by Andrew Marr
‘Do we?’ said Caro.
‘He’ll be furious,’ said Davie.
‘And?’ said Caro.
‘Fair point,’ said Davie, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Piazza da Santa Cecilia, Trastevere,’ he said. ‘Roma Sparita.’
‘Not hotel?’ asked the driver.
‘Not hotel,’ said Davie.
The sudden detour was worth it, if only to watch the motorcycle escort heading off in the direction of the hotel, then circling round and chasing them, followed by a bellowed conversation through the window of the car as the bikes and the Mercedes sped along the bank of the Tiber.
‘Red?’
‘Bianco.’
‘The melon?’
‘Bruschetta.’
‘The fettuccine with truffles is famous.’
‘The ravioli.’
‘Are you being deliberately perverse?’
‘No, just honest. Food is too important to play games about.’
‘Well, at last we agree on something.’
‘Can I suggest, Mr Petrie …’
‘Davie.’
‘Can I suggest, David, that we agree about something else? Tonight, we turn our phones off. The Master and his friends will ruin our evening if we let them.’
‘You’re bolder than I’d expected, I admit it.’
But at that moment Caro, whose eyes had been flickering towards her mobile, which was shouldering itself around uneasily on the table and making tiny, mouse-like noises, seized it and stabbed it into life.
‘I’m sorry, David, but it’s my partner, Angela. Two missed calls. And half a dozen from the Master. And texts. Something’s happening. Just give me one second.’
Caro’s side of the conversation consisted mainly of gasps, moans and ‘Oh my God’s. Davie pulled faces intended to express concern and interrogation; Caro waved him away. She smiled – at some level she didn’t mean the expressions of shock. Still, by the time the call had ended she had changed colour. Her lively, tanned pink had faded to old candle-wax, and was heading towards grey.
‘Angela’s had the most terrible accident. She’s killed someone. On the road. An accident. Obviously. An accident. But she’d been drinking. Obviously. Oh my God, what a terrible bore. I’m going to have to go home this minute.’
Davie found himself voicing thoughts – clear, fast, direct – that later made him wonder if he’d been a better pupil of the Master’s than he’d realised.
‘You can’t possibly stand by her, Caroline. You can’t go home. You’re the Home Secretary. Drink driving has become one of those things that are simply indefensible. If you go back now, you’ll destroy everything you’ve worked for. The most sensible thing you can do is give a bland statement, let the law take its course, and do your best to look after the kids.’
‘Look after the kids?’
‘Well, Angela’s going to go to jail, of course. How can we have a Home Secretary who stands by a partner who’s in jail for killing someone because she was pissed? For Christ’s sake, Caroline, get a grip. You can be kind to her in private. I expect you’ll need to get some kind of live-in help for the children, but you can do your bit too. What you can’t do is rush back and stand by your woman. That’s just common sense.’
‘Is it? It feels like treachery to me. In the plane earlier, you said you couldn’t carry on because you’re guilty of a failure of love; that the game isn’t worth it. I said I didn’t care enough. Maybe we were both mistaken. At any rate, duty calls, and for once it calls me back.
‘All right. But promise me this at least. Send her a message. Tell her you love her – whatever. But stay here in Rome tonight. Eat with me. At least think this through. And for Christ’s sake, Caro, stand by me while we deal with those bloody Americans.’
Caroline said nothing. But she picked up a piece of bruschetta and bit into it. She felt very hungry indeed.
Meanwhile, the bloody Americans were bloody angry. The Niccolò Machiavelli dining room was on the fifth floor of the hotel; it seemed that the Florentine philosopher had a taste for fuchsia velour and modish photographs of urban decay in Detroit and Chicago. Sy Cantor had consumed two peach Bellinis. Buzz Boyd, who didn’t drink, had downed about a gallon of Coke Zero, and was belching with irritation. Neither man was used to being kept waiting, and the Master, still pink and smelling of pine shower gel after his session in the gym, was finding it hard to calm them down. Two British ministers were now nearly an hour late, and the police reported that they had told their driver to take them to Trastevere, where they had left him. Neither was answering his texts, an unheard-of rudeness.
