This Honourable House (3 page)

‘With a few exceptions who write for the
Guardian
or get jobs on talk radio,’ Pansy joined in, laughing.

‘How many ex-MPs did we discover had ended up on the dole? About forty, wasn’t it? And those are the guys who were running the country last year,’ Betts agreed.

‘It’s a funny old world,’ Pansy drawled, in a passable imitation of Margaret Thatcher.

She pinched his arm again and scurried away. The discussion had served to focus Betts’s own doubts about the fairytale pictures unfolding on the screen. He watched Benedict’s arrival at the church. Like so many others of his ilk the man had read politics at university, been active in the student union, got a job, probably unpaid, in some MP’s office, done a stretch in the party’s research department and been hooked for life. It was a sickness, an infection. Whether they were born with oversized egos or acquired them along the way was a moot point. There should be a government warning issued with every college politics course that the condition was catching, dangerous and incurable, and would leave sufferers the object of ridicule for as long as they were remembered. Their opiate was public adulation. Being forgotten, of course, was the ultimate humiliation.

Nobody sane would see Parliament as a respectable occupation, Betts reasoned, not if he or she could earn a living doing anything else. They should be out running a business or tossing money
around in the City, or in the wig and gown of a lawyer. Betts shuddered. He hated lawyers. In a just world, newspapermen would be free to comment and criticise as they thought fit. A call from the office of a new female Secretary of State had already been taken: she was furious with some anodyne remarks he had made in a leader column. Why anybody should object to being dubbed ‘vile’ was beyond him, but she had taken umbrage. Betts had a nasty feeling that that was not the last he would hear of it.

He peered more closely at the monitor. The Ashworth betrothal had been greeted with pleasure on every side. The guest list included frontbenchers from other parties. The most important, for whom Betts was now searching, was Andrew Marquand, Chancellor of the Exchequer. He had been Ashworth’s tutor at St Andrew’s. It was there, apparently, that the bridegroom’s passion for politics had been kindled. So Marquand had more than a double hike in petrol tax to answer for: he had been responsible for corrupting the attitudes of a whole cohort of youngsters, convincing them that the political world was full of sweet opportunity. Several, including Benedict, had accompanied their guru into the mire of Westminster.

As if on cue, the Chancellor appeared at the entrance to the church. St Margaret’s was the old parliamentary place of worship, situated opposite the Palace of Westminster under the shadow of Westminster Abbey. The twelfth-century crypt chapel under the Palace could have been used but would not hold enough guests. Cameras were allowed inside St Margaret’s but would have been barred from the Palace. Benedict had chosen wisely.

Crashing rolls of organ music announced the arrival of the bride. Above her head, bells rang out joyously. The crowd were giving faint cheers, as if it were expected of them, though many were foreign tourists and somewhat bewildered. Christine was radiant in cream silk, a slight furrow on her brow as she switched the bouquet of lilies and roses from one hand to the other and adjusted her veil. The diamond tiara, it was reported, had been lent by a friendly peeress. Two tiny bridesmaids and an older girl fussed over the dress and train. Then, calmly, she stood proudly on the arm of her father and began to move inside at a regal pace.

So who was that with Andrew Marquand? Betts peered closer. The face was familiar: she was dark-haired, trim, pretty, in a smart navy suit. Betts picked up the phone and murmured a question. He did not have to wait long. ‘Fiona Sutton,’ came the answer. ‘Works in the PR agency that handled the election for the government.’

‘A PR girl, then?’ Betts murmured. As Christine’s face hove into view on the screen, he added, ‘Another PR girl. Place is lousy with them.’

He reached for his black notebook and recorded the information. He would find out more. Some day, it might turn out useful.

One person watching television at home felt an uncomfortable mix of wistfulness and despair. It would have been too easy to cry. A box of Kleenex was at her side, an open packet of chocolate digestives in her lap.

Gail Bridges, Frank’s estranged wife, had been married in a hasty register office ceremony in Leece Street within odoriferous distance of the Mersey, near the main police station to which her fiancé had been transferred. He had been in uniform, at her insistence: she adored a man in uniform. It made him so respectable. The silver buttons had shone and you could see your face in his boots. He’d still had a hangover from the stag night, and so had his mates: he had leaned on her when they signed the register.

