The Image in the Water (12 page)

The story changed her mood to serious. ‘You must take it,' she said.

He expostulated, over the
crème brûlé,
which was leathery, then over the double espresso coffee, but he could not shake her. Nor, he assured himself, could
she
shake
him.
He wrote a cheque for the dinner because the steak house would not accept a credit card even from a prime minister. By now just about everyone in the restaurant had recognised them and was staring, some openly, others pretending not to.

‘I'd like to go back to not being recognised,' he said to Louise, helping her on with her coat, trying to wrap up the argument. ‘But I expect most of them are looking at you.'

‘Don't deceive yourself. You're talking as you might have talked ten years ago, when we first met. I'd have believed your modesty then, but it rings false now. Like Simon you're hooked on the work and you relish the publicity, though you keep that last a close secret even from yourself.'

‘Nonsense,' but he was pleased. The car dropped him in Downing Street before taking her north to Highgate. This time there was no plan, but he kissed her, lightly, on just one cheek.

‘Nonsense,' he said again to himself, very pleasantly, as he
waited for the lift inside No. 10. ‘Nonsense,' again, as he climbed into bed.

Guy Freetown had left the hotel in Tokyo to walk round the Imperial Moat, which he said would take him an hour. Joan was thus free to dance a jig in front of the largest mirror of the Royal Suite. None of the friends and allies of the harsh, handsome, humourless Chancellor of the Exchequer would for one minute have thought her capable of such a silly gesture. Guy would have remembered it from the happy days of their early marriage, but even he would have been amazed to find it still in his wife's repertoire.

But then the news from London was amazing, fantastic, absurdly splendid. The flood of press cuttings had just stopped flowing from the fax machine. Joan had stacked them neatly on the ornate little desk alongside; even in triumph she was neat.

HAND IN HAND ON BEACH – ROGER QUITS

HOME SECRETARY QUITS BUT – ‘I WAS NEVER GAY'

GAY PHOTO CLINCHES JOAN'S TRIUMPH

NOW IT MUST BE JOAN

It had been hard to decide whether to come to Tokyo for the board meeting of the International Monetary Fund. David Alcester, as her campaign manager, had been against it. She should stay at home, he thought, chat in the Commons' tea room, smile at wobbly backbenchers, give another interview to the
Evening Standard,
appear yet again on
Newsnight.
But David, though brilliant and utterly loyal, knew only the partisan part of Joan's life. She might be running for the Tory
leadership, but she was still in charge of Britain's finances. This IMF meeting was not routine. The European Commission was angling to replace Britain and France on the board of the fund with a single European representative. The French had been staunch up to now, but it was rumoured that they might change if a Frenchman were chosen to represent Europe. There would be a tussle, mostly behind the scenes, and Joan must be at the heart of it. Guy had been clear that she should stick to her commitment.

‘How will it look,' she had asked David Alcester, just before she left for the airport, ‘if I stay at home chasing votes and there's an ambush in Tokyo and we lose our seat?'

David, sitting on the sofa in the Treasury, had chewed his handkerchief and looked cross. He had not yet learned a gracious way of admitting that he was wrong. This was an art of which Joan was ignorant herself, but which she valued in others.

ROGER'S BEACH SHAME

THE HOLIDAY SNAP WENT WRONG

‘YES, I GUESSED' SAYS ROGER'S EX

THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING ODD ABOUT HIS KISSES

Joan disliked these secondary headlines. She had no time for Roger Courtauld, grudging the success that, up to yesterday, he had achieved with so little apparent effort. Certainly she would much rather have beaten him in a fair fight without the benefit of the beach photograph. But the excitement was that she had won, she was going to be Prime Minister. Was it too early to ring David Alcester and get the latest feel? Nine hours' difference, so it would be seven in the morning in London.

The telephone rang; the bouncy voice did not wait for her greeting. ‘Marvellous press, Joan. I made sure they sent you all of it.'

‘Many thanks, David. For that and for everything. Are you still in bed?' She brushed aside and quickly buried her wish to visualise David Alcester in bed.

