for my school. So none of your easy rubbish, do you hear?'

Heads turned, eyebrows were raised. In a club crammed with overgrown egos, one unwritten rule was to leave them in the lockers outside. Elaine bent and rowed rhythmically. She had no intention of pulling a muscle through being distracted by this idiot, whoever he might be.

Dave emerged in his navy tracksuit, clipboard in hand, an anxious expression on his face. Behind trotted a little dark man in brand-new white shorts and Aertex shirt, still arguing vociferously. Together they toured the machines and with unbounded patience the instructor demonstrated how they worked.

Elaine was standing by the water fountain and wiping her face when suddenly the man darted up and held out his hand. She groaned inwardly. Another useful gym rule was the absence of formality: if members had any spare energy a mumbled ‘Morning' might be offered, but no offence
was taken if it was not.

‘Mrs Stalker! How delightful to meet you again. Are you a member here? Do you come –'

She cut him off almost brusquely. ‘Yes, I come as often as I can. Glad to see you here too … er…'

‘Bhadeshia – Lord Bhadeshia,' her companion supplied proudly. ‘I am entitled to join. I must get myself in good shape. Important work to do now.' He stood back admiringly. ‘I can see where your own good figure comes from, madam,' he added.

She nodded without answer and drained her paper cup. His body language had not improved since the party at Carlton Terrace.

Bhadeshia, dismissed but not abashed, continued to interrupt the steady grind of the gym for another half-hour, then happily took himself off to the showers.

Forty minutes later, blonde hair still damp at the nape of her neck, Elaine emerged through the black archway and deposited her sweaty kit in the boot of her car. She felt refreshed and relaxed. The department was only a few yards away; her office overlooked the courtyard. It was an arrangement convenient enough to maintain her attendance with fair regularity. At times she knew it kept her sane.

Minister of State Derek Harrison, hands in pockets, was walking jauntily through the back entrance as she reached it. He had probably gone to the House first to deal with constituency mail. On second thoughts, maybe he too had arranged his first official appointment for ten. The light in his eye suggested that wherever he had been before had pleased him.

‘I've just seen a friend of yours,' she remarked as they fell into step. ‘Mr Bhadeshia. In the gym, lording it over everybody – literally. I know he's a good supporter and I'm sure he's a decent sort but he does make himself look silly at times.'

‘Can't help it – no point in my telling him.' Derek stood to one side as Elaine opened a door for him. She was, after all, his subordinate. ‘He's a bit excessive, but that's his way of showing off. His business operations are doing well. Mind you, some of the credit is mine, you know.'

Elaine sighed inwardly. If Derek's arrogance needed massaging this morning she wished he would choose somebody else to do it. ‘Really?' she said loyally.

‘Oh, yes. He has interests in East Africa. The banks here were less than enthusiastic at supporting him, more fools they. So last week I got him a big grant from the overseas aid people. Some programme for the development of infrastructure in areas ravaged by war. Four million quid, to start, and more where that came from. Not bad, eh?' He winked at her.

She stopped, puzzled. ‘
You
did? Why? What's it got to do with our department?'

It was his turn to be surprised. ‘What? Here? Nothing at all. But a word from one Minister of the Crown to another – or, in this case, to the official concerned – works wonders.'

Harrison dropped his voice. ‘If you were marginally more … friendly, Elaine, you'd have valuable contacts too. Look at this. Bet you haven't one like it.' So saying he slipped off his watch, appeared to weigh it in his hand, examined its face and its engraved back with elaborate admiration and put it back on. Elaine caught a glimpse of the crown on its white dial and the name Rolex.

‘Thanks for the suggestion, Derek,' she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. Her mouth trembled. She walked past him, entered her own room and closed the door.

It was several minutes before the shaking stopped and she was back under control. What she had just heard was the most blatant corruption. Of course the Overseas Development Agency would have checked and found that the projects did exist and were not fraudulent, and that employment and valuable progress could result in a desperately poor country. An application for ODA funds might have succeeded anyway, though perhaps not for such a generous amount. The banks, wary of risk, were seldom as keen as proprietors demanded. All that was understandable, and could be justified. On the other hand, while Elaine was unaware of the secret shareholding registered in a tax haven which had also changed hands, what Derek was up to in bringing pressure to bear on hapless civil servants
was to her brutally obvious. His actions could be neither defended nor ignored.

Yet what could she do? It had been on the tip of her tongue to remind him, with a measure of sarcasm in her voice, to declare the expensive present in the Register of Members' Interests. But Ministers were not supposed to accept
any
such gifts: declaration did not confer innocence. Not to declare, however, was worse, for it left Harrison open to the accusation not only of using influence for gain but of a cover-up. It was bizarre that he appeared ready to boast quite recklessly about the whole strategy, as if he assumed that nobody in Whitehall would object. His moral sense must be seriously defective. Then the notion of Derek with a moral sense of any kind made her laugh ruefully.

