This Honourable House (27 page)

Alone. Oneness, solitude. Isolation. This was his own choice, but it felt a self-imposed penance. The lovely Fiona was always available if he wanted to dine out
à deux
or to go to the theatre or opera; but the opportunities, when there was no vote, were so few and unpredictable that one got out of the habit. The lovely Fiona, in any case, was an employee. She gave no hint that she actually enjoyed his company; her greatest concern, Andrew judged, was to do the job in hand superbly. No more.

He wished he had never embarked on the lark of a pretend girlfriend. Melvyn should have had more sense than to suggest it. There was something fundamentally unpleasant about the idea: it stuck in his craw. If he hadn’t already gone down that route, he would have refused to co-operate. But in a moment of weakness, under pressure from a prime minister busy promoting family values, he had succumbed. And now it was accepted, if not totally believed, that he and Fiona were an item.

She had understood, of course. The consummate professional, she had not been inquisitive. She seemed to have sensed that the prospect of sleeping with her was abhorrent to him, and didn’t seem to mind.

It wasn’t her, of course. It was all women. Yet even as his eyes strayed to her photograph in its pretty silver frame on the desk, Andrew saw that Fiona would have taken the pretence the whole way, had he wanted. If he had courted her, asked her to wed, it was quite possible that she might have agreed, signed a premarital contract and gone through with it, though Heaven knew if such a fake of a marriage could last. Till death, maybe, if other couples’ lavender marriages were any guide. There were dozens in the House of Commons, in every party. If the couple were genuinely fond of one
another and shared the same ideals – especially in politics, where it was so useful to conform – then twenty years or more was not unknown. Long enough to see him into the House of Lords, anyway. But he could not bring himself to do it.

What galled him most was that others did, without any apparent strain on their consciences. Young men who had kept him amused back in his days as a university lecturer, who had lounged at his feet and not objected if he let his fingers stroke their bare arms as he spoke. It would be excessive to suggest that he had expected to find a new coterie on the green benches, to carry on as if there had been no break. That would have been grossly unfair, as well as unlikely. But was it unfair to have hoped that one or two former students who had also been lovers, however briefly, even initiates such as Benedict Ashworth, might have given him more?

One had to be discreet. Always. It went without saying. It was not in their manner or repertoire to flaunt their orientation. They were not campaigners: let others expose themselves to ridicule, to the whispers behind hands. Denial was the key. So no problem arose if a sexual partner preferred anonymity: the cloak of secrecy was firmly in place. Better to get on with what one wanted without demur or revelation. Then, in daylight, elusive and dignified, one could concentrate on one’s career with no fear that it might disintegrate in a welter of accusation and tears.

Ashworth would have been perfect. He had been perfect in those endless, sensuous student days when the topics under discussion over wine were Proust or E.M. Forster rather than economics. It didn’t matter one jot that he was in another political party now: discretion alone would hide names, places, identities. But one had to be supremely self-assured to set out on such an adventure when the stakes were so high, and skilled at securing its concealment. Both were talents that Andrew possessed abundantly.

But Benedict Ashworth had become embroiled in a lavender marriage, just like so many others. It was dishonest in the extreme. It was an abrogation of one’s true nature, a different form of denial: denying it to oneself. Surely Ashworth, and others who claimed not to be gay, could see that. They were on a roller-coaster to nowhere in their personal lives, even if their public images had been officially enhanced.

But these liaisons were wrong in a more fundamental way. If gay men pretended not to be gay, if men prominent in public life talked disparagingly about their ‘youthful indiscretions’ and implied that on reaching maturity all that was required was the will to conform, overnight the environment became friendlier for homophobes. It bolstered those narrow-minded bigots who wished to eradicate homosexuality from society entirely, to drive it underground, or to ‘rescue’ men who were ‘sufferers’ from what was seen as a curable disease.

But, if one were not where one wished to be. If image were everything, and if image were the only barrier, should one adapt one’s image? The awful evening at the restaurant with Fiona returned unbidden. He felt nauseous. That kind of media massaging came easily to the Prime Minister and was one of the main contrasts between them. The question remained, however: how far should a man go, against his nature if necessary, to take his career onwards to the most fulfilling post of all?

