What Will Survive (33 page)

Marcus was a kinder and more decent man than he appeared on the surface, happily playing up to his buffoonish image, but Stephen did not want news of his plans, if he could call them that, to leak out prematurely. With Angus away on a walking holiday, he had not been able to think of anyone else to talk to — apart from his sister, of course, but Angela was no use when it came to putting out feelers about ways of making money. It was just Stephen's luck that his only sister was a psychiatric social worker, whose financial ambitions did not extend beyond a modest car and two weeks in Provence each summer.

‘Thank God for that,' said Marcus, pulling an ashtray towards him and feeling in the pocket of his suit for his cigarettes. He smoked a strong Turkish brand, prompting frequent complaints in restaurants. Lighting one, Marcus continued, ‘The f-fewer people who know about this the better. That dreadfully ill-advised outburst of yours last month — perhaps we can play it to your advantage. Shock of losing the election, old friends out on their ear — including yours truly, of course. Young family.'

‘Not that young.'

‘Come, come, they're at a delicate stage in their development.'

‘Marcus —'

‘S-stress, whatever the politically correct term is these days. Who's your doctor? I know a good man, no trouble getting you a certificate. Harley Street, cost you a bit, but that's the least of your problems. Have a couple of months off, go and enjoy yourself somewhere. Take a friend.' He winked, making sure Stephen knew what he was talking about, and his hair flapped even more wildly. ‘Carolina knows the score, she won't mind.'

Struggling to keep his temper, Stephen said, ‘She would. And I'm not ill.'

‘Not suggesting you are, old boy. Trying to save your political bacon, which is another kettle offish altogether. Excuse the mixed metaphors.'

Marcus gulped down the last of his brandy and lifted a fresh glass from the tray the waiter was holding out to him. They were eating at his club — one of his clubs, for Marcus's entry in Who's Who listed half a dozen. It wasn't that he especially liked the food, but it was one of the few places left in London where he could smoke as much as he liked. He inhaled,
blew out a cloud of pungent blue-grey smoke, and added: ‘By the way, did I tell you I'm holding out for a peerage? Bloody nerve, offering me a K.'

Moving his head to avoid the smoke, Stephen summoned a weak grin, although he had heard the story before. He put a hand up, hardly aware of what he was doing, and felt the nick just below his ear where he had cut himself while shaving.

‘End of your prospects, you know, if you cause a by-election. Getting back to your domestic problem —'

‘Look, let's not talk about my marriage, it's something Carolina and I have to sort out ourselves. It's the — the other business I want to talk to you about, just in case you happen to hear of anything.'

Marcus screwed up his face. ‘A job, you mean? There must be some quango, they always need chairmen for this or that. Can't what's-his-face help — you know, your brother-in-law? Nice little executive directorship — he's got his fingers in a lot of pies, so I've heard.'

‘Georgie?' Stephen stared at him, aghast.

‘No, I s-suppose not, in the circs. You see, old chap, you are digging a hell of a hole for yourself.'

Stephen's shoulders sagged. He looked down, avoiding Marcus's gaze. ‘Maybe after this long I'm unemployable.'

‘You sound instit — what's the word, institutionalised. Chap who came to my surgery, ex-con, claims he has GulfWar syndrome. Not sure he was ever in the army but he tells me if they don't do something — it's always
they
in these cases, have you noticed — if they don't do something he'll break a window and get sent down again. Can't function outside an institution, he says. He's got the jargon down pat. I told him, you have to do a lot more than break a window to get porridge these days. More likely to get yourself assigned a s-social worker, if there's one left. Gather most've them are in the House, agitating for creches and all that. Can't say it's improved the ambience.'

He pronounced the final word with an exaggerated French accent. Stephen wondered if his rejection by the voters still rankled, even though Marcus seemed to be collecting part-time jobs and directorships at an astonishing rate.

‘What did he do?' he asked on cue.

‘Mmm?' Marcus stubbed out his cigarette and delivered the punchline. ‘Held up a petrol station with an air pistol. Lucky he didn't get himself shot, silly bugger.'