Gail had worn a big cartwheel hat, rather like Benedict’s mother’s; a defiant gesture. The photographs, taken with a box camera by her brother, a mite out of focus, had recorded that same concentrated furrow of the brow that Christine had. No doubt for a similar reason, for the thoughts of every bride are the same: Do I look okay? Will I make a fool of myself? Did I make a mistake in
saying yes? Did I have any choice, when it came down to it? Will he make a good husband, or will I live to regret this moment for the rest of my life?

A lump came to Gail’s throat. She was sprawled on the floor of their Cheshire home, though it would not be hers for much longer. She had dressed in leggings and an ancient sweater and sat surrounded by the soft toys of which she had made a collection, much to Frank’s annoyance. He used to speculate that they were a substitute for children, which might have been true but was still hurtful. Gail had retorted that he should be thankful she hadn’t taken to breeding chihuahuas or poodles. He had snorted, and that had been an end of it. Till the next time the subject of her barrenness came up.

It was not her fault. The doctors had said there was no obvious reason
why
she should not have children, and suggested that Frank should have a test. He had rejected that idea out of hand. Gail suspected that he did not want the results of any such tests. If a woman was infertile, that was her responsibility. If it was the man, especially a man so full of macho sensitivity as Frank, his
self-esteem
was irreparably damaged. And that would never do. A modern couple might have pursued the issue via IVF, with donor sperm. Another man’s children? That was unthinkable, for them both. The conversation had never taken place, but Gail could have repeated it word for word, exactly as it might have occurred.

In any case, his days were full without children. Had he been a father, he would have been a neglectful one, Gail was sure. He was a fine man as he was, with political intrigue as his baby. Perhaps it had been better for them both that the pregnancy had proved false.

This house had been sold. Her belongings were already half in, half out of packing cases. Of course, it was too big for her, with five bedrooms and an acre of garden. Gail could not recall now why such a mansion had ever seemed desirable; perhaps they had been showing off to each other when he was first elected, back in the days when housing was cheap. The bathrooms had impressed her relatives, while the neighbours were much more refined than she was used to. They, in turn, basked in the reflected glory of an MP in their midst and had been cordial. But even with the promised fees from the magazine column and the proposed book, she would have been hard pressed to keep it up, and in fact she didn’t want to. It reminded her too much of weekends when Frank had been pleased to come home to her, and had talked long into the night about his ambitions for the future, until the drone had sent her to sleep.

She had humoured him, never thinking that a person from such a limited background could have got nearly as far. This was a man who was hard-pressed to write a letter for himself and whose tortured syntax on the public platform still drew sneering comment. A man who had to rely on other people, such as herself, to fill in forms and to ensure that the television licence and the car tax were paid on time. Her post-school education, it was true, ran only to the college of commerce, but it was more than his. Without secretaries his obvious lacunae would have tripped him up long ago. Secretaries including That Woman.

But give him an issue – especially a row where attitudes had become entrenched – and Frank was the master. He could grasp what each faction needed, their fears and bottom lines, better than anyone. He could negotiate a deal in which everyone came out on top – or, at least, felt they did. Even as a police officer that had been his forte. And Frank, dear Frank, would be shaking hands all round, the centre of an admiring band of former enemies. Frank was always surrounded by friends. He didn’t need kids, or family. He was never alone. But she was.

And now …
now
didn’t bear thinking about. Gail cuddled a doll and blinked away tears as Benedict and his new wife, confident and smiling, stepped out of the church under a hail of rice. Confetti was banned in Parliament Square, but pigeons and seagulls were free cleansing agents. What a handsome pair, she could not stop herself admitting. It would be churlish to wish them anything other than a full and happy married life.

Frank had probably considered getting married in the same fashion, this time. Deprived of a
white wedding on the first occasion because of the rush and expense, he would have discussed with That Woman how they might flaunt their relationship. Some churches would do it, despite the divorce. An ecclesiastical blessing, perhaps, some time after the register office. She would not have put it past the Usurper to lead Frank by the nose to the nearest altar in a flurry of Brussels lace and posh headgear. Frank in a topper would cut quite a dash.

Gail’s chin came up. She needed to consult her adviser. If he said she should attend and wait outside the church, then that was what she would do, however horrible the experience. If he told her to stay at home and arranged for a sympathetic woman journalist and photographer or TV crew to record her anguish, then she would grit her teeth and do that, too. Mr Clifford Maxwell was a godsend. Nobody else had been as considerate. No one else had come up with so many smart wheezes that had enabled her to put across her point of view. No longer the sad silent little wife – ex-wife, soon, when the decree absolute came through – she was now a person in her own right. Frank had treated her badly, dropped her like a hot potato in two minutes flat after decades of loyal marriage. Expected her to take it meekly, as ever. Brayed at her in the VIP lounge to belt up, then shouted into the mobile that he was ditching his wife for his mistress. Humiliated her in the most dreadful manner. And now dear Mr Maxwell and his skills had ensured that everyone knew about it.