He let himself dwell on the idea, but a more compelling picture troubled his mind. Benedict Ashworth, the day he got married. Beautiful Benedict, who had once been such a delight. It had not been mere ambition that had swept him to the altar; it had not been a simple marriage of convenience, although beyond doubt it was convenient. The boy’s demeanour since, however, did not suggest that it had made him deliriously happy. Some spark had fled from him. Andrew, who had kissed that fair cheek in secret affection, did not care to ponder in detail what might have taken place. Suffice that Benedict had tried what was being urged on himself, and the outcome had been dismal.

Damn Benedict. Had it been too much to dream that he, of the whole gang, might have stayed loyal? It was not an entirely far-fetched idea. Benedict had been at the admiring centre of a group of acolytes for ages, then he had drifted away. Now he wore a wedding ring, but did not touch his wife.

Andrew grunted. He did not want to do the boxes in his flat at dead of night, the dun-coloured files spread out on the bedclothes where a lithe smooth body should be. Better to power one’s way through the material in the gloom of the afternoon. Then he would eat dinner in the Commons and practise being gracious: slap a few backs, listen gravely to the odd complaint, before heading off into the darkness celibate, frustrated and alone.

Nemesis.

‘But we didn’t,’ Benedict said angrily, into the phone. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about. Lawrence is my cousin and campaign manager. He was the best man at my wedding, for God’s sake.’

At the other end of the line the voice of the veteran news-gatherer for the Press Association had begun to wheedle. ‘Known you since your first contest. Always written kindly about you. Help you put your point of view.’

‘I don’t have a point of view,’ Benedict spluttered. ‘I didn’t do anything of the sort, never have, and I’ll sue anyone who says I did. You damned well put that into the headline news, you hear?’ He slammed down the handset.

Nemesis: the sound of fluttering wings about their heads. It seemed to get darker though it was not yet six. Lawrence paced agitatedly up and down their Commons office on the Speaker’s corridor, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The walls were covered in posters from old campaigns; above the fax machine were extracts from the previous week’s opinion polls, with Benedict’s high ratings outlined in green. On the desk lay several new sheets of fax paper. The lines were fuzzy, the pictures obscure, but the meaning was crystal clear. ‘You can’t sue, Benedict,’ he said wearily. ‘That’s an empty threat.’

‘I can,’ said Benedict. ‘And you can back me up. If they’re claiming that the photos of you and me wrestling in that gym show we had a sexual relationship, nothing could be further from the truth.’

‘Of course I’ll back you up. Though if the pictures on the inside pages are as incriminating and juicy as they claim, it wouldn’t matter what we said.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If it looks as if we were necking or embracing or whatever, then our denials aren’t worth that.’ Lawrence snapped his fingers. ‘And we can explain till we’re blue in the face that the gym was particularly hot that day and that we didn’t normally wrestle in the nude, but they’ll laugh us out of court.’

‘But they must believe us. That is the whole, unvarnished truth. We would both uphold it on oath.’

‘Oh, yeah? And the caretaker would no doubt declare that the temperature was normal, and that he’d seen us strip off together more than once. If they can find him.’ Benedict looked puzzled. ‘That caretaker hasn’t been on duty the last couple of dates we’ve been,’ he said. ‘You don’t think he was behind this?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think, or who was responsible,’ Lawrence said savagely. ‘And the truth, to which you are so addicted, is also a casualty. It’s what appears to be the case that’ll take over. And what people make of it.’

‘I don’t see why. Two men, close friends, do a bit of martial arts together. They’re the latest craze. Even women are doing high kicks and blocking moves now. So what?’

‘The photos,’ Lawrence almost shouted, ‘suggest we were doing a lot more than that. And they’re – well, salacious would be an understatement. Pictures of naked men rolling about together still aren’t common currency, despite the new century. Prudish Victorian attitudes still apply, especially among the tabloids.’

‘Even if we were, which we weren’t,’ Benedict continued, in a troubled voice, ‘there’d be plenty who would spring to our defence, surely?’

