'Was hoping to have a word with you, Dickie,' said Urquhart before the other had a chance to unburden himself. 'What about this development site in Victoria Street? Had a chance to look into it yet? Are you going to cover it in concrete, or what?' 'Good heavens, no. Prime Minister. I've studied all the options carefully, and I really think it would be best if we dispense with the more extravagant options and go for something traditional. Not one of these steel and glass air-conditioning units.'
'Will it provide the most modern office environment?' Stamper intervened.
'It'll fit into the Westminster environment,' Dickie continued a little uneasily. 'Scarcely the same thing,' the Party Chairman responded.
'We'd get a howl of protest from the heritage groups if we tried to turn Westminster into downtown Chicago,' Dickie offered defensively. 'I see. Planning by pressure group.' Stamper gave a cynical smile.
The Environment Secretary looked flustered at the unexpected assault but Urquhart came quickly to his rescue. 'Don't worry about Stamper, Dickie. Only a week at party headquarters and already he can't come into contact with a pressure group without raising his kneecap in greeting.' He smiled, this was considerably greater fun than being preached at by the two large female charity workers who were hovering behind Dickie, waiting to pounce. He drew Dickie closer for protection. 'So what else was on your mind?'
'It's this mystery virus along the North Sea coast which has been killing off the seals. The scientific bods thought it had disappeared, but I've just had a report that seal carcasses are being washed up all around Norfolk. The virus is back. By morning there will be camera crews and newshounds crawling over the beaches with photos of dying seals splashed across the news.'
Urquhart grimaced. 'Newshounds!' He hadn't heard that term used in years. Dickie was an exceptionally serious and unamusing man, exactly the right choice for dealing with environmentalists. They could bore each other for months with their mutual earnestness. As long as he kept them quiet until after March… 'Here's what you do, Dickie. By the time they reach the beaches in the morning, I want you there, too. Showing the Government's concern, being on hand to deal with the questions of the… newshounds.' From the corner of his eye he could see Stamper smirking. 'I want your face on the midday news tomorrow. Alongside all those dead seals.' Stamper covered his mouth with a handkerchief to stifle the laugh, but Dickie was nodding earnestly.
'Do I have your permission to announce a Government inquiry, if I feel it necessary?'
'You do. Indeed you do, my dear Dickie. Give them whatever you like, as long as it's not money.'
'Then if I am to be there by daybreak, I'd better make tracks immediately. Will you excuse me, Prime Minister?'
As the Environment Secretary hustled self-importantly towards the door, Stamper could control himself no longer. His shoulders shook with mirth.
'Don't mock,' reproached Urquhart with an arched eyebrow. 'Seals are a serious matter. They eat all the damned salmon, you know.'
Both men burst into laughter, just as the two charity workers decided to draw breath and swoop. Urquhart spied their heaving bosoms and turned quickly away to find himself looking at a young woman, attractive and most elegantly presented with large, challenging eyes. She seemed a far more interesting contest than the elderly matrons. He extended a hand. 'Good evening. I'm Francis Urquhart.' 'Sally Quine.' She was cool, less gushing than most guests. 'I'm delighted you could come. And your husband…?' 'Beneath a ton of concrete, I earnestly hope.'
Now he could detect the slightly nasal accent and he glanced discreetly but admiringly at the cut of her long Regency jacket. It was red with large cuffs, the only decoration provided by the small but ornate metal buttons which made the effect both striking and professional. The raven hair shimmered gloriously in the light of the chandeliers.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs…? Miss Quine.' He was picking up her strong body language, her independence, and couldn't fail to notice the taut expression around her mouth; something was bothering her. 'I hope you are enjoying yourself.'
'To be frank, not a lot. I get very irritated when men try to grope and pick me up simply because I happen to be an unattached woman.' So that's what was bothering her. 'I see. Which man?'
'Prime Minister, I'm a businesswoman. I don't get very far by being a blabbermouth.'
