What Will Survive (37 page)

‘He came in? You didn't carry him?'

‘No.' Ingrid looked pleased. ‘I think he does not like the rain. Don't startle him, he is still very nervous.'

In Ingrid's sitting room, the TV was on with the sound turned down. People teemed across the screen, the camera cutting from Buckingham Palace to the exterior of Harrods in Knightsbridge, then to a studio where a former minister was being interviewed. Ingrid's smile faded. ‘So many people,' she said. ‘What will happen now to your royal family?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘They are saying Lady Di was murdered to stop her marrying a Muslim.'

‘What?' Amanda threw back her head, laughing for the first time since she had heard the news. ‘Who says that?'

Ingrid's brows drew together. ‘My neighbour. And the Arab TV stations, they say your Queen's husband—'

‘Prince Philip? Oh, for God's sake — hang on, can you turn the sound up?'

Amanda perched on the arm of one of Ingrid's red chairs and listened to the Prime Minister's speech in full this time. As it finished, the screen cut to library footage of the Princess with her brother, Earl Spencer.

Amanda said, ‘I bet someone wrote it for him.'

‘You do not like him, you told me this before. Shall I make coffee?'

‘Um — OK.'

On her way to the kitchen area, Ingrid said over her shoulder: ‘Did you call your office? About changing your flight?'

‘It went right out of my head.' Amanda took out her mobile, hesitating. ‘The timing is terrible, they'll all be in meetings... Maybe I should leave it till this afternoon.'

At that moment her phone rang.

‘I bet this is another friend from England.' She answered, expecting to recognise the voice.

‘Amanda? It's Fiona on the newsdesk.'

‘Oh Fiona, I was going to call—'

‘Have you heard about Princess Di?'

‘Yes, we're watching it on TV.'

‘Isn't it awful? Sita's in floods of tears, you know she did that piece about her dresses?' Her voice faded. ‘Robin, you going to the canteen? Can you get me a latte? Sorry, Amanda, it's complete chaos here. How soon can you get in?'

‘What? I'm in Beirut.'

‘Hang on, I've got Amanda — Poonam, can you get that phone? You're where?'

‘I said I'm in Beirut. Is Simon there?'

‘He's in with the editor.'

‘Can you ask him to call me?'

‘I can try, but he wants everyone in the office. Can you get a flight or something?'

Amanda's eyes widened and she wondered what the ‘something' might be. ‘It'll cost a fortune. Are you sure you want me to — Fiona?' The newsdesk secretary was gone. Amanda looked up as Ingrid returned with coffee and a plate of small cakes, reaching for one without thinking.

‘Problem?'

‘Yes, they want me to go back today, except I'm not even sure they know where I am. I mean, I don't want to buy a ticket and then get into a row about my expenses.'

Ingrid said, ‘You will not get a flight at such short notice. Unless you go via Paris, but it will be very expensive.'

The pastry crumbled as Amanda bit into it. She brushed crumbs off her trousers. ‘There's no point talking to Fiona, she's just the newsdesk secretary. Simon's in a meeting, I've left a message for him to ring me when he gets out of conference.'

‘Surely they have enough people without you?'

‘The problem will be getting anyone to listen.'

Ingrid turned to the silent TV. ‘Do you want to watch some more?'

‘I suppose.' On the screen, there was old film footage of Diana leaving hospital after the birth of one of her children. Amanda said, ‘How awful for her sons.'

Ingrid turned up the sound, watched for a moment and switched channels. A blonde woman with dark roots was speaking to a reporter outside Kensington Palace, where the crowd had swelled since Amanda saw the American reporter an hour or so ago. ‘We just had to come,' the woman said, dabbing her eyes. ‘Lady Di did so much for the kiddies.'

Amanda finished her cake. ‘I should call my mother. She loves the royal family. She camped out all night when Diana got married.' Her mobile sounded again and she crossed her fingers as Ingrid muted the TV. ‘Here goes.'

‘That you, Amanda?'

‘Simon, thanks for calling back.'

‘You still in Lebanon? How soon can you get back?'

