by Joan Smith
‘He means politically correct,’ Stephen teased.
‘But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. Where are you from — originally, I mean?’
Aisha said, ‘Highgate.’
Porter took a step back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry —’
She relented, softening the remark with a smile. ‘My mother’s family is from Egypt, but I was born in London.’
‘Ah. Do you go back there often?’
‘I’ve never been.’
‘Never?’
‘No, though lately I’ve been thinking I’d like to.’
‘We, the committee that is, we were in Cairo a few years ago. Before your time, I think, Stephen.’
He nodded. ‘I came on at the end of ’94.’
The MP turned back to Aisha. ‘Fascinating place, and the Government does seem to be getting to grips with the extremists. Do you have a card?’ She handed him one and he glanced at it: ‘We should have lunch.’
Aisha inclined her head. ‘I’d like that.’
‘It’s actually Chechnya I want to talk to you about,’ Stephen said, asking Aisha to excuse him for a moment. She listened as they discussed a meeting with the Russian ambassador, whom they both seemed to know, then Porter gave Aisha a half-bow and moved away.
‘Christ, you really put him in his place,’ Stephen said admiringly. ‘No, it’s OK, he deserved it. Though he’s actually not a bad chap. For the other side, that is.’
A waitress appeared, took Stephen’s order for drinks and held out a menu. ‘Pudding?’
Aisha shook her head.
‘Me neither, thanks.’
As the woman moved away, a bell began to ring, an urgent hammering that made Aisha jump. Stephen reached across the table and squeezed her hand, the first time he had touched her since they exchanged kisses in the Central Lobby.
‘That means a division.’ He glanced up at the green screen of a TV monitor in the corner of the room, sounding regretful. ‘I did warn you there might be votes all evening. Will you be all right there? I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Aisha leaned back, watching the room empty. It was only a quarter to nine and she felt deflated, contemplating a solo taxi ride to North London where she had arranged to stay in a friend’s flat. A mobile sounded faintly and after a moment, when no one answered it, Aisha realised it was hers. She reached inside her bag, looked at the screen and frowned as she recognised her own number in Somerset.
‘Aisha? What the hell is that noise?’
‘Tim. Are the boys all right? Has something happened?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. Where are you?’
‘I’m — in a restaurant.’
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ To her relief, the clanging stopped. ‘Is everything all right?’
He ignored the question. ‘Listen, the reason I’m calling, you know I wouldn’t interrupt your girls’ night out if it wasn’t important. What time are you going to be home tomorrow?’
‘Around six, I should think.’
‘Can’t you get back earlier? Three o’clock, say?’
She felt the muscles in her face tighten. ‘Why? What’s the rush?’
‘I’m seeing a new client. Well, a potential client. Nerijus Sidaravicius, that guy who’s buying up football clubs, even you must’ve heard of him. God knows why he’s come to me — his people, I should say, I’ve yet to speak to the great man himself. You know what these East European moneybags are like, but that’s where the dosh is these days. Apparently he’s dying to meet you. Come on, Aisha, is it so much to ask? You don’t have to sit through lunch, just show up for coffee and turn on the charm. I’m taking him — well, I hope he’s taking me — to The Swan.’
Aisha spotted Stephen walking towards her in a throng of MPs, his hand on the shoulder of a former chancellor. She said abruptly: ‘All right, I’ll try and get there by four.’
‘Can’t you make it earlier?’
‘Tim, I have a meeting with UNICEF tomorrow morning. Even that’s cutting it fine.’
‘Oh, all right. See you.’ He rang off.
Stephen pulled out his chair, smiling at something, and nodded towards her mobile. ‘I’ve turned mine off, after the trouble it caused last time.’
‘Last time? Oh.’ Aisha felt her cheeks flush.
‘The good news,’ he said, leaning towards her, ‘is that that was the last vote. I don’t have to hang around here all evening, so what would you like to do? I mean, as long as you’re not in a rush...’
‘No — oh, no.’