That was her sole consolation. Gail pulled a fresh tissue out of the box and waved it at the screen as the young couple climbed into the flower-bedecked Rolls. The Ashworth reception was to be at the Savoy, the honeymoon destination was a secret. Her reception had been in her mother’s front room with the smell of mothballs on her aunties’ dresses, and the honeymoon had been three days in New Brighton. They had lived for years on a police constable’s wage of seven pounds a week. She had supported him steadfastly. And this was all the gratitude she got.

The screen returned to a commentator. The phone was ringing. If that was another request for an interview about why marriages failed, she would accept, and tell her side of the story to anyone who would listen.

Diane Clark sat up in bed and pressed the switch of the remote control. ‘That damned wedding,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there anything else on?’

‘You wanted to watch the news, Diane. That
is
the news, today,’ came a muffled response from the depths of the bedclothes.

It was early evening. From between drawn curtains, hanging motionless in the still air, a narrow shaft of sunlight spread itself over the carpet. The flat was warm and stuffy; the remains of a bouquet of white roses drooped in a vase. The silvered presentation pieces on the mantelpiece gleamed dully. The framed photographs on the living room wall were in shadow: President Mandela with Diane, a young Diane in a delegation with Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir, Diane with spiky hair and anorak under a banner on an Aldermaston march, Diane with a stud through her nose with the women of Greenham Common. The only other picture in the flat, showing Diane as a pigtailed child being hugged by Aneurin Bevan, was hung in the bathroom.

In deference to the wedding, the parliamentary schedule had been light. Those who yearned to debate pest control in zoos had had the entire afternoon and an empty chamber to themselves. Diane, whose department did not deal with such matters, had a different agenda for spare moments. She had excused herself from the office, said she was going to catch up with some reading and cleared off. Calls were to be held or diverted. She was not free indefinitely, however: a dinner with the Polish ambassador loomed. In an hour the official car, a Rover Sterling, would arrive. As a middle-ranking Cabinet minister she was not entitled to a Jaguar – yet.

Diane switched off the television and tossed the remote control on to the bedside table. She glanced coolly at herself in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. A faint mauve vein showed on her neck and the jaw had a slight slackness that was absent from the Aldermaston picture, but otherwise time had treated her well, far better than many of her male colleagues. She rubbed her hands over her big breasts and cupped them, peering down at their firm fullness. ‘See, I’m all flushed. Pink as a baby,’ she said, and played her fingers over her breastbone.

‘Naturally,’ came the sleepy voice from the bed. A tousled dark head surfaced, with damp fronds and a shadow over the jowls, then fell back again on the pillows. ‘You’ve been making love. With your usual fire and passion. God, what a woman! I’m knackered, Diane, and I’m twenty years younger than you.’

The young man struggled to sit upright and pushed back the sheets. He had the thinness of youth, with pale skin, narrow shoulders and sinewy arms. A trickle of sweat led from his throat to his navel following the line of black hairs. Together they peered at his groin where a limp, shrunken penis flopped on his thigh. He tapped it with a finger. ‘Finished,’ he said, with a giggle. ‘You’ve done it again.’

‘Well, why not? What else is there for a man and a woman to do? But, Mark, sweetheart, don’t remind me about the age gap. I thought it didn’t matter to you. It certainly didn’t last year.’ Diane returned to examining herself frankly in the mirror. What she saw appeared to give her satisfaction, for she flopped down beside the young man, wrapped a leg around his and laid her head on his shoulder, a hand on his damp, flat belly.

Mark stroked her arm. ‘No, it’s not important. I don’t worry about it. You’re fabulous. And you’ve been very kind to me.’

‘Kind? Hah!’ Diane snorted. ‘Nothing
kind
about it. You walked into my office offering yourself in any capacity you were needed. It didn’t take you long to twig where you’d be more use than most. Your help with the paperwork’s much appreciated, natch, but it’s
here
you’ve been outstanding.’ She patted the bed.

‘Yeah, it’s been fun.’ The young man fell silent. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes
unblinking.