‘I wanted to talk to you about that. I'm booked on a flight first thing tomorrow—'

‘See if you can get an earlier flight. If you can't, tell Fiona... Can you get going on a backgrounder about Di's landmine campaign? Plenty of the things where you are, is there a local angle?'

‘Not as far as I know. Simon, I'd actually like to stay here a bit longer, three or four days would probably do it.'

‘No can do. We're talking about the death of the Princess of Wales here — history in the making. Come on, Mandy, just get yourself on a plane and come straight to the office.'

‘Look, I know this isn't the moment—'

‘What the fuck is this supposed to be? We can't run this, what's the picture desk playing at? Mandy, you still there?'

‘It'll only take two minutes—'

‘Give Fiona a bell and let her know when to expect you.' The line went dead.

Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

Amanda flopped back in her chair. ‘All he's interested in is Diana. He wants me to get on a plane, do a piece on landmines — it's crazy.'

‘So? Say you cannot get a flight till Wednesday.'

‘They know I've got a reservation tomorrow.'

‘Surely—'

‘I'm freelance, I can't afford to offend them.'

‘You are not on staff?'

‘No, but I'm hoping — now I'm paying all the bills. Since Patrick left.'

Ingrid's expression softened. ‘In that case, Amanda, you should do as they ask and in a few days there will be nothing left to write. Lady Di was young and pretty and I am sorry for her boys, but what else is there to say?'

‘Well...'

Ingrid made an impatient gesture. ‘Your editor is not thinking properly. No one expected this to happen. He is in shock like everyone in your country.' She gestured at the TV screen. ‘These people, what do they think they are doing? It will be a — what do you call it — a nine days' wonder. Will you have more coffee?'

‘No thanks, I'm starting to feel wired.' Amanda sat up and began keying a number into her mobile. ‘I'll talk to Sabri, see what he says.' A moment later she gave Ingrid a despairing look. ‘Voicemail. I couldn't get him yesterday either.'

‘What about Michael?'

‘Michael Scott-Leakey? I hardly know him.'

Ingrid said, ‘I will call the airport and see if there is a flight this afternoon. Unless you want to do it?'

‘No, please, go ahead.'

‘Do you have a credit card?'

Looking dazed, Amanda opened her bag.

‘If there is not, you will just have to use your old ticket in the morning. You cannot do more than that.'

Amanda handed over her Visa card. ‘Can you make some more calls? About the — the other thing?'

‘Of course.'

‘I can't pay you after today. I mean, I'll try, but I can't promise.'

‘I am not doing it for money. I promised Um Marwan—'

Amanda said, ‘I can do things from London — I've arranged to speak to his tutor, he's supposed to be back in his office next week. If you concentrate on finding the driver, that's the most important thing.'

Ingrid had spent the previous afternoon ringing hospitals in Damascus. She said, ‘Samih's brother-in-law is going to ring me when he has spoken to his friend in the health ministry. Excuse me, I need to get the number of the airline.'

She got up and went into her office. Amanda turned back to the TV screen, where the same images were repeating themselves in a seemingly endless cycle: mourners outside Kensington Palace, the royal family attending church in dark clothes, the underpass in Paris where the crash had happened, the Prime Minister's sound bite. It was hypnotic, making her feel as though something subtly different might appear in one of the clips if she watched long enough, and it took Amanda a while to realise she was wasting precious time.

‘There is nothing today, unless you want to go first class.' Ingrid was back in the sitting room.

‘Thank God for that. I still have to do this piece about land-mines, though.'

‘Use my computer if you like.'

‘Thanks.'

Amanda's phone beeped and she saw that she had a text from Samih. She opened it and read: ‘Does your Prime Minister not know better? Monarchy is the opium of the people.' She laughed out loud and began to text him back.

Stephen came into his office and threw down a copy of the
Evening Standard.
‘The world's gone mad. Absolutely stark raving bonkers.'

His researcher, Sunil, did not look up from his laptop. ‘What now?'

Stephen took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. ‘I've just walked down Whitehall and there's a poster on a lamp post — high up, someone must've used a ladder. And what's on it?' He paused for effect. ‘A photo of Diana next to one of Jesus.'