'Well, let me guess. He sounds as if he's here without a wife. Self-important. Probably political if he feels sufficiently at ease to chance his hand in this place. Something of a charmer, perhaps?'
'The creep had so little charm he didn't even have the decency to say please. I think that's what riled me as much as anything. He expected me to fall into his arms without even the basic courtesy of asking nicely. And I thought you English were gentlemen.'
'So… Without a wife here. Self-important. Political. Lacking in manners.' Urquhart glanced around the room, still trying to avoid the stares of the matrons who were growing increasingly irritated. 'That gentleman in the loud three-piece pinstripe, perhaps?' He indicated a fat man in early middle age who was mopping his brow with a spotted handkerchief as he perspired in the rapidly rising warmth of the crowded room. She laughed in surprise and acknowledgement. 'You know him?' 'I ought to. He's my new Minister of Housing.' 'You seem to know your men well, Mr Urquhart.' 'It's my main political asset.'
'Then I hope you understand your women just as well, and much better than that oaf of a Housing Minister… In the political rather than the biblical sense,' she added as an afterthought, offering a slightly impertinent smile. 'I'm not sure I follow.'
'Women. You know, fifty-two per cent of the electorate? Those strange creatures who are good enough to share your beds but not your clubs and who think your Government is about as supportive and up-to-the-mark as broken knicker elastic?'
In an Englishwoman her abruptness would have been viewed as bad manners, but it was normal to afford Americans somewhat greater licence. They talked, ate, dressed differently, were even different in bed so Urquhart had been told, although he had no first-hand experience. Perhaps he should ask the Housing Minister. 'It's surely not that bad…' 'For the last two months your Party has been pulling itself apart while it chose a new leader. Not one of the candidates was a woman. And according to women voters, none of the issues you discussed were of much relevance to them, either. Particularly to younger women. You treat them as if they were blind copies of their husbands. They don't like it and you're losing out. Badly.'
Urquhart realized he was relinquishing control of this conversation; she was working him over far more effectively than anything he could have expected from the charity representatives, who had now drifted off in bitter disappointment. He tried to remember the last time he had torn apart an opinion poll and examined its entrails, but couldn't. He'd cut his political teeth in an era when instinct and ideas rather than psephologists and their computers had ruled the political scene, and his instincts had served him very well. So far. Yet this woman was making him feel dated and out of touch. And he could see a piano being wheeled into a far corner of the huge reception room.
'Miss Quine, I'd like very much to hear more of your views, but I fear I'm about to be called to other duties.' His wife was already leading the tenor by the hand towards the piano, and Urquhart knew that at any moment she would be searching for him to offer a suitable introduction. 'Would you be free at some other time, perhaps? It seems I know a great deal less about women than I thought.'
'I appear to be in demand by Government Ministers this evening,' she mused. Her jacket had fallen open to reveal an elegantly cut but simple dress beneath, secured by an oversized belt buckle, which for the first time afforded him a glimpse of her figure. She saw he had noticed, and had appreciated. 'I hope at least you will be able to say please.' 'I'm sure I will,' he smiled, as his wife beckoned him forward.
December: The Second Week
The signs of festive celebration were muted this year. Mycroft, with the pressure of work easing as journalists forsook w
ord processors for the crush of Hamley's toy counter and the karaoke bars, trudged aimlessly through the damp streets in search of… he knew not what. Something, anything, to keep him out of the tomb-like silence of his house. The sales had started early, even before Christmas, yet instead of customers the shop doorways seemed full of young people with northern accents and filthy hands asking for money. Or was it simply that he'd never had time to notice them before? He made a pretence at Christmas-shopping along the King's Road, but quickly became frustrated. He hadn't the slightest idea what his children might want, what they were interested in, and anyway they would be spending Christmas with their mother. 'Their mother', not 'Fiona'. He noticed how easily he slipped into the lexicon of the unloved. He was staring into the window of a shop offering provocative women's lingerie, wondering if that was really what his daughter wore, when his thoughts were interrupted by a young girl who, beneath the make-up and lipstick, looked not much older than sixteen. It was cold and drizzling, yet the front of her plastic raincoat was unbuttoned.