Diane pulled on a towelling robe and disappeared into the tiny kitchen. She reappeared with two tumblers full of ice and fizzy liquid. ‘Rum and Coke okay? Mostly Coke. I have to make a speech tonight.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

She sat beside him. ‘Hey, Mark, what’s going on? You said it’s
been
fun, as if it’s over. You’ve mentioned the age gap, which normally is taboo. It’s tough, you being married and that, but I don’t gossip and neither do you. So what’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ he murmured, and indicated the detumescent member again. ‘Nothing’s up, as you can see.’ Neither of them laughed. He took the tumbler with both hands. ‘Maybe that’s it, Diane. You’re fabulous, but it can be hard keeping two women content. And if I fail with Susie, she starts to cry.’

‘Oh, I get it. The wife comes first, is that it?’ Diane could not stop herself sounding peevish.

‘But of course,’ he answered slowly. ‘This is a fling, as you’ve often made clear. I accepted that. Susie isn’t a fling, and she needs me more than you do.’ He shifted awkwardly and avoided her gaze. ‘When I started researching for you, you were a member of the opposition. We could have a lot
of fun
, out of the public eye. Now it’s changed.’

‘No, it isn’t. I’m the same, you’re the same.’ Fear curdled her voice.

‘You’re in government. That alters everything. Even if your staff and officials don’t chatter – and I wouldn’t put it past them – you’re under far closer scrutiny than ever before. You have to consider your own position. A Secretary of State with a boyfriend who’s a brand-new fellow Member of Parliament, married and twenty years younger – the press’d have a field day. Wouldn’t they?’

Diane jumped up from the bed, seeking distraction. ‘The press don’t need facts. They make them up. At least, Jim Betts and the
Globe
do. Did you see that horrible piece he wrote the day I was appointed? Said I’d exploited my sexuality to advance myself. Implied that I’d slept my way to prominence. Here it is.’

Mark was familiar with the article in question, but it would have been impolite to stem Diane in full flow. He read:

‘It’s awful, Diane,’ her lover said. ‘He’s a complete turd, that Jim Betts. Doesn’t care who he craps on. You shouldn’t get upset.’

‘He called me the “vilest lady” in the country. Me! And what for? What did I ever do to him? Not content with implying that I’ve slept my way to power, when nothing could be further from the truth, he suggests that I have no grounds to campaign as I do. What balls that is.’ She sat down heavily on the bed, her mouth puckered.

‘But can’t you see,’ Mark ventured carefully, ‘how much worse it would be if he
did
have some material? Me, for instance.’ He wiped his fingers, wet from the condensation of the glass, over her hot cheek. The airless room smelt headily of sex.

Diane shook her head. ‘Campaigners like me are needed. You don’t have to have suffered the aggression of a drunken husband to know that it’s not the best environment to bring up children. Sods like Betts, who isn’t partnered either so far as I’m aware and who tends to fall over dead drunk at press bashes, have absolutely no right to criticise or to try and silence me. That’s why this rubbish is
so unfair.’

Mark rolled away from her, preparing his body and hers for the moment at which they must part. He said, ‘I saw your mother at the count. She seemed a bit out of it. How’s she coping with your new status?’

Diane shrugged. ‘It gives her a new reason to moan. It’s a pain, being an only child. My mother would like me to be in daily attendance on her, and she’s the sort who believes the only role for women is a caring one. She still doesn’t think I’ve got a proper job. This politics lark will wear off, she says, and I’ll see sense. I’ll go home to Manchester and wait on her hand and foot. Except I won’t.’

‘But there’s nothing much wrong with her, you told me.’

‘No, but she’s ailing – she’s always ailing, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, except make appropriate noises. At such moments, God help me, I can begin to believe the victim theory of violence. Some people seem to invite it. My father was a weak man and a creep, but she must have driven him crazy with her whining. I suspect he died of despair, not a heart attack. As soon as I could, I got out. Up the ladder and over the wall. And here I am.’

Not for the first time, the young MP reflected that Diane Clark found it much easier to offer the milk of human kindness to strangers
en masse
than to members of her own family. It was a common enough trait in the political world. Not unexpectedly, it led to allegations of hypocrisy; such a charge, had the
Globe
made it in that form, would have been far closer to the truth than Betts’s tirade. Yet Diane’s efforts on behalf of battered wives and damaged children had been a lifelong commitment, impossible to deride as a pose. The tabloids, however, were not interested in the thoughtful investigation of a complex personality. They were seeking scandal, and in Diane’s case would not have far to go to find it.

