Whispers of Betrayal (35 page)

He arrives at Elizabeth’s mews house in a state of distraction. Half his mind is trying to struggle with the jealousy thing, the other half struggling with the things Bendall has piled upon him. Yet the moment he walks through the door his cares seem somehow irrelevant, for there is candlelight, and home cooking, and Elizabeth who, in her forthright style, insists on taking it all head-on.

‘I wouldn’t go if it weren’t necessary. If there were any other
way. But I have to go or I’ll lose my business.’

‘And if you do go …’

‘Oh, poppet, you’re not going to say something silly like “I’ll lose you”? That doesn’t come into the question, either. Look, bonehead, he’s my backer. You are my lover. Backer. Lover. Got it?’

‘You think it so wrong that I should be upset by your going off to Paris – Paris of all places – with another man.’

‘What I won’t have, Tom, is you telling me who I can and cannot see. I love you, but you don’t own me. So what if I once had a relationship with Ryman and cared for him. He’s a man I once loved. Another time. Not now. Now is you.’

‘And tomorrow?’ he almost says, but doesn’t.

‘If I don’t do this dinner, I don’t do this deal. Then I lose my home, Tom.’

‘Yeah,’ he mutters. He knows all about losing his home. Hurts like hell.

Elizabeth feels she has made her point, he doesn’t need to be beaten any further. She’s going off to Paris to see another man, and if Goodfellowe doesn’t trust her that’s his problem. Well, not exclusively his, perhaps, a little voice inside keeps repeating that maybe she doesn’t completely trust herself either, but relationships are meant to have a sprinkling of spice, a little risk, otherwise they suffocate. She’s done the thing with the rose-covered cottage and the slippers and the plans for a future together, and it didn’t work, left scars. Made her feel owned, used. Never again. She needs to hang on to her own identity, needs some insurance – and, for Elizabeth, that means the restaurant. So she’s going to Paris, and if there prove to be a couple of complicating personal details when she gets there – well, she’ll just have to sort them out. Over dinner. In her own way. Tomorrow. Whatever it takes.

As for tonight, she’ll sort out Goodfellowe, that silly, confused, hurting man. Sort him out while he’s sitting at the dining table. She knows she’s been neglecting him, and this weekend she’s about to neglect him some more, so he needs reminding just how good their love can be. Perhaps she needs that reminder, too.

The room is lit only by candles, a gentle light, a light that hides their creases. He’s reaching for his whisky when he notices her standing provocatively in front of him. Suddenly she has his full
attention. She takes hold of her shirt and lifts it high above her head, posing like a model in a little art studio in a garret overlooking Montmartre – no, forget Paris! Her skin is smooth and dark, just a few freckles at the top of her breasts. She’d once said she would have liked larger breasts but for him they are perfect. Great staying power. Still be there or thereabouts in another twenty years. He lifts his glass in appreciation but the whisky never makes it as far as his lips. She begins slowly to remove every other item of her clothing, rustling, swaying, teasing, as though she is seducing him for the first time, until he feels he wants her as though for that first time, too. Now she is naked, enticingly and unrepentantly naked, and he finds himself breathless – ever more so as she turns her attention to him, undressing him, stripping him, her fingers playing knowingly with every knot, every button and zip, until he has no more defences. Her prisoner. With his own trousers she ties his hands behind the chair.

She begins stroking him, tenderly, first with her lips, then the tips of her fingers, her tongue, her nipples, every piece of her. Then she is standing before him once more and parting herself in front of him with her own fingers until he would have screamed if he’d had breath. Perhaps she isn’t as good as she might be at expressing her emotions with words, but there are other languages of love. She seems to know them all.

She takes his glass of whisky, raises it to his lips, teases him with its taste, begins to dribble it down his chin. The raw amber liquid flows off the point of his chin down his neck, feels cold, then begins to trickle down his chest, following a hesitant path across the folds and planes of his body until it is nearing his navel and threatening to run beyond, where he knows it will burn with an ice fire that makes him already gasp in apprehension. But her lips and tongue are pursuing the whisky down, down, down, it trickles faster, then slows, but always her lips follow, running down, racking him between fear and anticipation, tearing him between pain and excruciating pleasure, until the last threads of his breath unravel in one emaciated cry that seems close to agony.