‘No, just back from the gym in the basement. Twenty lengths in the Olympic pool. Joan, we need to seize the moment. I've rung Redburn already to say you think the uncertainty is damaging to everyone. Now Roger Courtauld's out they should telescope the timetable, and get you elected within a couple of days.'

The young man took too much on himself, but Joan forgave him since the cause was so good.

‘What did Sir Martin say?'

‘Hummed and hawed, said, not easy, he'd think about it.'

‘Any sign of another candidate?'

‘None, though he said he'd have to leave a day or two in case one came forward. But it would only be a maverick.'

‘You're sure, David?' There had been something in his tone that suggested he was reassuring himself.

A moment's silence.

‘David, you must tell me if there's anything on your mind. There must be no secrets between us.'

‘It's just something Redburn said. And it's confirmed in the
Telegraph,
page two, I think. He said a good many people were cross with the press. Didn't like the photograph ploy. Didn't think Roger should have given in to it.'

‘But I had nothing to do with it.'

‘Everyone knows that. Redburn said it himself. You're in the clear.'

‘The danger is that these people will get at Roger Courtauld this morning and that the foolish man will change his mind and come back in.'

‘Yes, I agree that's the danger.'

But it wasn't.

Statement by Sir Martin Redburn on behalf of the Conservative 1922 Committee:

Tuesday, 23 March

In view of some erratic misreporting I have been authorised by the Committee to explain why I yesterday approached the Prime Minister, Sir Peter Makewell, on behalf of the Committee and invited him to enter the contest for the leadership of the Conservative Party. We did not take this exceptional action because we underrate the claim of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Joan Freetown, to the leadership. On the contrary some of us would in normal circumstances have supported Joan Freetown in this contest. But the circumstances are not normal. The
Thunder
newspaper has attempted to destroy the candidature of the Home Secretary, Roger Courtauld, by a device that is at once obscene and absurd. Other newspapers have shared this tactic while appearing to condemn it, by giving extensive publicity to the story and to the insinuations that surround it. The growing unease with which most of us have for years regarded the sleazy influence of the press on British politics has come to a head. Others who have not hitherto shared this unease can now see its justification. The press claims to cleanse the body politic but in fact pollutes it. Self-regulation has failed.
The time has come to protect the public from a growing evil

The Conservative government under its new leadership will now need to put forward proposals for an effective law on privacy. We are familiar with the reasons why this measure, often condemned, has always in the past been shelved. Behind the excuses the underlying reason is lack of courage. When it came to the crunch, politicians of all parties have declined to challenge forces in the media that might cripple or destroy them. There should be a much more stringent measure preventing the abuse of ownership of newspapers, television and radio. The government should abandon its plans for a more generous Freedom of Information Bill. The clamour for greater freedom of information masks the greed of the media for greater power. But they are not elected by the people and have no right to speak on behalf of the people. The culture of sleaze in the British media is now more damaging to the public than any culture of secrecy in Whitehall.

Meanwhile there is a case for emphatic public protest. We endorse the suggestion that on every Wednesday for the next six weeks, beginning tomorrow 24 March, individual citizens should refrain from buying any newspaper from any shop or news-stand.

More immediately, we welcome the Prime Minister's decision to accept our invitation to stand for the leadership. We believe that in the new situation he will receive overwhelming support from Members of Parliament and from our supporters in the constituencies, whatever their previous intentions. We believe
that Peter Makewell can restore the unity of the Party and equip us to confront successfully the many challenges (including the challenge of the media) which confront us.

Joan Freetown read this text standing up beside her desk in the Royal Suite. Up to now she had had a good day. She had intimidated the Japanese chairman of the IMF meeting by threatening to walk out if there was any discussion of any proposal to replace the British, French and German seats on the board with a single European seat. She had told the French that she would veto any French candidate for such a seat who might put his head above the parapet. She had no right to bully the Japanese and no veto to scupper the French, but in her career Joan Freetown had often found that the confident assertion of a right you did not possess was almost as good as acquiring it.