‘Guys, guys! Look, I think I know what’s happened. About an hour ago I got a message telling me that the home secretary’s partner – you know, guys, she’s not one for the guys, I’m sure your guys have told you that – well, she’s been arrested in a fatal drink-driving case. Terrible for Caro Phillips. She’ll have to cut her loose. But guys, this gives us something to hold over her. It’ll make her more malleable, not that she isn’t …’
Buzz walked over, invaded the Master’s personal space as if he were General Patton crossing the Rhine, and placed his broad, faintly pimpled nose right up against the Master’s. ‘Well, it seems that she’s not malleable enough to turn up for dinner. Where are those crazies?’
‘Clearly she’s going through some kind of personal crisis. Come on, guys, we’ve all been there. It’s part of life. My guess is that David Petrie – you remember, the one who’s backed America time and time again – has taken her off to talk some sense into her. My suggestion, guys, is that we give them a bit of time to sort themselves out. They’ll be here just as soon as they can be. Meanwhile, there’s a lot we can talk about in private. Let’s not waste the time.’
Grumpily, the two Americans sat down at the table. As they were being served, the concierge arrived and whispered in the vice president’s ear.
Sy flushed. ‘No, sir, I most certainly did not “order a gladiator”. It was probably that faggy Brit’ – he waved his fork at the Master. Normally he would have gestured at Buzz; it would have made a much funnier story. But he was too angry.
The Master, however, had a great talent for ignoring the inconvenient and the unpleasant. ‘Guys. Let’s talk about the BBC. I mean, have you heard them on Israel? They’re completely bloody unreconstructed. I was talking to Lachlan …’
‘Really?’ broke in Buzz, suddenly interested. ‘I thought you and he – you know –’
The Master didn’t even blush. ‘Oh no, that was long ago. Ridiculous. And completely forgotten. No, Lachlan was saying …’
And so the meal continued.
Meanwhile, in Trastevere, another meal had ended. Davie had always been told that Caro was charismatic, that she had an irresistible appeal – something to do with candour, something to do with beauty, and perhaps vulnerability too. Even she had told him she was irresistible. But until that evening, he had never really felt it himself. Over the food and the guarded conversation – neither fully trusted the other, not yet – he felt himself melt until she possessed him. Led by his cock, indeed! Caroline, meanwhile, was surprised by how unconcerned she felt about Angela’s awful situation. It was something she understood, but no longer really felt. This Rome was a place of velvet and diamonds, whose very night air was scented with wonderful possibilities. She noted that Petrie was doting on her with a little boy’s appeal for recognition, and this warmed and amused her. Yes, yes, led by his cock. And what happened next is their business, not ours.
In the Gallery
God, the Italians really are impossible. Some nice stuff, but impossible people.
The Master
Later, at the hotel, a terse note from the Master had been pushed under the door of Caro’s room. She would have been taken aback by its contents, had she noticed it and read it; but she did not. By the bed there was a silver-topped trolley with a bottle of champagne, a bowl of fruit and a stiff cream envelope which contained invitations to va
rious galleries and monuments, with the special compliments of Antonio Manca Graziadei, the Italian minister for culture. Caro was not drunk – living with Angela meant that she was never drunk – but she felt reckless. Above all, she felt an intense curiosity …
She woke the following morning with a strong sense of things not being right, of unresolved disasters all around. She remembered Angela, first of all, and then what Davie had told her to do. She wondered what the Master thought. There was an unfamiliar scent in the bed. She remembered about Davie, opened her eyes, half-moaned and half-yawned, and rolled over. If you had to be led by anything … But there was no one else in the room. It was already late. She pushed herself out of bed.
A mile and a half away, with the dew still on the grass, the Villa Borghese, one of the most opulent caskets of art and sculpture on the little green planet, had opened its doors early by special arrangement. David Petrie was standing in front of a terrifying figure, pursuing a naked woman. Her hands, stretched upwards, were visibly turning into twigs and leaves. Davie had no intention of reading his guidebook, but he understood that in front of him was a cruel challenge: in those veins, liquid marble blood was running; the lungs of the figures were nothing more than stone, yet they were breathing, and one of them was dying. She was becoming wood, undergoing an agonising metamorphosis. Air became stone, wood petrified too; and then flesh became stone. He remembered Ella as she spiralled downwards through the waters of the lagoon, a lump of marble attached to her neck. Really, who was the psychopath?
