A Woman's Place (40 page)

Yet there was something infinitely irresistible about a good-looking younger man, especially one with breeding and education. Bisexuality had its delights too. Poker-faced but with a slight sardonic twist to the lips, Chadwick ensured that Anthony was aware of his scrutiny. It amused him that the Minister was discomforted. If the pictures flitting through that handsome troubled head had anything to do with sex, Chadwick would be happy to oblige.

‘Helsinki! It's such a God-forsaken place. Do I have to?' Bampton was speaking, exasperation in his voice.

Chadwick reflected with mild contempt that once again Mrs Stalker had up to now largely been left out of the conversation. The omission was more noticeable since Harrison had gone; the latter's double act with Bampton, which had sounded at times like a conspiracy to keep Mrs Stalker out of the frame, was no more, while Mr York was too new and junior to take his place. So Bampton did most of the talking himself. The rest of his team did little more than form an audience. Mrs Stalker seemed restless with that role.

‘I'm afraid so. We must send a Minister to the Congress; it'll be the first occasion it's been held in Finland since the country joined the European Union.' The Perm Sec was grave.

Bampton pointed, rather rudely. ‘Elaine?'

She responded swiftly and with a thankful grin. ‘Sorry. I'm at the Conservative Women's Conference that day. Been promised for months.'

‘Then it'll have to be you, Anthony. Think you can handle it?'

Anthony was hesitant. Ministers present from other countries would be of higher rank and probably far more experienced. ‘Me? If you want me to, Ted. I'll do my best.'

Bampton motioned at the officials. ‘Somebody'll go with you to guide you. Who'll it be?' A couple of hands were raised. For them Helsinki was a welcome jaunt. Bampton made a note.

‘Thank you, Mr Chadwick. Now look after him, won't you?'

Nick Thwaite, news editor, thrust a long fax at his deputy and laughed out loud. ‘So what do you make of this Peter Tatchell, then, Jim? Isn't he a gift?'

‘He's a prat, but I'll hand it to you, he produces great copy.' Jim Betts ran his eye down the paper. ‘Some new names here,' he commented. ‘One or two are seriously litigious. If we print this we'd be treading on eggshells.'

‘Broken reputations and torn cassocks, more like.' Thwaite reached for his coffee. ‘I don't mind being sued as long as we have evidence we can produce in court. Mr Tatchell may be aching to tell the world about his gay acquaintances in high places, but we have only his word for it.'

‘Can't you just see him in the dock as a material witness? Describing the spots on a bloke's back in detail, or the size of his dick. Entertaining, that.'

‘But unreliable. Remember that big fish you landed – Sir Nigel Boswood? Queer as a coot. But we had the rent-boy, and he had the photos. So there was no case. Open and shut, you might say.'

The two laughed lewdly. Thwaite continued, ‘Look, I've no ethical problems about publication. It's a practical matter. As a newspaperman I accept that the private lives of individuals are … a matter of intense public interest. If not, the gory details wouldn't help us sell newspapers, and they do.'

‘And we'd be performing a public service too – some of these shirt-lifters are such shits: hypocrites, every one.'

‘But Tatchell and his peculiar pals have their own axes to grind,' Thwaite warned. ‘They're not simply in the business of “outing”. They're after revenge. I can see why – among the names here some are loud and nasty in condemnation of gay rights. That doesn't prove they're queer. It'd serve 'em right, though, if we did print the lot. In a twisted way I'm almost sympathetic.'

‘You'll have me wondering about you next, Nick.' Betts examined the list with more care. As he reached the end he sucked his teeth. ‘Well, now, here's a new boy. New Minister too. He's a definite possibility.' He pointed.

Thwaite peered over his arm and whistled softly. ‘My, my. Do you think Tatchell's merely guessing, simply because the chap's not married? Worth a little homework, I think, Jim.'

‘Absolutely. I'll get on to that. I know where he lives.' Betts rose with a broad grin. ‘I even know who he lives with – and none of them's hitched. I'll enjoy this one, Nick, thanks.'