They both laughed and the atmosphere lightened.

‘Another thing — got to think about the pension. Carolina's going to get lawyers straight on to it, don't f-fool yourself about that. No such thing as an amicable divorce, take it from one who knows. Think of a figure and triple it, it's bloody expensive. Who's her father's lawyer? Farrer?'

Stephen nodded.

‘There you are then. Pension was the first thing I thought of when that little shirtlifter pinched my seat. Not that I'm prejudiced — army was full of them. Just wish they didn't go on about it. That chap, the one who does at least talk a lot of sense about Mugabe, he never sounds very gay. In the old sense, of course.' He laughed heartily at his own joke.

Marcus had ordered two bottles of red with lunch, and drunk most of them. As soon as they ordered, he had launched into an unstoppable account of a party he had been to the previous night, where he had been introduced to Gwyneth Paltrow; a recent trip to Jerusalem, where he had met a group of students who were refusing to do national service in the Israeli Defence Force; and an invitation he had just received to sit on the board of an opera company.

‘By the way,' he said suddenly, ‘what is your majority? Pretty s-safe seat, isn't it?'

Stephen was about to answer when a hand descended on Marcus's shoulder. He started, almost knocked over his brandy, and recovered himself. ‘Michael. How are you? How's things at Number 10? I hear you've got yourself a nice little number there.' He paused. ‘You know Stephen Massinger? Stephen's one of the lucky ones who managed to hang on in the May Day massacre.' He gave Stephen a warning glance.

Stephen said, ‘We have met,' and received a nod in return. The man was a former ambassador, recendy returned to London, who was said to be unofficially advising the Prime Minister on foreign policy. He and Marcus began a hushed conversation that seemed to be largely conducted in code and Stephen unobtrusively pulled back his sleeve to check the time. Any
moment now he would have to return to Charles Street, where he had taken his most urgent papers and a couple of changes of clothes, and start dealing with the problems caused by his decision to move out of the family home. He couldn't help worrying about Carolina and the boys, whom he had had to leave with her; he suspected that she was becoming anorexic again, she had started to wear long-sleeved shirts as she had in the past, but what could he do? She refused to talk to him or see a doctor — and Marcus was right, Stephen thought grimly, Carolina's father would bully her into going to a lawyer as soon as he discovered they were living apart. He supposed that was one of the things he should get on with, without any further delay.

‘Stephen. Michael's just asking whether you're still on the FAC.'

‘The — yes, for the moment anyway,' he said without thinking.

‘We must have a little chat about Central Asia,' the former ambassador said, the slightest alteration in his expression suggesting he had noted Stephen's slip. ‘Take my card and give me a call. I must be on my way — meeting with the PM.' With a slight nod, he moved away.'

‘Give him my love,' Marcus called after him, and then, lowering his voice, ‘Christ, Stephen, get yourself back to planet earth. Michael's in line for chair of the JIC.'

Stephen snorted, unimpressed by this inside information about the next head of the Joint Intelligence Committee. ‘You know I keep away from all that spook business.' He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Thanks for this, Marcus. It was good of you.'

‘Going s-so soon? Oh well. I might just wander over and say hello to old Geoffrey.' As Stephen rose, he leaned forward once again. ‘Promise me you won't do anything rash.'

Stephen looked down at his old friend, who suddenly seemed like an inhabitant of an alien world. ‘If I do, you'll be the first to know.'

Marcus pushed back his chair. ‘Stephen —'

‘Only joking.' They shook hands, Marcus giving Stephen's arm a squeeze. Stephen said, ‘Lunch is on me next time.'

If there was one, he thought, going down the grand staircase, past portraits of earls and marquesses. Mobiles were banned in the club and he took his out but did not switch it on until he had stepped into the afternoon
sunshine. Immediately it rang and he began walking with it pressed to his ear as it connected to his voicemail.

‘Dad, are you there? Dad? Where are you?' Francis's voice, tremulous and upset. Stephen winced, forcing himself to listen to the rest of his messages before returning his son's call.

‘Uh — sorry.' He moved round a young man, a backpacker who was studying a map of London.