When he is able once more to engage his brain and open his eyes, it is dark, for the candles have exhausted themselves, as has he, and he has forgotten all those silly things that have been worrying him.

When Goodfellowe opened his eyes early the following morning, he found himself gazing at the gentle olive ridges of Elizabeth’s back. Right now, in this place and at this quiet time of day, he seemed to have everything he wanted. But he knew it wouldn’t last –
couldn’t
last. Today was Thursday.

For a start he’d have to get home and change. His trousers were hanging over the back of the dining room chair with creases that seemed like the work of a student of Picasso. Love may be beautiful but there was always a price, and at very least a dry-cleaning bill.

Damnation. Now he remembered last night, and what it was about, and still he didn’t want her to go.

Her bed seemed to be the place for so many decisive moments in his life – the place where so often he laid bare not simply his body but also the inner man. This was where the course of his life had begun to change, to turn away from the past and poor, mind-stolen Elinor, towards something new. It was the place where he had dug down deep into his very English psyche and admitted to passions he’d been brought up never even to acknowledge, let alone indulge. It was here, between these sheets, that he had come once more to embrace ambition. He was excessively English about that, too, for admitting to ambition left him feeling self-conscious and even a little grubby. Perhaps that was why he remembered the moment so well. Elizabeth naked, bringing him breakfast. With toast crumbs and a wrinkled newspaper. Oh, and the letter from his old school chum Amadeus. Pity they’d never got round to having that drink, and now perhaps they never would, not once he had become a member of the very Government Amadeus despised so much.

Elizabeth rolled over, in the last throes of sleep. How much he wanted her, and how much he desired her not to go to Paris. ‘If there were any other way,’ she had said. And, with the clarity that morning brings, maybe there was. Something he had overlooked. Something that, if he got his trousers back on and went for it, might even stop her needing to go to Paris.

He had wanted to steal half an hour in her arms this morning, claiming her, possessing her, before she went off to Paris, but now he didn’t have time. He’d have to skip breakfast today.

The time of Cabinet has been brought forward to nine o’clock. There is little formal business, a deck-clearing operation designed to leave as much time as possible to deal with whatever might lie ahead. Bendall is brisk and the rest of those gathered around the table are demure to the point of invisibility.

‘Any comments on this last matter?’ Bendall enquires, but there are none. He closes his folder with a peremptory snap, and prepares to rise from his chair. ‘Fine. Thank you. Any other business?’

It is a throw-away line, he is anxious to get on. Already his hands are on the arms of his chair levering himself upward.

Then the Lord Chancellor coughs, as though a fly has flown into his mouth and he doesn’t have the balls to spit or swallow.

‘Prime Minister, I have something, if you please.’

Bendall sits back in his chair, awaiting another expression of solidarity.
Good old Frankie, always ready to give support. There’s a security briefing in five minutes but I can make time for this. Then get Woolly to leak it to the midday news
.

‘As you know, Prime Minister, we are all great personal friends of yours around this table …’

Bendall lowers his eyes.

‘… and we owe our positions here to you personally. There can be no doubting the intense loyalty we all feel to you.’

A muted rustle of approbation from around the room. Yet good old Frankie is finding it difficult to continue. He has thought about these words throughout a sleepless night, has rehearsed them with colleagues, yet still they stumble in his throat. His hands are clasped together in front of him, knuckles cracking, as though at confession.

‘We are your friends. We also have a public duty as Ministers of the Crown. Sometimes those roles sit sadly alongside each other …’

But not today, not today, dear Frankie. Today we are four square against bloody terrorism. Four square behind bloody me
.

‘I hope it might be said that you have no greater admirer around this table than myself, Prime Minister …’

A demure Prime Ministerial smile of gratitude.

‘… and I have taken it upon myself over the last twenty-four
hours to consult every one of your colleagues whom you see here. We are unanimous.’