Stephen caught the waitress’s eye and made a signing motion with his hand. ‘This place isn’t exactly designed for private conversation, but we could go up to my office.’ He paused. ‘Or we could get a cab to Charles Street.’
Aisha had a sudden vision of the bedroom, with its bilious soft furnishings. She said quickly, before she had time for second thoughts: ‘I’m staying in Camden. A friend’s got a flat there, but she’s in Kazakhstan at the moment. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Oh — sure.’ Stephen looked surprised but the bill arrived and he handed over his credit card, telling Aisha a story about something that had happened in the House earlier in the day until the waitress returned it. As he put his wallet in his suit jacket, he glanced across and his eyes met hers. ‘Shall we go?’
Aisha nodded and Stephen got up, motioning her to walk ahead of him. His hand rested lightly in the small of her back and she shivered, intensely aware of his physical presence. As they reached the door, he dropped his hand and stopped to speak to a woman with white hair and glasses, whom Aisha thought she had seen on television. She waited in the corridor, trying to keep her features neutral but aware that her body had tensed as it did before a photo shoot.
‘Lady Bhalla,’ Stephen said in a low voice, catching up with her. ‘Sorry I didn’t introduce you. She’s the original hanger and flogger, the conference adores her and unfortunately she lives in my constituency. You’d hate her, or I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t. Let’s get out of here.’
They strode down the corridor and turned in the direction of the Central Lobby, where the lights had been switched on and mosaics of Celtic saints glittered in the beams from a massive chandelier. As they approached St Stephen’s entrance, Stephen steered Aisha down a flight of steps into the cavernous vastness of Westminster Hall.
‘We could have gone a quicker way but I thought you might like to see this,’ he said, gesturing towards the roof.
Aisha glanced up as Stephen described its history, aware of the hollow sound her heels were making on the stone floor. She fastened her short jacket, feeling a chill rise from the flags, and was relieved when they emerged into New Palace Yard.
‘Shouldn’t be long,’ Stephen said, joining the short queue for taxis. A woman turned to ask if he wanted to go in front of her and he shook his head, explaining to Aisha in a low voice that MPs had priority over everyone else.
‘Where are we going exactly?’ he asked as two black cabs arrived together.
Aisha recited the address, getting into the back of the second. Stephen settled beside her, their bodies not quite touching. ‘Who lives there?’
Aisha told him about her friend Sian, who imported jewellery and fabrics from Central Asia to sell in her shop in Primrose Hill. She described the shop at length, not sure that Stephen was really listening, and talked about the earrings Sian had recently begun importing from Uzbekistan.
‘From where?’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘Well, I’m glad something decent comes out of there. Is this it?’
The taxi had slowed and was turning right.
‘Just here,’ Aisha called out. Stephen waved away her offer to pay, waited as the driver counted out his change and then followed her up the short path to the front door. Aisha unlocked it, saying over her shoulder: ‘Watch the stairs, they’re a bit steep.’
Sian had decorated the basement flat with rugs and ar
tefacts she had found on her travels and the effect was not unlike Iris’s house in Somerset. In the living room, a silk shawl had been draped over a standard lamp and Aisha switched it on, casting a soft reddish light across the big room. The shutters were already closed and she had bought flowers earlier in the day: creamy roses and pink lilies whose perfume reached her as she dropped her bag on to a chair and took off her jacket.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked, bending to turn on a lamp on an inlaid side table.
Stephen was loosening his tie. He draped his jacket over the back of a chair, not looking in Aisha’s direction. ‘Sure,’ he said, picking up that day’s Guardian and appearing to read it.
Aisha crossed the floor to the kitchen, which had windows on to the back garden; security lights came on and she glanced outside in time to see a neighbour’s cat streak across the grass. She went to the big American fridge, where she had left a bottle of expensive white wine, and heard Stephen chuckle over something in the paper as she removed the cork. Her hands shook slightly and she overfilled two of Sian’s blue Mexican glasses, forcing herself to concentrate as she carried them into the living room. Stephen tossed the paper aside, reached up for a glass and their hands touched.