‘Excuse me, you know where is Green Park station?'

‘What?'

By the time Stephen had given him verbal directions and pointed to it on the map, his messages had stopped playing. He had to listen to Frannie's distress call again, followed by two messages about non-urgent constituency business. He would not miss that, Stephen thought, thinking of the thousands of letters he had dictated to Social Security, the housing department, the Home Office and all the other bodies his constituents had dealings with. Especially the seemingly endless visa problems...

‘Stephen, this is Iris Benjamin.' A red bus rumbled past and he pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear: ‘...to Ricky... need to do something about the trust. He wants to carry on his mo... if you might be interested. He sounded better than I expected. Just to warn you, Stephen, I don't mean warn you, but he knows who you... might know more than you think. He's working in West... Shepherd's Bush I think, and I could come up to London next week. Evenings... for Ricky, would Tuesday or Wednesday suit you?' She left her numbers, which Stephen already had, but he saved the message anyway.

Anticipation, relief — Stephen was not sure what he felt. He glanced down at the screen, ducked into the entrance to a shopping arcade to escape the noise of the traffic, and scrolled down his address book to his younger son's name. Then, sheltering in the doorway of a shop that had recendy closed down — ‘cashmere sweaters at unbelievable prices!' someone had scrawled on the window in uneven white letters, but all there was to see was a pile of brown envelopes and empty boxes — he pressed a button and waited.

‘Hi there, Frannie,' he said a moment later, his voice as cheerful as he could make it. ‘It's Dad. I just got your message — what's up?'

Charles Street
28 August 1997

Dear Carolina,

I hope you will read this letter, as we don't seem able to talk to each other at the moment. I'm not trying to justify anything I've done, it seems more than likely that most of the fault is on my side, but I don't think it helps if we remain in this state of open warfare. Obviously it's not for me to tell you what to do, but I do think things would be easier if your father wasn't so involved — he left another message on my mobile last night. That's fine, if he wants to abuse me that's his prerogative, but I am worried about the boys. We have to come to some sort of arrangement for their sake, and it's no good leaving it until the divorce — these things don't happen overnight, as you know.

I feel I'm walking on eggshells and I'm very conscious that everything I say seems to upset you, but there are some things that can't be put of indefinitely. First, I haven't made a decision about when to give up my seat and I'd be grateful if you would keep it between the two of us until I do. I don't want to stay in the House but finding something else to do, something that seems worthwhile and pays enough for us all to live on, is not going to be easy. Don't laugh, but after all this time I'd like to do something a bit more useful — I'm talking to one or two people, putting out feelers. There's a project connected with Right Thinking, it wouldn't pay much but you know I've always wanted to do more writing. I am passionate about modernising the centre-right but I know this stuff bores you, and I won't say any more for now.

I hope you agree that the best thing, while I'm working it all out, is if I go on living here in Charles Street. I'm going to Tashkent tomorrow — it's been in the diary for months and I thought it might give us both a bit of space. When I get back, I'd like to start coming down every other weekend to see Frannie and Nicky — keep things as normal as possible. If you don't want to be there, fine, although obviously I don't want you to feel driven out of your own home. In practical terms, I'll have to go on
doing those bloody surgeries for the moment — at least that's one thing I'm not going to miss. For God's sake, whatever you do, don't talk to any reporters — I haven't had anyone sniffing round so far but you know how these things get out. No matter how angry you are with me, please, please think of the boys.

The other thing I want to do, and I know this is dangerous territory, is clear up a misunderstanding between us. You were very upset when I said I shouldn't have married you, for which I apologise, but I honesdy didn't mean it in the way you thought. I blame myself, not you — I was in love with you, you shouldn't have any doubts about that, but looking back I also realise I was thinking too much about myself. To be brutally honest, I was dazzled by you and your family and I never asked myself whether I could give you what you needed — what you still need. One of the reasons our marriage has to end is that you are still young enough to find that with someone else. I would like you to be happy, Carolina, and I know that for much of our marriage you haven't been, as I haven't either.