"Ullo, sunshine. Merry Christmas. Need anything to stick on top of your tree?' She tugged at her raincoat, revealing an ample portion of young, pale flesh. 'Christmas sale special. Only thirty quid.'
He gazed long, mentally stripping away the rest of the raincoat, discovering a woman who, beneath the plastic, imitation leather and foundation, retained all the vigour and appealing firmness of youth, with even white teeth and a smile he could almost mistake as genuine. He hadn't talked to anyone about anything except business for more than three days, and he knew he desperately missed companionship. Even bickering with his wife about the brand of toothpaste had been better than silence, nothing. He needed some human contact, a touch, and he would feel no guilt, not after Fiona's performance. A chance to get back at her in some way, to be something other than a witless cuckold. He looked once again at the girl and even as he thought of revenge he found himself overcome with revulsion. The thought of her nakedness, her nipples, her body hair, the scratchy bits under her armpits, the very smell of her suddenly made him feel nauseous. He panicked, at the embarrassment of being propositioned – what if someone saw? – but more in surprise at the strength of his own feelings. He found her physically repellent – was it simply because she was the same sex as Fiona? He found a five-pound note in his hand, thrust it at her and spat, 'Go away! God sake… go away!' He then panicked more, realizing that someone might have seen him give the tart money, turned and ran. She followed, calling after him, anxious not to forgo the chance of any trick, particularly one who gave away free fivers. He'd run seventy yards before he realized he was still making a fool of himself out on the street and saw a door for a drinking club. He dashed in, lungs and stomach heaving.
He ignored the sardonic look of the man who took his coat and went straight to the bar, ordering himself a large whisky. It took a while before he had recovered his breath and his composure sufficiently to look around and run the risk of catching someone's eye. The club itself was nothing more than a revamped pub with black walls, lots of mirrors and plentiful disco lights. There was a raised dance floor at one end, but neither the lights nor juke box were working. It was still early, there was scarcely a handful of customers who gazed distractedly at one of the plentiful television monitors on which an old Marlon Brando film was playing, the sound turned off so as not to clash with the piped Christmas music the staff had turned on for their own entertainment. There were large photos of Brando on the walls, in motorcycle leathers from one of his early films, along with posters of Presley, Jack Nicholson, and a couple of other younger film stars he didn't recognize. It was odd, different, a total contrast to the gentlemen's clubs of Pall Mall to which Mycroft was accustomed. There were no seats; this was a watering hole designed for standing and moving, not for spending all evening mooning over a half pint. He rather liked it.
'You entered in something of a hurry.' A man, in his thirties and well presented, a Brummie by his accent, was standing next to him. 'Mind if I join you?'
Mycroft shrugged. He was still dazed from his encounter and lacked the self-confidence to be rude and turn away a friendly voice. The stranger was casually but very neatly dressed, his stone-washed jeans immaculately pressed, as was his white shirt, sleeves rolled up narrow and high and with great care. He was obviously fit, the muscles showed prominently. 'You looked as if you were running from something.'
The whisky was making Mycroft feel warmer, he needed to ease up a little. He laughed. 'A woman actually. Tried to pick me up!'
They were both laughing, and Mycroft noted the stranger inspecting him carefully. He didn't object; the eyes were warm, concerned, interested. And interesting. A golden shade of brown.
'It's usually the other way round. Women running from me,' he continued. 'Makes you sound like something of a stud.'
'No, that's not what I meant…' Mycroft bit his lip, suddenly feeling the pain and the humiliation of being alone at Christmas. 'My wife walked out on me. After twenty-three years.' 'I'm sorry.'
'Why should you be? You don't know her, or me…' Once more the confusion flooded over him. 'My apologies. Churlish of me.' 'Don't worry. Shout if it helps. I don't mind.' 'Thanks. I might just do that.' He extended a hand. 'David.'