Inside, Bendall trembles with relief. One hundred per cent. The whole bloody lot. Perhaps the rumours that one or two of them have begun to get their braces in a twist are wrong, nothing more than press hysteria. Perhaps old Frankie has whipped them into line. Dear old Frankie. He’s about as useful as balls on a cardinal but, by heaven, no one can question his loyalty. Which is more than can be said for many of them around this table. Too many. Still, get through the afternoon, then start a little threshing. Chaff from the wheat, and all that.

‘We are united in our determination to beat the scourge of terrorism.’

Alleluia!

‘But in the process of defeating terrorism, we cannot contemplate the destruction of the City of London and the devastation that would cause to the entire country. No man, no matter how great, is worth such a price.’

What the hell …?

‘Which is why all of us, every one, believes that if this threat is not lifted you must resign. By the deadline of three p.m. this afternoon.’

Bendall doesn’t hear all the rest, homilies about hearts full of distress and a place of honour in the annals of our times. He is too busy searching for options. Yet as he looks around the table, no one will meet his eye. They are all against him.

He has less than six hours.

And no matter how furiously he searches, he can’t find a single bloody option.

Goodfellowe knew none of this because he was cycling around Shepherd’s Bush Green and rejoicing. It was an unlikely location for a celebration, not a part of London he knew well or wanted to get to know any better, but for the moment it was all he had. Moreover, it was no ordinary celebration, for the touch of inspiration that had brought him here from Elizabeth’s bed had worked. Worked! And now, surely, there was no need for her to go to Paris. The good guys
had won and he was desperate with impatience to tell her so and to claim his reward. Trouble was, Elizabeth wasn’t answering her phone. Must be busy packing. It made him all the more impatient, so he decided to proceed directly to The Kremlin.

He called Mickey to let her know he would be late in the office.

‘Where are you? Off stroking our beloved leader’s ego again?’

‘No, I’m in Shepherd’s Bush. Woman business.’

‘You didn’t have to go that far. I could have set you up right here in the House of Commons.’

‘
Elizabeth
business, idiot.’

‘Oh … And the Bendall business?’

He hadn’t forgotten about Bendall, but the matter with Elizabeth had pushed other things out of the way. Anyway, what the devil was he supposed to do? He couldn’t work miracles. Mickey was telling him of lurid rumours, about how the press conference called for three that afternoon wasn’t simply an opportunity for Bendall to issue another ringing cry of defiance. There was to be the spilling of much blood, so it was being said. Resignations. Ah, the start of the reshuffle, Goodfellowe mused, feeling exhilarated. But no, Mickey was insisting, the whispers around the corridors were of Bendall’s own resignation.

Bendall? Resigning? If Bendall were to resign it would be the end of all Goodfellowe’s hopes. No Cabinet post and, without that, how would he be able to hold on to Elizabeth? Everything of importance in his life had somehow got round to depending on Bendall. The thought made him queasy. No, it couldn’t be, Bendall wasn’t the resigning type. He dismissed it as idle gossip.

It was as he listened to Mickey turning the rumour mill that Goodfellowe’s eyes wandered around the telephone box in which he was standing. It carried that antiseptic odour of very recent cleaning, yet already it was covered once more in the lurid tits-and-bums cards of the good-time girls offering everything from Swedish lessons to something called Ethiopian aerobics. Goodfellowe scratched his nose but it didn’t help. He still didn’t understand Ethiopian aerobics. Yet even in this place of squalor the forces of righteousness were not to be denied. A little black-and-white card had been inserted amidst the moral debris.
‘If you are tired of Sin, read John 3:17,’
it proclaimed stubbornly. Beneath it someone had scribbled:
‘If you’re not tired of sin, ring Tray-cee after 3.30 on …’
Scribblers had been busy elsewhere, too. One lurid card sought new converts:
‘Bored out of your knickers? Get rid of your old M&S, get into a little S&M. Ring Sadie for a stimulating new position …’
Beside which somebody had scrawled
‘Dyslexics need not apply.’