Anthony waited till ten minutes after the meeting when all who had attended had safely dispersed. He knew from ministerial diaries that Bampton had no engagements for a couple of hours. A phoned request for a few minutes of the Secretary of State's time received a curt assent. Soon he found himself seated formally at the other side of Ted Bampton's desk.

The Cabinet Minister had not bothered to stamp his personality on his office. On the mantelpiece stood two photographs of himself and his family, one in evening dress with his wife in shapeless blue silk, the other in casual clothes with Jean and the girls, posed under a tree. Anthony surmised they came from election addresses, the only publication over which a politician has total editorial control. The prints on the wall were gaily coloured impressions of Mediterranean scenes, possibly brought back from holidays. Bampton seemed to have avoided, or vetoed, the ubiquitous sepia tints of British castles and ex-Prime Ministers: a mark in his favour.

‘What do you mean – you don't want Chadwick to go with you? Why ever not?' Bampton lit
a cigar and puffed for a moment, then tipped ash into a saucer. ‘Come on. I'm listening.'

Anthony sat marginally more upright and steadied his gaze. ‘I'm not sure he's the right official for this trip, Ted. I'd rather take … say, my own Private Secretary.'

Bampton shrugged. ‘Well, of course you can take him, but he's not the departmental expert. Chadwick is. Do you two not get along – is that it?'

Anthony was struggling. His cheeks flushed and his hands twisted together. Bampton, who in his business days could spot trouble around the comer, frowned.

‘If that's the case you'd better explain to me why not. You're supposed to work with all the civil servants, not pick and choose. What's the problem? I can't deal with it till I know.'

‘I … I can't tell you exactly. Only that it would not be a good idea to send him. If he goes, then I shouldn't.'

‘Really?' Bampton drew out the vowels slowly. He put the cigar between his teeth and rolled it back and forth, once. His eyes narrowed and he surveyed the embarrassed young man, letting his inspection roam over the well-cut suit, the white-knuckled fists, the knees pressed tightly together.

So that was it.

Bampton would not have demeaned himself with any active homophobia, any more than he would indulge in sexist remarks about women. In Huddersfield both were standard fare in pubs and clubs, along with racist jokes and a general agreement that all but male white heterosexuals were lesser breeds. It was in part distaste for such boorishness and the waste of energy it entailed that had pushed him into greater efforts than his contemporaries in both business and public life. If he, his ilk, his principles and his preferences were to be judged superior to others, then it had to be a genuine superiority, not merely one shouted by drunks after closing time.

He did not know any queers, not properly, and didn't want to. It was hard to imagine chaps like Chris Smith, the Islington MP, or Matthew Parris, the prize-winning
Times
columnist, doing anything sexual with anybody, let alone with each other. If a man did not fancy women then in Bampton's book it was wiser for him to stay celibate. Anything else was asking for trouble.

That was also the best course for any man who could not manage to fall in love with a suitable lady, marry her, have children by her and stick with her, as he had. Nobody took that route now. The world had become a soulless place of short-term liaisons, where adultery was normal practice and nobody
tried
any more. And they wonder why the kids go bad, he concluded to himself grimly.

He put the cigar down, leaned his elbows on the table and gave Anthony his full attention. His voice was low and cool.

‘Has Mr Chadwick been propositioning you, is that it?'

‘What? No, nothing like that…' But Anthony's flustered denial told its tale. Bampton pursed his lips.

‘I don't want to know about it. Take some advice, lad. Find yourself a good girl and get hitched. You're a bit long in the tooth to be still single. Whatever the urges, they can be satisfied in marriage. At least, that's my view.'

Anthony was scarlet. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

‘And we'll hear no more nonsense about Mr Chadwick. He's going with you to Helsinki, and that's that.'

Anthony trudged miserably back to his office and for half an hour pretended to read the preliminary briefing for Helsinki. The typed paragraphs swam before his eyes. His coffee was cold and bitter but he did not want to call for a fresh cup. Quickly he slipped a small white pill on to his tongue and swallowed it with the remaining black liquid.