‘Like who?’ Lawrence grated. ‘Your gay pals? You think they’d come forward? In a month of Sundays, sunshine. You’ve not exactly backed them, have you? Comes the invite for Gay Pride and we’re too busy, as if we might catch an infection. Your blue-rinsed ladies? You joking? You got hitched to satisfy them, remember, and they cheer Christine to the echo at every party conference. They’d say, “Stick it out.” What are you planning to tell them? That it was a sham?’

‘No, no.’ Benedict launched into what sounded like an oft-repeated speech to himself: ‘It wasn’t a sham. I loved Christine, really loved her. Still do, if she’d let me. Wanted to take control of myself. Join the mainstream. Fed up being a freak. Wanted to be normal. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Oh, Benedict,’ was his cousin’s sad response. The two main-line phones rang insistently but were ignored. Whenever one stopped the jangle started on their mobiles, until both men switched them off brusquely and threw them on the desk as if on to a waste heap.

The heavy carved door was flung open. On the threshold, clutching a Sellotaped fax of the following day’s front page of the
Globe
, stood Christine. Her face was white, her hair dishevelled. She thrust the sheet at her husband. ‘What have you done?’ she hissed.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Benedict burbled. ‘Pictures are misleading. We weren’t doing anything –’

‘You great prat.’ Her eyes bulged. ‘This is the second time, and it’s once too many. I could put up with your vanishing act when you reappeared like a dishevelled ape at your mother’s. Then, you promised to behave. Impeccably. But now this.’

‘I can explain.’ Benedict spread his hands in a supplicatory gesture but it was lost on his wife.

‘You steaming great idiot, Benedict. How could you let yourself get caught so easily? And you!’ She whirled round and almost spat in Lawrence’s face. ‘You should have had more sense. Wasn’t this martial arts lark your idea? Why didn’t you do it at home, or somewhere you wouldn’t ever be spied on? Instead you chose a public place –’

‘It wasn’t,’ Lawrence protested mildly. ‘But you’re right to be annoyed, Christine –’

‘Don’t you try that smarmy blather on me,’ she retorted. ‘You silly pair. Jesus, you’ve dropped yourselves in the shit. And me. And your mother – Benedict, have you any idea what this’ll do to her? It doesn’t matter so much what you are: she’s not stupid, she guessed years ago, as she told us that horrible weekend in Devon. It’s the public revelations, the accusations that will wound her. The humiliation. You should have considered that before you unbuttoned your shirt.’

‘We didn’t do
anything
,’ said Benedict furiously. ‘That is not fair. We didn’t know we were being watched. We look every precaution necessary to guarantee our privacy. My God, Christine, if I’d wanted to have it off with Lawrence, choosing somewhere more private is exactly what we’d have done. But that wasn’t what was going on. It was completely innocent, you must see that.’

‘I don’t think I give a fuck,’ said Christine, with crisp fury. ‘You promised, and you broke that promise. It took a matter of months. So don’t count on me sticking up for you any further. I’ve had it up to here.’ She made a slashing sign at her throat.

The two men glanced away. In the small office their breathing was harsh and short. Christine folded her arms. ‘The question is, what are you going to do now?’

It was a question to which, apparently, neither man had given much consideration. ‘Deny it, I suppose,’ said Benedict slowly. ‘Our lawyer is on his way and we will issue a statement. I’ll check whether we can get an injunction as the pictures were taken without permission. That must violate our human rights. Or something.’

‘Now I’m certain you’re off your head,’ said Christine bitterly. ‘That’d take months or years. Or loads of money that we don’t have. Or both. No, Benedict. You’re going to have to decide in the next half-hour. Resign from the party leadership, or not?’

‘But why? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Because you’re a laughing-stock, that’s why. Your credibility is shot to hell. Or it will be tomorrow morning, when these photos are on every breakfast table in the country.
In flagrante delicto
, you stupid bugger. Don’t you see?’

‘What I can see,’ said Benedict quietly, ‘is that I don’t appear to have your confidence, Christine. That is the least I would expect from my wife.’

‘Really? Well, we can correct that right now.’ With awkward, excessive movements Christine tugged off the wedding band and threw it on to the desk, where it rolled and came to rest against the mobile phones, rocking slightly. ‘Stuff your sodding marriage. It was all a front, anyway. I wish you well for the future. You don’t need me, never did. And I will surely be better off without you.’