What Will Survive (16 page)

Stephen's hand stroked his wife's hair, thinner now, he noticed with a rush of tenderness, than it used to be. ‘It's my job, darling, you of all people know that. Handkerchief?'

She shook her head and he produced one, clean and ironed as always, uncurled her fingers and pushed it into her hand. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.

‘Better?' He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. ‘Let's go.'

She took a breath. ‘Stephen —'

‘Not now, sweetheart. Up you get.' He pulled her to her feet, looked round the room and spotted a shawl on the chair. ‘Is that what you're wearing?'

‘My pashmina, yes.'

He arranged it over her shoulders, keeping up a stream of inconsequential remarks about Marcus's problems — so far no journalist had mentioned a trip he had made to the Middle East as the guest of a dodgy Jordanian businessman, recently indicted for fraud in the US, but no doubt it was only a matter of time — as he guided her down the stairs. On the landing outside the flat, Carolina waited like a well-behaved child as Stephen set the alarm and double-locked the front door, then allowed him to shepherd her down two more flights of stairs to the street. Forty minutes later, after battling through congested early-evening traffic, a black cab dropped them in a long, gloomy street overshadowed by monumental railway arches. The driver gestured towards a cube-like blue building on the left.

‘That's it, mate.'

Stephen gave him a generous tip. ‘Lucky you knew where it was. Ready, darling?'

She nodded, throwing one corner of her shawl over her shoulder. She had read somewhere that pashminas were as warm as a winter coat — or maybe that was a shahtoosh? — but she couldn't help shivering as she followed Stephen to the gallery entrance. He stepped aside to let her pass, his hand brushing her back, and a bored-looking photographer flashed off a couple of frames, just in case. Inside, Stephen signed in, already alert and assessing what was happening at the gathering. He was just in time: on the ground floor, overlooked by a wide mezzanine, Marcus Grill was good-naturedly trying to fend off three or four political correspondents while another photographer snapped away. He caught Stephen's eye and a look of relief crossed his face, but the hacks were too absorbed to notice.

‘The Prime Minister —'

‘Isn't it embarrassing —'

Stephen pushed his way to Marcus's side, acknowledging the reporters he knew by name: ‘Michael, Patrick, Marie. This isn't your usual beat — I
mean, south of the river?' He addressed a young woman in a dark cardigan, skirt and thick tights. ‘I'm sorry, I don't think I know you.'

‘Janine Brooks, Londoner's Diary.'

He shook her hand. ‘Stephen Massinger.'

Marcus took a deep breath. ‘My PPS,' he put in, enunciating each letter with care.

Stephen slung an arm over Marcus's shoulder. ‘Good to see you all taking an interest in modern art. I hope the minister hasn't said anything he shouldn't — I'm not sure he's up to speed yet on Sarah Lucas.' There was a ripple of slightly baffled laughter and Stephen took advantage of it to steer Marcus away, exclaiming: ‘Now, where's the artist?'

He scanned the guests, who were still arriving; most of them merely glanced at the paintings before greeting friends and acquaintances. On the other side of the room, a woman was propelling a dishevelled-looking young man towards them, and Stephen took the opportunity to speak quietly to Marcus.

‘Sorry I'm late. What did you tell them before I got here?'

‘Nothing. You got here before I put my foot in it.' Marcus stepped forward and pumped the artist's hand as the camera flashed again. ‘Congratulations, young man. It's a very s-striking show. This Johnny over here, for instance...' He steered the artist towards the nearest picture, a mass of coloured scribble inside the thick black outline of a man's body. ‘Now wherever did you get the idea for that?'

Stephen listened in amusement as the artist began to explain, talking earnestly about the artificiality of boundaries and the fragility of individual existence. Somehow Stephen didn't think Marcus would be instructing his officials to acquire one of these daubs for the bare walls of his new office.

‘So you're a minder these days? Not quite your style, is it?'

Stephen glanced over his shoulder and recognised the political editor of one of the tabloids.

‘Nothing much here for you either — must be a quiet news night.'

‘Oh, you never know. How long d'you give him then, before he really drops one?' He jerked his head in Marcus's direction.