That trip to Finland could not take place, not as it had been planned. If he found himself in a
foreign hotel with Chadwick nearby he knew what would happen. Or, rather, he was sure he could guess the start of it. The man would drop hints at him throughout meetings and dinner much as he had that morning. His gaze would be direct, friendly and discreet. The communication would not be so obvious that others would notice; or, if they did, it would appear that a distinguished older civil servant was anxious to assist his junior Minister on his first foray into international negotiation.

But those glimpses across the table held terror. They told Anthony everything. Chadwick had not been permanently repulsed in Brussels. On the contrary: having waited till the incident was long behind them, he proposed to renew his efforts at seduction.

Anthony felt his mind start to clear. On a notepad he began to doodle. The letter ‘A' stood for himself, ‘C' for Chadwick. An arrow eastward pointed at ‘P': Paris. He could return to the Coupe d'Alsace, if that was what he wanted; but doing it with a stranger seemed the worst option and was open to blackmail. Yet, between Chadwick's first approach and his second, Paris had happened and could not be undone. In Anthony's baggage for Helsinki would be packed a bleak awareness of his own desperation and how it might be alleviated. A large ‘B' in a square box stood to one side: Bampton, his boss, who disapproved of the whole business but was incapable of sympathy. No wonder Ted had a reputation for being a tough guy who lacked sophistication; he seemed not to understand how anyone else functioned at all.

Anthony drew a circle several times around the ‘C' then almost involuntarily, without breaking the line, pulled it around the ‘A' like a lasso. With an oath he threw the pencil down.

To whom might he turn? Whom could he trust? Elaine, his immediate superior, would, he was sure, show more compassion than Bampton. She would not laugh at him, nor suggest impossible solutions like marriage. But to confess to her required admitting both the threat from Chadwick and his own inability to ignore it. That also meant blackening Chadwick's character as well as his own. Furthermore, unless she took his place on the delegation she could not assist, not without a complaint to someone else such as the Perm Sec. In any case, she seemed to have her own battles with Bampton. Better not to involve her at all.

Was there someone at the Battersea house – his cousin, maybe? Lachlan's psychiatric knowledge might be invaluable and as a doctor he was sworn to confidentiality. Anthony began to chew at a fingernail, then stopped himself, crossly. Lachlan was part of the family, but had never been taken into his confidence. These revelations would be a terrific surprise. And to embroil him might be to abuse his friendship. Medically trained or not, Lachlan wasn't his doctor. He'd simply suggest that Anthony seek specialised help.

As for confiding in Fred, the idea was ludicrous. Karen, too. There'd been a time when that might have been possible. She knew more than most people but had never betrayed him. Karen suspected something was up – he had seen her observing him more than once. But the moment had passed, had it ever existed. And Karen was newly wrapped up in Fred. That he might be the subject of earnest analysis between Fred and Karen in bed – it had probably occurred already – filled Anthony with humiliation and shame. He had no urge to put flesh on the bones of their suspicions, nor to listen to any more superfluous advice.

But if he did nothing … the trip was only a few weeks away, soon after the Party Conference. And if he evaded the threat at Helsinki it would surface elsewhere: there would be many opportunities to come.

His head hurt. He passed a hand over his brow and was surprised to find his palm damp. What if he went, and Chadwick made his advance?

Anthony covered his eyes and face; behind his hands, his mouth opened wide as if he would cry out but nothing came. He saw himself at a distance. A black pool lapped at his feet. The water as it touched him left a scum. From its surface came a smell of decay; yet he ached to tear off his clothes and jump in…

Did that mean he was gay? Anthony struggled, horrified, then with a huge effort forced himself to consider the odds. He did not
want
to be: he wanted to be a straight heterosexual, though it was clear now that he wasn't. He strongly deplored homosexuality and always had – was on record with his disapproval. Gay sex was unnatural, a perversion, though he recoiled from categorising other people's proclivities in offensive terms. He was simply not
like that
. He had never felt attracted to boys at school – indeed had been repelled by the touch of human skin. That, surely, had been the problem with Karen, and girls generally: he didn't like touching or being touched. It wasn't that one gender or the other was the more repellent. All physical contact had made him recoil – at least until Paris.