All the more vexing, therefore, to find this setback at home.

‘Rather well written,' said Guy, ‘in a traditional sort of style.' He, too, had spent a happy day, visiting temples and gardens in the company of an old Japanese business friend. He was entirely relaxed, wearing a rather too heavy suit that had seen faithful service in the Cotswolds.

‘Nonsense, it's rubbish from beginning to end. A total meaningless rant. We all know the press at home is destructive. But what's that got to do with the leadership contest? Let me ring Peter Makewell at once before he makes an ass of himself.'

‘Why don't you ring David Alcester first, to check the facts and get the background?'

This was unusual: Guy hardly ever spoke of David Alcester, as if by silence he could conjure the young man away from his place at Joan's side as her political henchman.

Joan was already dialling. ‘David?'

‘I was just going to ring you.'

‘What the hell is going on?'

‘You've heard, then. I warned you last night that—'

‘You said nothing about Peter Make well.'

‘I knew nothing about Peter Makewell. Redburn leaned on him hard. They've all gone mad over the press.'

‘So?' A silence. ‘So? David, I'm asking you.' Still silence. ‘David, I rely on you.'

Joan sat down rather abruptly. Guy could imagine the young man wrestling with his calculations of his own self-interest, mixed with scraps of loyalty to Joan. Complicated men are not at their best, he thought, on complicated occasions. He had noticed and feared the note of attraction in his wife's voice, not because David Alcester was capable of threatening his marriage or had any interest in trying but because he knew from the past that when Joan became fond of young men she tended to follow their advice even when, or particularly when, it was bad. He held his breath, so that David could not know he was listening on the extension on the sofa by the mini-bar.

David Alcester spoke slowly as he turned a page in his own career. He decided to tell the truth. ‘The PM will get all Courtauld's support and add maybe a dozen of his own. That should still leave you with a winning hand among the MPs, if you hold your own pledges. And once you have won with them you'd romp home in the constituencies. At least, that's what I would have said two days ago, but I'm not sure of even
that now. It sounds as if the constituency chairmen are whooping the Party up against the press more loudly than anyone. Anyway it all depends on your holding those pledges in the Commons, and I'm afraid you won't. They're shifting already. I've had three calls since breakfast …'

‘Who?'

‘Suffling, Lerwick, Andrew Jones – all much the same, undying admiration for you, your turn will come, but this is rather a special occasion.'

‘Skunks.'

‘Indeed, Joan.' A long pause. ‘I'll stick by you if you decide to go on …' This was said slowly. Guy sensed that it was a gamble. In having said this David Alcester had added weight to the advice that came next: ‘… but on balance you should pull out now and declare for Make well.'

‘You're sure? I could fly back at once. You're sure there's no hope?' Her hand clenched round the receiver and she pressed her lips tight together as she did during difficult moments in the House of Commons.

‘Quite sure, Joan.'

‘Thank you, David.' The conversation ended. She turned furiously on Guy. ‘How did you know what David Alcester would say?'

‘I had no idea. I just knew you would want his advice.'

‘You didn't talk to him before I came back?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘What would you have done if he had said I should fight on?'

‘I should have persuaded you otherwise.'

‘Tried to persuade me.'

Guy suppressed a smile. He knew he would have won. He
would have played the highest card of all: their marriage. Because he had only played that card once or perhaps twice in thirty years it had never looked like failing.

Joan went to her husband and kissed him. The tears of anger in her eyes were replaced by others. As she kissed him he held her tight. Her black hair with the silver streak was soft against his shoulder.

Later they slipped out of the back door of the hotel, dodging the two Japanese protection officers. Guy knew of a tiny restaurant nearby, with just eight stools against a curved bar. The proprietor boasted that a famous wrestler had once eaten five hundred shrimps in quick succession at that bar. The shrimps came sizzling, small, tasty, expensive. Warm sake and the sense of refinding companionship turned the evening into a success.