‘Clever guy.’
Davie turned round. A squat, dark-suited man with light-blue eyes in a fleshy red face was smiling at him.
‘Oh, yes. It’s … quite something.’
‘Bernini. The master propagandist of the counter-Reformation; on a different side from you Scots at the time, I think. Are you here to size up the enemy?’
‘Uh, well, no. Just a bit of early-morning self-improvement. As it happens, I’m a Roman Catholic myself. Sort of.’
‘No kidding? I guess I should have known that, Mr Petrie. It is Mr Petrie, isn’t it?’
‘That’s me. But how did …’
‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I thought maybe you’d recognise me. Barnaby Jonathan Boyd, director of Homeland Security. Most people call me Buzz.’
‘Yes, of course. We’re supposed to be meeting, aren’t we?’
‘Mr Petrie, as you very well know, we were supposed to meet last night. For supper. I guess you were making some kind of point?’
‘We had other plans.’
‘An interesting use of “we”. The Master, as your people call him, had given us to understand that you and Mrs Phillips were deadly rivals. My view, though it seems the White House doesn’t share it, was that on paper at least you were our man. We came here to do some business with you. Your country needs a big dose of investment, your government needs some good economic news, and we need your help with some … small matters. You understand all of that, Mr Petrie. So how come you and Mrs Phillips are thumbing your noses at us?’
Davie walked slowly around the statue, and then headed off to the next room. He was concentrating on not losing his temper.
‘There’s lots more I want to see,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and not much time. Just because Caroline Phillips is my rival, it doesn’t mean she’s my enemy. And I think you grossly underestimate how difficult it would be for either of us to sell a much closer American alliance to our party. Labour might have changed, but not that much.’
Buzz appeared to be barely listening. He gestured at another sculpture, this time one of David about to loose his slingshot, his body twisted with effort and his face in a timeless grimace.
‘There you go. That’s the real thing. Back in the days when Europe could do this kind of stuff – the leading technology of the age – you would have been worth an alliance back then. Us, we’ve had more than two hundred years of democracy and economic success, but we’ve never had a Bernini.’
‘I must say, Mr Boyd. I’m surprised. I hadn’t expected you to be a man of … well …’
‘Culture? I’m not. But Mr Petrie – and here we come to the point of this conversation – my wife is a woman of great learning and discernment. If I’m actually a little less rough than I choose to appear, it’s all down to her. She’s from your part of the world, you know.’
‘You’re married to a Scot?’
‘She calls herself American these days – doesn’t look back any more – but yes. And not just a Scot, Mr Petrie, but an Ayrshire lassie.’
Davie felt something stir inside him. ‘Where in Ayrshire?’
‘Right question. Little town called Glaikit. Now then. What’s your next question, Mr Petrie?’
Davie’s throat was suddenly dry. ‘What was your wife’s name? I mean, what was her name before she got married?’
‘Right question again, Mr Petrie. Smedley. Her name was Betty Smedley. She was devoted to her father, Mr Petrie. Devoted. He was a teacher. But you know that.’ It would be wrong to say that Buzz was poking Davie in the chest. It was more that he was tapping him. Hard taps. Although he was squat, Buzz was a big man. ‘Yes, they spoke on the telephone almost every day. He gave Betty her love of literature, art. He gave Betty her curiosity. And her curiosity, Mr Petrie, was what made me fall in love with her. But it fell away, Mr Petrie. It all fell away like a building being demolished when that vile thing happened to her father, and of course to her grandmother too. She sought solace in the Church, and her faith has kept her alive. Over the years I’ve learned a lot from Betty about what you might call the world of the mind. Through her, I’ve come to respect Mr Walter Smedley, to understand what a remarkable man he must have been.’