‘So what are you intending to do?’ Mark slid out of bed and gathered up his clothes. He pointed cautiously at the newspaper clipping.

‘God, I’ve no choice. I singed ears with a couple of quick phone calls, then made an appointment to see Lord Godman, the QC. We’ve had an exchange of letters so far, with no apology. He agrees that the sentiments are clearly defamatory, and if I decide to issue a writ for libel, he’ll act for me.’

‘You might be better to forget it. It was weeks ago already. You’ve more significant fish to fry than Mr Jim Betts or his editor. Plus, this side of the election we need all the allies we can get. Not enemies. Before, the media accepted our version of events when we attacked the government. Now that we’re in charge, their guns have swivelled about and are pointed in our direction. We’re the targets now.’

He pulled on shorts and trousers and busied himself fastening his belt.

Diane stood up and, as if suddenly ashamed of her nakedness, pulled a sheet around her. She kissed her lover’s damp forehead. ‘One of the things I like about you, Mark, is you talk such sense. Unfortunately, this particular article is so nasty that it could do me real harm. The comments resurface every time I give an interview. I want to talk about helping the Third World or benefits for the disabled, and the interviewer asks sweetly how I react to being dubbed the vilest lady in the country. I’m promoting a greater role for women in society and the questions are lifted straight from the
Globe
: why did my marriage break up, am I against marriage, do I intend to curb my wild ways now I’m in the Cabinet? So I’m listening to advice, but without a withdrawal and a grovelling apology soon, I’ll probably go ahead and sue.’

Mark’s glum expression was more eloquent than words. Diane loosened the sheet around her hips. She reached put for the young man’s hand and guided it to her crotch, but he pulled away. With a brusque movement she sat down on the bed. ‘Out with it. What’s eating you?’

‘Not the article, though I don’t think the Boss’d be too pleased at your pursuing Pansy
Illingworth and her crowd. We want them with us, not against us. But, Diane, this has got to stop. Our – our affair. I wanted to tell you before but it’s come to a head.’

‘Go on.’ Diane’s face had darkened. The empty glass was cradled in her hand. She sat holding herself quite still.

‘Oh, Lord, there’s no easy way to put this.’ Mark struggled into his shirt, began to do up the buttons then realised he had mismatched them, undid the lot and started again, fingers trembling. ‘I can’t, I really can’t, keep you happy, and my wife, whom I love, plus do my work as an MP. That job is more gruelling than I anticipated. I’m a new backbencher, so I have to be in the House till ten night after night. That’s taking its toll, as you can imagine. It’s a four-hour journey up to the constituency at weekends,
and
we hope to start a family. Kids will come first, Diane.’

‘Yeah, understood,’ she answered, a trifle impatiently. ‘I was half expecting this.’

‘But, Diane, there’s more. Better coming from me than anyone else. I have so enjoyed being with you. How many times do I have to say that? You’re a fabulous woman, enticing, exciting, and magic in bed. But you should be more careful. You took a hell of a chance with me, though I would never let you down. I won’t talk – you can count on it. The very fact that I’m married, and ambitious, means I have as strong an incentive as you to keep my name out of the papers. And I reckon you like the thrill of the illicit, don’t you? Me too. But the more you select younger men as lovers, the more risks you run. You’ll get set up one of these days. Then you could come a cropper.’

‘What makes you think younger men are any less trustworthy?’

‘They’re not. Look, if you were having it off with, say, a chap in his fifties who is free and adores you, a companion like that might produce plaudits, not criticism. But there’s something – ah – indecent about an older woman with, well, boys. Especially when she’s in a position of seniority, as you are.’

‘What I do with my personal life is my business, and nobody else’s,’ Diane said stiffly. ‘The way we fulfil our office is what matters. Not who we sleep with, or where, or what particular tastes we like to indulge. That’s nobody’s business.’

‘But it is,’ Mark insisted. ‘The punters are fascinated by our private lives. We live in goldfish bowls. And we actively invite such attention. We offer ourselves up, in our election manifestos and addresses, as having special virtues. We promise honesty, and truth, and altruism of the highest order. The moment one of us is discovered engaging in behaviour that doesn’t match those high ideals we can go swing for our credibility.’

‘And how,’ said Diane, with a sharp edge to her voice, ‘could having younger boyfriends be regarded as damaging my credibility?’