‘Les, Les. You should have more interesting things to write — have you heard the latest about the other lot?' Stephen lowered his voice, passing on a juicy piece of gossip about an Opposition frontbencher. ‘Course, you didn't get it from me.'

‘Course.'

Stephen glanced around. ‘Excuse me, I'd better have a look at this stuff — you know, in case anyone wants to know what Marcus thinks about them.'

The man grinned, acknowledging the game, and moved away. Stephen accepted a glass of white wine from a waiter, tasted it and was relieved to discover that it was quite drinkable, probably Australian.

‘Bloody awful, aren't they?' Marcus said in his ear, a broad social grin fixed on his face. ‘How long should I s-stay?'

‘Give it three-quarters of an hour. I don't want anyone to think you're running away from the press.'

‘Reptiles.'

‘Dangerous reptiles. If you want to hang on to your job.'

‘I like having the wheels. Not the driver, though. M-miserable bugger. Reads the Bible while he's waiting for me.'

‘Christ, I thought
The Sun
was more in their line.' In a more serious voice, Stephen went on: ‘You all right for Heritage questions tomorrow?'

‘There's a stinker about VAT and admission charges. Hello, how are you?' Marcus pumped someone's hand. ‘And this is Donna, isn't it? Dani, of course, I'm so s-sorry. Do you know my PPS, Stephen Massinger?'

When the introductions were over and the couple walked away, Marcus added: ‘Frightful bore, but they have a weekend place in the next village.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we grab the girls, say at a quarter to eight, and get a bite to eat? Have to get back to civilisation first, of course. What do you make of the cab situation?'

Stephen waved a hand towards the door. ‘They'll call us one. Is Melanie here?'

‘She's on her way; she called to say she'd be late.' His expression darkened and he said wistfully: ‘You're damned lucky to have Carolina, you know. You've got to admit she's a t-trooper. Always there for you.'

Stephen said something non-committal, guiltily realising that he had abandoned his wife at the door. Searching the room, expecting to spot that
ghastly pink dress, he couldn't see her and for a few awful seconds entertained the possibility that she had walked out into the urban wasteland beyond the door of the gallery. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he said, ‘Where is she? I can't see her.'

‘Up there.' Marcus gestured towards the mezzanine floor, which was bounded by a white railing. He grinned. ‘Can't miss that f-frock.'

‘Where? Oh—' With the relief came irritation: ‘Who's she talking to?'

‘Search me. Good-looking woman, though.'

Stephen's eyes narrowed. ‘I'd better go and see if she's all right.'

‘Course she's all right.' As Stephen walked away, he heard Marcus mutter: ‘Wouldn't mind meeting her friend myself.'

Ascending the wide staircase, Stephen thought there was something familiar about the woman talking to Carolina. He paused at the top, watching as the two heads, one dark, one fair, moved towards and away from each other in what appeared to be an animated conversation. The unknown woman was facing away from him, a mass of black hair loosely caught up to expose her slender white neck, the rest of her body covered by a dress that seemed to have been made from shimmering silver scales. She was slender, her waist so small that Stephen felt he could reach out and span it with his hands, but when she half-turned, presenting him a glance of her profile, he saw that she had an hourglass figure. He found himself clenching his fists by his sides, so strong was the urge to touch her.

‘Darling!' Carolina had spotted him. ‘Come and meet—'

He strode forward, saying in a contrite voice: ‘Carolina, forgive me, I shouldn't have left you.'

She laughed away the apology. ‘Don't worry, I've been having the most fascinating conversation with Aisha!' She reached out a hand and drew him closer, seeming to glow with pride. ‘This is my husband. He's an MP, did I say? I hardly ever see him when the House is sitting, so tonight's rather special.' She glanced up, flushed with pleasure.

The woman, Aisha, looked directly at Stephen. Her eyes were almost black, glinting with pinpoints of light. She held out a hand, the nails shining in an echo of her dress. ‘Hello, I'm Aisha Lincoln.'

Stephen took it, feeling the fleeting pressure of her fingers. His mouth was dry and he swallowed. ‘Stephen — Stephen Massinger.'

‘Your wife was just telling me about her sister.'

‘Her sister?' He had forgotten Mercedes's existence.