'Kenny. Just remember, David, that you're not on your own. Believe me, there are thousands of people just like you. Feeling alone at Christmas, when there's no need. One door closes, another opens. Think of it as a new beginning.' 'Somebody else I know said something like that.'
'Which must make it right.' He had a broad, easy smile which had a lot of life to it, and was drinking straight from a bottle of exotic Mexican beer with a lime slice stuffed in the neck. Mycroft looked at his whisky, and wondered whether he should try something new, but decided he was probably too old to change his habits. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had tried anything or met anyone new, outside of work. 'What do you do, Kenny?' 'Cabin crew. Fly-the-fag BA. And you?' 'Civil servant.'
'Sounds horribly dull. Then my job sounds horribly glamorous, but it's not. You get bored fending off movie queens in first class. You travel a lot?'
Mycroft was just about to answer when the piped strains of 'Jingle Bells' was replaced by the heavy thumping of the juke box. The evening was warming up. He had to bend close to hear what Kenny was saying and to be heard. Kenny had a freshly scrubbed smell with the slightest trace of aftershave. He was bawling into Mycroft's ear to make himself heard, suggesting they might find a place to eat, out of the din.
Mycroft was trembling once again. It wasn't just the prospect of going back out alone onto the cold streets again, perhaps finding the tart waiting to accost him, or returning home to an empty house. It wasn't just the fact that this was the first time for years someone had been interested in him as a person, rather than as someone who was close to the King. It wasn't even that he felt warmed by Kenny's easy smile and already felt better than he had done all week. It was the fact that, however much he tried to hide from it or explain it away, he wanted to get to know Kenny very much better. Very much better indeed.
The two men were walking around the lake, one dressed warmly in hacking jacket and gumboots while the other shivered inside his cashmere overcoat and struggled to prevent his hand-stitched leather shoes slipping in the damp grass. Near at hand a domestic tractor was ploughing up a substantial section of plush lawn marked off inside guide ropes while, beyond, a pair of workmen manoeuvred saplings and young trees into holes which further disfigured the once gracious lawn, already scarred by the tyre marks of earth-moving equipment. The effect was to spread dark winter mud everywhere, and even the enthusiasm of the King couldn't persuade Urquhart that the gardens of Buckingham Palace would ever recover their former glories.
The King had suggested the walk. At the start of their first weekly audience to discuss matters of state, the King had clasped Urquhart with both hands and thanked him fervently for the decision on the Westminster Abbey site, announced that morning, which had
been hailed as a triumph by heritage groups as vehemently as it had been attacked by the luminaries of the architects' profession. But as Urquhart had concluded at Cabinet Committee, how many votes had the architects? The King inclined to the view that his intervention had probably been helpful, perhaps even crucial, and Urquhart chose not to disillusion him. Prime Ministers were constantly surrounded by the complaints of the disappointed and it made a refreshing change to be greeted with genuine, unaffected enthusiasm.
The King was ebullient and, in the characteristically Spartan fashion that often made him oblivious to the discomfort of others, had insisted on showing Urquhart the work which had begun to transform the Palace gardens. 'So many acres of barren, closely cropped lawn, Mr Urquhart, with not a nesting-place in sight. I want this to be made a sanctuary right in the heart of the city, to recreate the natural habitat of London before we smothered it in concrete.'
Urquhart was picking his way carefully around the freshly ploughed turf, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the cloying earth and divots while the King enthused about the muddy tract. 'Here, this is where I want the wild-flower garden. I'll sow it myself. You can't imagine what a sense of fulfilment it gives me, dragging around a bucket of earth or manhandling a tree.'
Urquhart decided it would be ill-mannered to mention that the last recorded instance of someone with such an upbringing manhandling a tree had been the King's distant ancestor, George III, who in a fit of clinical madness had descended from his coach in Windsor Great Park and knighted an oak. He also lost the American colonies, and had eventually been locked away.
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