‘Strictly speaking, there aren't any photos of Jesus.'

Stephen picked up the newspaper and cuffed the back of Sunil's head. ‘Very clever. You know what I mean.'

‘It's a cult,' Sunil said, still hunched over the screen. ‘A mother cult, with its own rituals.'

Stephen snorted. ‘Say that in the wrong company and you'll get lynched. Christ, I thought I'd escaped the worst of it, being in Tashkent. Did I tell you Karimov asked us to give his condolences to the Queen? The Foreign Minister, I can't remember his name, he asked whether it was really an accident.' Stephen gave a bark of laughter. ‘Amazing, the number of people who suspect the royal family of homicidal tendencies.'

‘The goddess doesn't die naturally, it has to be a sacrifice... Have you got time to look at the Clinton pamphlet? I've changed the order a bit and rewritten the first paragraph.'

Stephen sat down on his desk chair, swinging from side to side. He looked at his watch and frowned. ‘It'll have to wait. I've got a journalist coming in at four. What do you think of the title? Bit too provocative?'

Sunil shook his head. ‘Nope. Should be able to sell an extract to the Speccie, they'll go for that.'

Stephen's fingers moved restlessly on the surface of his desk and he glanced at his watch again. ‘Listen, Sunil, can you go down to the library and see how they're getting on with that copying? No need to come back, she'll be here any minute.'

Sunil closed the file he'd been working on and hit several keys. ‘OK, I'm emailing this to you now so you can look at it later.' He stood up,
picked up his jacket, shrugged it on and slung his House of Commons pass round his neck. Although he was wearing a suit, he looked so young that Palace officials sometimes assumed he had become detached from a sixth-form outing. ‘Anything else?'

Stephen was signing letters left for him by his secretary. ‘Don't think so.' He crossed out the phrase ‘yours sincerely' on a letter to an MP with a neighbouring consituency, substituting ‘warmest regards', and picked up a list of telephone messages. ‘Fuck,' he exclaimed.

Sunil paused on the threshold. Stephen looked up, surprised to see he was still there. ‘It's OK. Just — personal stuff.'

The researcher closed the door and Stephen threw down the list, infuriated by the number of calls he was getting from Carolina's lawyers. They had begun while he was in Uzbekistan — immediately after she got his conciliatory letter, which seemed to have had quite the opposite effect to what he intended — and their demands were so outrageous that he had begun to think his financial prospects, if he left Parliament, were bleak. At this rate, he'd need every penny of his MP's pension if he wasn't to end up in a bedsit in an insalubrious part of London — Stephen checked himself, halting his descent into self-pity. After everything that had happened in the last few months, he was grateful to be alive and in a job, and Carolina had at least agreed to let him take the boys to a football match at the weekend.

There had been a moment of madness in the summer, not long after Aisha's death, when he'd seriously thought about resigning his seat, but he'd done nothing about it, other than sound off to Marcus Grill — who had been discreet, thank God. Now Stephen was in the process of building bridges with the leadership — sucking up, he thought in his darker moments — and he'd just had a useful lunch with a member of the Shadow Cabinet. The man didn't seem to have heard any damaging rumours, and he even put his hand on Stephen's shoulder as they were leaving the restaurant and suggested he talk to the Party's deputy chairman, who had been asked to head a task force on widening the membership. The invitation had been followed by an apparently casual inquiry about Carolina, but Stephen hadn't come away with the impression that he was irretrievably damaged.

Carolina — the thought of his wife made him wince and he reached for the phone, withdrawing his hand when he realised he did not want to be in the middle of a difficult call with his wife's solicitors when Amanda Harrison arrived; it was about time he got a lawyer of his own, someone who was up-to-speed on divorce settlements and could be trusted not to gossip. Seconds later the phone rang, announcing the journalist's arrival downstairs at the front desk of” Parliament Street, and Stephen braced himself for what he hoped would not be a difficult encounter.

‘Hi, come in,' he said breezily when a woman in her late twenties appeared, wearing a pale-green suit. He indicated the sofa crammed under the window. ‘As you can see, it's not exactly palatial, but have a seat.'