‘I’m nervous,’ she exclaimed, looking down at him.
‘So am I.’ He grasped her wrist. ‘Sit.’
Aisha lowered herself on to the sofa next to him, their faces inches apart. Stephen’s pupils were huge in the low light, turning his blue eyes almost black, and she could feel the warmth of his breath.
‘Let’s get rid of these,’ he said, taking her glass and putting it beside his on the table.
As he turned back, Aisha held out her arms and he moved into them, their lips touching gently at first. Her hands explored his back, tracing the contours of his shoulders through his shirt, and she felt him trying to undo the buttons on her top.
‘They don’t — they’re decoration,’ she said awkwardly, pushing his hands away so she could lift it over her head.
Stephen gazed at her for a moment, following the lace edging of her bra with his index finger. Aisha’s hair was coming down and he watched as she shook it loose. When she had finished, he reached behind her back to unhook her bra, pulling it down her arms and tossing it to the floor. Aisha gasped as he bent his head to her breast, taking up where they had left off the time before. His hand slid between her thighs and she parted her legs, crying out as his fingers pushed inside her.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Yes. No. Don’t stop.’
He paused to lick his fingers and she relaxed, covering his hand with hers and guiding it back. They were both smiling, slightly out of breath. He said, ‘Do you want to —’
A phone shrilled. Stephen sat up as though he’d received an electric shock: ‘It’s not mine!’
They heard the click of an answering machine, followed by a woman’s voice, and laughed out loud as the message began to play: ‘Hi, this is Sian Evans. I’m out of the country until the middle of June. Leave a message or call the shop and speak to my assistant, Gavin Price.’
Aisha clasped Stephen to her as someone left a message about tickets for Glyndebourne. Burying her head in his neck, she exclaimed, ‘Sorry, sorry, I can’t switch it off.’
‘Never mind,’ he said, and put his hand under her chin. Twining his other hand in her dark hair, he looked into her eyes. ‘Do you want to —’
‘Yes!’
‘Sure?’
She made an impatient sound.
‘Take your skirt off.’
Aisha slithered out of it, dropping it on top of her underwear. She lay back on the sofa, watching as Stephen stripped off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. When he was naked, he picked up his trousers and produced a foil condom packet from a pocket, fumbling as he tried to open it.
‘Here, let me.’ Aisha tore it open and helped him put it on. Then she lay back on the sofa and guided him inside her, bracing her legs and arching her back as she felt the weight of his body descend on hers.
A holdall was open on the single bed. Aisha slipped her swimming costume inside, on top of her jeans and a pleated top she had been given by a Japanese designer.
‘Mum.’
She gave a guilty start. ‘Max — what’re you doing here? I thought you were going to Taunton.’
He slumped against the door frame, hands in his pockets. He had recendy had the sides of his head shaved, leaving a flat strip of dark curly hair over the crown, a style that prompted Tim to let out a yelp and ask sarcastically when he was going to have the rest off. Ignoring Aisha’s warning look, he had added: ‘Will they do it now if I give them a fiver?’ Max had slammed out of the kitchen and spent the rest of the evening upstairs, talking to other disgruntled teens — Aisha sincerely hoped they were his age — in chatrooms.
‘Taz is coming over in half an hour. This is really dorky wallpaper.’ Max rarely came into Aisha’s bedroom and his nose wrinkled as he stared at the mauve flowers. ‘Why don’t you change it?’
Aisha smiled and shook her head. ‘I haven’t got time to think about wallpaper.’ What she really disliked was the en-suite shower, installed in the days when the house was a hotel, but she didn’t want to put up with the disruption of replacing the cracked base.
‘You could pay someone.’
‘I hardly notice it.’
‘Can you lend me a tenner?’
She looked up from closing the holdall. ‘What for? What’s happened to your pocket money?’
‘Mum.’
‘Isn’t it Dad’s turn to pay you?’