‘I think he was a remarkable man. He taught my children. I knew him. Slightly.’
‘You knew him. Slightly. Don’t get funny with me. I said that what happened to him was vile. Vile is a strong word, Mr Petrie. I don’t forget vile.’
Crouched in the shadow of David about to slay Goliath, Davie felt his knees begin to go. At that moment he caught sight of another man in the small gallery, sitting quietly on a guard’s chair with his legs folded, watching the two of them closely. The Master. What was he doing there? Didn’t matter. The nick of time.
But when the Master unfolded himself and walked towards them, Buzz greeted him with a nod of acknowledgement.
The Master turned to Davie. ‘I see you’re having that conversation after all. Well, none of us can ever escape the past entirely. On which subject, Ella sends her regards.’
‘Ella?’
‘You do remember Ella, don’t you?’
Now, at last, it was clear to Davie that he had been comprehensively set up – stitched up, ambushed and caught. What a fool. Time slowed down. He found himself standing outside, looking in at himself. If he’d lost control and urinated on the floor of the gallery, he wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, dry-mouthed.
Buzz looked at the Master, who replied for both of them. ‘What we want is for you to help make Caroline Phillips the next leader of the Labour Party and prime minister of Great Britain. To do that, she has to distance herself from her girlfriend, and in doing that, she needs your wholehearted public support and private encouragement. When she wins, as she will, you will accept office as her foreign secretary. You will broker our new agreements, and you will help her every step of the way.
‘Whatever else might happen between you is up to you; though the country loves a cheesy story. She has the charm, the charisma, which you lack. But you have a ruthlessness – as all three of us here know – which she doesn’t.’
‘Not me? It wasn’t going to be me? Not ever?’
‘No. Her. Question of character, you understand.’
Davie’s first reaction was that none of this seemed nearly as bad as he’d feared. Do what they want. Help her up into a job that could only be done by monsters. His second reaction, however, w
as that what they were asking was impossible. He’d had it. There was nothing left inside. And anyway, he knew that Caroline was a good person, who would never, ever betray her soulmate.
‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think it can be done.’
‘It can be done, Mr Petrie,’ said Buzz, who looked entirely unsympathetic. ‘And you will help to make it happen. Or I will personally tear off your testicles and choke you with them.’
‘Goodness me,’ said the Master, ‘the conference starts in an hour. We’re going to miss breakfast. Was that really necessary, Buzz? Shall we take a car back together? We can do the Caravaggios another time.’
A Clever Plan
The complicated plan rarely works; in politics, as in machinery, the fewer moving parts, in general, the better.
The Master
Davie found his room, stumbled into the shower, shaved and dried himself. He couldn’t remember feeling this rough since he was a teenager, discovering shots. On the untouched bed someone had laid out his grey woollen suit, a fresh white shirt and a claret tie. He dressed, doused himself with Acqua di Parma, and headed downstairs for breakfast. He’d noticed before that all his sharpest thoughts came in the shower, as if something as simple as a hail of hot water on the cranium really did stimulate the brain.
Right now his mind was revolving around a single thought: Caro would save him. She wouldn’t cut her partner loose. She’d stay loyal to this Angela. Cheers all round; the first gay PM. Though she’d more or less confessed to him that she was a psychopath, that was something the world never needed to know. There would be public outrage if Caroline dumped her partner. Her reputation would be shredded, surely? She had no need to do the US deal – no skeletons in that closet – and with Angela at her side, she’d have proved her independence from the Master. She just had to do the right thing. She had to stay strong.
For his part, he’d plead with her to cut Angela off, just as the Master had demanded. Caro would assume that he was doing it for the narrowest, sleaziest personal reasons – led by his cock – and she’d refuse. They’d fall out. Her disappointment and her contempt for him would be part of his justified punishment; he’d have tried to do what he was told, so he didn’t need to worry about blackmail. He certainly wouldn’t serve as foreign secretary; certainly wouldn’t broker any deal. And because she wouldn’t do what they asked, and nor would he, their whole plan would fail. If she would only stand firm, Britain would get, in Caroline Phillips, a new leader untainted by either the Master or the American deal.