Should she discuss it with anyone? Had Roger still been her whip and her lover that would have been easy. She would have trusted him to use such information effectively but with discretion. The fact remained that recent administrations had lost an extraordinary number of post-holders through scandal. If Derek Harrison carried on waving that watch, he'd soon follow. Each resignation weakened the government and rendered its eventual downfall more likely. It made her furious, when she allowed herself a moment's reflection, to realise that she might lose her seat simply because some of her colleagues had been such fools.

But to discuss meant to tell. That would be – the only description which occurred to her came from school – sneaking. Obscurely she was conscious of an honour code, however twisted. If she told,
she
would be treated as the transgressor. Whistle-blowers won no praise. It would be whispered she was after Derek's job. Certainly she was – but preferably not by those means. Derek would have to trip over all by himself. Given his stupidity and greed, that was increasingly probable.

Jayanti Bhadeshia's next visit was to his tailor, where he collected three excellent new suits with matching silk shirts and ties. How easy it had been to open an account at Gieves and Hawkes; how much smarter than, say, Harrods. The firm knew how a man of position should dress. Young Mr Gieves had worked for John Major's office. On the night of the Tory leadership contest in 1990 the winner's duff neckwear had made Mr Gieves wince. Thus Mr Major greeted the nation as its new Premier in his staffman's tie, a suitably dapper number in striped navy and gold.

Thence to the Carlton, for lunch. The club in St James's had long been the heartland of Tory political life. Lord Bhadeshia's recent application for membership, endorsed by sponsors of the greatest distinction, had been accepted with only a modicum of delay. Had he been female it would have been a different result, though many traditional London clubs, helpless in the face of falling revenues, collapsing fabric, spiralling costs and fierce competition, had been obliged to lower their standards and admit women.

The dignified atmosphere of the main dining room, with its chandeliers, crisp linen and ancient retainers, though intimidating to a newcomer, thrilled him. Across the room Lord Rees-Mogg was eating alone, a newspaper propped up on the cruet. Jayanti bit into a quail's egg dusted with pepper and gazed around, hoping somebody would notice him. He did not have long to wait. Sir Peter Aubrey, Party Chairman, nodded agreeably from an adjoining table. The chairman of the Catering Committee, a former Minister, brought over his guests and gracefully introduced them to the new peer. The air of ease was all-pervading, and suited everyone who breathed it.

It never occurred to Jayanti to decline the approaches of those who, before his honour, would have ignored him. The whole point of seeking preferment was precisely so he could join their ranks. That they should be so privileged he took for granted. Every society had its elites. Rather than harbour any misgivings about his previous exclusion he counted himself fortunate to live at a time and in a place where the climb to the top was relatively unbarred and open to the most humble, as his own rise amply proved. That was a mark in the nation's favour.

Nor did he jib at the method of his elevation. In most such cases, money was involved. Whether it was the purchase of land and titles from King John or Elizabeth I or Lloyd George or Roger Dickson, it was much the same. Princes needed funds: commoners would oblige, in return for
nobility and the chance to leave the common herd behind.

A large figure loomed over him, breathing heavily. It was Sir John Merriman, his lawyer, long a member of the club, who placed by his plate a single sheet of fax paper.

‘I don't wish to disturb your meal, my lord, but I have been advised that this will be in tomorrow's
Globe.
When you have a moment, I think we ought to have a word about it.'

Jayanti began to read, then let out a howl of pain. Around the tables fellow diners looked up in surprise. Such a cry had not been heard from a member since Churchill announced he would vote against the Munich agreement in 1938. That man had never shown much loyalty. Frowns furrowed fine brows; a newspaper was rustled in disapproval.

Sir John straightened. ‘My office, tomorrow morning, ten o'clock?' he enquired. It sounded like an instruction.

It was like a spaceship, Betts reflected, straight out of
Star Wars
. On each side, towering twenty feet into the air and beyond his sight into the roof space, extending a hundred yards from the double doors, the steel megalith of a modern printing press hummed powerfully. No moving machinery was visible but the silvery skin was warm to the touch and vibrated gently. Apart from himself and the process technician the place was devoid of human life, except at the furthest end of the building where bound bundles of newspapers tumbled into brawny arms and were loaded into pantechnicons for distant delivery.

‘Bit different to the old days.' The printer jerked a thumb. ‘Computerised now. German, most of it. Makes you think.'

‘I remember the rows and stoppages,' Betts concurred. It was wise to avoid the word ‘strike'. ‘We journos claimed to be afraid of no one – except the printers. You chaps had a total veto.'