‘Mercedes, isn't that her name?' She glanced at Carolina for confirmation, her voice neutral but amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘I'm interested because I gather she runs a charity.'

‘Aisha's set up her own charity — I mean trust.' Carolina explained. ‘Don't you remember reading about it, darling? She used to be a model but she's given it all up to work with children.'

‘Aisha pulled a face. ‘Well, that isn't quite —'

‘A model?' Stephen repeated incredulously.

This time she laughed out loud. ‘It not a job for grown-ups, is it? Sorry to disappoint you.'

‘I'm not disappointed,' Carolina protested.

‘And I haven't given it up entirely. When I'm asked to do thermal underwear catalogues, that's when I'll draw the line.'

‘But that's ridiculous! You're not — I mean, isn't forty the new thirty?' Carolina appealed to Stephen to back her up. ‘I'm sure I read it somewhere.'

‘Yes,' said Aisha, ‘and brown's the new black.'

‘What?'

She touched Carolina's arm. ‘Take no notice, just me being cynical.' She turned to Stephen. ‘Carolina says you're just back from Pakistan.'

‘Pakistan? Oh, with the FAC. We're producing a report. On foreign aid. Where the money goes. You know. Whether people are driving round in brand new cars.'

Aisha lifted her eyebrows. ‘Really? Is that what interests you?'

‘Um. Public money has to be accounted for.'

‘Does it have to be like that? You can't get rid of corruption overnight, and people need to be helped now.'

Stephen stared at her, then seemed to remember where he was. ‘Let me — I'll give you my card.'

‘Yes! Why don't you invite Aisha to the House?' Carolina put her hands together. ‘We could have tea and talk properly. Stephen isn't as unsympathetic
as he sounds, he works really hard and I'm sure he could give you lots of help. Couldn't you, darling? You've got so much in common.'

Aisha lowered her eyes, tucking Stephen's card inside her square satin bag without looking at it. ‘It's a lovely idea,' she said, ‘but I do tend to be away a lot —'

‘Oh, but you must come.' Carolina seized her husband's arm. ‘We'll make her, won't we?'

Stephen glanced at his wife, who normally appeared at Westminster as rarely as she could help it. Against his better judgement, he turned back to Aisha. ‘Of course. Do you have a card?'

Aisha opened her bag again and hesitated before handing a plain white card not to Stephen, but to Carolina. ‘I must go and meet my husband,' she said, ‘he hates it when I'm late.'

‘Your husband?' Stephen could not keep the shock out of his voice.

‘Yes, he's an architect.' She avoided his gaze. ‘Lovely to — lovely to meet you both.'

She squeezed Carolina's hand, flicked her eyes towards Stephen, and went to the head of the stairs. Heads turned to watch as she descended and Carolina exclaimed, ‘She's so beautiful!' Stephen said nothing.

‘Don't you think so? Honestly, darling, you were almost rude to her. What's wrong with you tonight?'

His lips had become a thin line. ‘I don't know very much about — beauty. How did you meet her? I mean, how did you come to be talking to her?'

She stepped back. ‘I was on my own. I didn't know anyone' — she glanced to either side, as if to prove this assertion — ‘and she, Aisha, she asked what I thought about the paintings. I said I hadn't had time to make up my mind, and she suggested we look together. She was really — interested.'

It was as Stephen thought: Aisha Lincoln had taken pity on Carolina. He wondered whether she pitied him as well, a thought which disturbed him so much that he spoke more sharply than he intended: ‘You've only got to put up with it for another half-hour, then we're having dinner with Marcus and Melanie.'

She froze. ‘Melanie?'

He had forgotten she disliked Marcus's wife.

‘It's only for one evening. Anyway, it's all arranged, I can't change it now.'

‘But Stephen —'

He looked away, trying to hide his irritation. Downstairs, Aisha was saying goodbye to a short man Stephen assumed was the owner of the gallery. In her free hand she held an orange and silver shawl which she flung over her shoulders in a fluid movement as she headed for the door. Cameras flashed, turning Aisha into a silhouette that seemed to burn itself on to Stephen's retina, the shawl falling from her outstretched arms like wings. She was half-woman, half-bird, like an Aztec goddess — he blinked, dazzled, and became aware of Carolina's voice protesting in the background.