‘Yeah, but you know what it’s like in the holidays.’
Aisha’s eyes flicked to her watch, aware that she hadn’t much time.
‘Pie-ease.’
‘What, darling?’ She forced her attention back to her younger son. ‘Look, I don’t want to go on but you could get a holiday job if you’re short of cash. Sylvia Kerr says they’re looking for someone to help in the stables.’
‘It’s miles away. Anyway, riding is stupid and Dad says you’ve got loads of money.’
Aisha’s control almost slipped: ‘Even if that were true, it’s not the point.’
‘Why was he shouting at you last night?’
‘He wasn’t shouting.’ She picked up the holdall, made sure it wasn’t too heavy and swung it to the floor.
‘He was. I heard him.’
‘He — he doesn’t want me to go away this weekend.’
‘I wish he’d go away. If he went away I could have a Staffie.’
Aisha’s eyes widened at the thought of her younger son trying to train a Staffordshire bull terrier.
‘It’s true, he never lets me have anything. He’s always picking on me — it’s not fair, he never does it to Ricky.’ Max looked down, rubbing the toe of one trainer against the side of the other. He had pleaded with Aisha to buy them for his birthday and she gave in even though they were, as Tim pointed out, ridiculously expensive and actively impeded the process of walking. ‘Training for what?’ he had inquired, fortunately not in Max’s hearing.
‘Ricky’s not here much,’ Aisha said lamely. ‘And you know Dad’s allergic, he can’t help it. You’ve only got another year at school, and then you’ll be on your gap year. Have you thought any more about what you’d like to do? If you’re serious about South America, we should see if any of your friends would like to go.’ She glanced down at her watch again. ‘I’m back on Monday night, darling, let’s talk about it then.’
Max grunted. Still avoiding her gaze, he asked, ‘Are you going to get divorced?’
‘Divorced!’
His head came up sharply. ‘Are you?’
‘What’s given you that idea?’
‘Dad’s cross with you all the time and you don’t sleep in the same room.’ He folded his arms. ‘I wouldn’t mind, honest. Most of my friends’ parents are divorced.’
‘Not most of them, darling. Don’t exaggerate.’
‘Vicki’
s Dad lets her go to Burger King, which he never used to. And he’s going to get her a laptop for her birthday.’ He pushed himself upright and said, sounding like a much younger child: ‘You gonna bring me a present?’
‘From Italy?’
‘Yeah.’
Somewhere in the house a phone rang. Aisha waited, assuming that Tim had answered it and wondering if it was for her. Then she realised that Max was waiting.
‘What would you like?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Football scarf?’
‘All right. Any particular team?’ Max supported Arsenal, although he had been to see them only once, when Ricky had allowed him to tag along. If he was interested in European clubs, Aisha wasn’t aware of it.
He threw a punch into the air. ‘For-za Na-po-li.’
Aisha’s expression softened. ‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘So can I have a tenner? Go on, Mum, you’re leaving me with Dad for three whole days. I’m always being left out.’
He had moved further into the room and Aisha saw, to her surprise, a mark on his neck that looked like a love bite. His friends included a couple of girls but Vicki seemed to be going out with Taz — Max’s friend Tariq, whose father owned restaurants in Minehead and Williton — and he did not take much notice of the other, a quiet blonde called Stella. He sometimes went to the cinema with Iris’s daughter, Clara, but treated her more like a mate than a girlfriend. Aisha frowned, remembering what had happened when she tried to talk to Max about contraception and Aids; she had barely begun when he cut the conversation short, saying he’d done sex education at school and it was bor-ing. (Ricky, three or four years earlier, had grinned reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he said, ‘I know all about it. You can do whatever you like as long as it’s covered in rubber.’)
She began to say nervously: ‘What’s that on your—’
A beep from his mobile stopped her. Max pressed keys and read a text message: ‘Oh shit, Taz’s brother won’t lend him the car. Can you give me a lift, Mum?’
She thought for a moment, and her head swivelled as she heard a car turning into the drive.