A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  The children were in bed and asleep, Mattie with her earphones on. Oliver eased them off and put them on the floor beside the bed. He kissed both girls and then went in search of Ruth. He followed the sound of the radio into their bedroom where she was undressing. From the back she still looked like a boy and she was pulling her jumper off exactly like a boy would – grabbing it by the back of the neck and pulling it over the head.

  He watched her, amused and affectionate. Any other woman, he thought, would struggle out of the arms first and then carefully lift the lot over her hairdo. But Ruth had always done it like that. If she had two or three jumpers on after riding in the cold, she would pull them all off together.

  He waited for her to emerge, tousle-haired, and turn and see him. He didn’t want to give her a fright.

  ‘Hello. You’re back. I hope you’ve eaten.’

  ‘I have, don’t worry.’

  She wriggled out of her shirt, and then sat on the edge of her bed to yank off her socks, then her jodhpurs.

  Right, thought Oliver, no welcoming hugs then. He went over to her, kissed the top of her head and said, ‘I’m going to have a whisky. Will you join me? I need to talk to you about something.’

  When she came down the stairs she was wearing her old dressing gown and slippers and her face was shiny from cream; her hair was scraped back in one of those Alice bands with teeth. He hated those bands, they dug into her hair to expose small triangles of scalp. It was not pretty.

  Oh hell, he thought, I had a moment of feeling really close to her up there, but within minutes we are back to our just-cordial working relationship.

  ‘So, what’s up?’

  He handed her a glass. ‘Darling, something really irritating has come up. Do you remember, in the Yemen, the necklace the president put round your neck at dinner?’

  ‘I remember him doing it. Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because it turns out it’s worth a fortune and we should have declared it, and handed it in to bump up the coffers of the state. I have no idea what we did with it. Have you?’

  Ruth looked steadily at him, absorbing the information.

  ‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you?’

  ‘I could be. Depends if you’ve sold it for fifty pence in aid of the Pony Trust.’ He had meant her to smile but she frowned. ‘But on the other hand, if you …’

  ‘I haven’t sold it. It must be somewhere. If I can find it, will that take the heat off you?’

  ‘Sure. We just give it back, explain that we thought it tourist tat. Game over.’

  She sipped her drink, thinking. ‘How did this come up? Who’s behind the witch hunt?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘No idea, darling. Could be the press, they’re always ferreting for juicy bits of garbage. But they’d have published rather than shop me. Someone must have known about the necklace, and then established its worth with the president’s office.’

  ‘Someone in the Yemeni government? Isn’t that a bit far fetched?’

  ‘It’s possible. When we were there, relations with Yemen were very cordial, but now they are not. And the president will have enemies within, extremists who want a more radical Muslim regime. I suspect this is more about embarrassing the regime for giving away national treasure to a Western country than about our failing to hand it in.’

  ‘Politics looks the same the world over, doesn’t it?’ Ruth said, shaking her head. ‘But who told you about it? How did it come up?’

  ‘God knows. I had a call from the Ethics Committee. Summoned to answer for myself. Rather unpleasant really.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Monday. I saw them on Tuesday. Told them I remembered the necklace but thought it was junk.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ Her voice was steady, but Oliver knew at once she was put out.

  ‘I didn’t want—’

  ‘You didn’t want to worry me! God, Oliver, why do you treat me as a child? I’m in this too, much as I’d prefer to stay out of the political sewer.’

  ‘Darling, come on. That’s a bit strong. Political sewer!’

  She stood up and put her glass down with more energy than it needed. ‘Maybe. But if this gets into the press I will get it more than you – Cabinet Minister’s wife accepts jewels from Arab president. Great. Thanks a lot.’ She started to walk away, then turned. ‘And anyway, why didn’t you hand it in? You know the rules.’

  Oliver sat back in his chair and closed his eyes briefly. Then he stood up and drained his glass. ‘Ruth, I do not need this. I’m going to bed.’ His voice was leaden.

  Oliver took a discreet step back but the lank-haired woman promptly stepped close again, face up and head thrust forward. Back to square one. Why were these youngish females so damned earnest? You would think they had invented the Labour party. And why did this one have to stand so close? Her ill-cut hair hung in strands round a make-up-free face and lay on the collar of an oversized trouser suit. She was, he was fairly sure, in the House of Lords and a junior minister of something but he wasn’t sure what. He had been told but hadn’t concentrated enough for the information to stick. Maybe something to do with Overseas Development? She was banging on about India.

  ‘But Oliver, if the Uttar Pradesh feeding scheme is relying on imported non-recyclable plastic it should be a concern of the Foreign Office. All departments are signed up to the Low Carbon and Sustainability Inter-departmental Initiative, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But unless it’s directly our responsibility, and I don’t think it is, I really don’t see—’

  ‘That is precisely why the public thinks we’re so useless – always disclaiming responsibility and passing the buck.’

  Oliver edged back again, turning his head, looking for a way out. For a split second he caught Sean’s eye, and his ever-watchful PPS got the message. He was fractionally taller than Oliver, the perfect height for discreet whispering, but he knew when to pretend to be discreet and yet be obvious. He came up close. ‘Foreign Secretary,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could have a word with …’ He ducked his head closer to Oliver’s ear and whispered so that no one else could hear ‘the minister of rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb’. He reached for Oliver’s empty glass as Oliver said, ‘I do apologise,’ to the woman. Sean put his arm out to direct Oliver through the crowd and to safety.

  ‘Thanks, Sean,’ said Oliver, ‘that was smoothly done. Who is that ghastly woman?’

  ‘Baroness Framer, junior minister in Defra. Ennobled in Tony’s first onslaught on the Lords. Used to be in probation services. Now in charge of landfill sites, greening the construction industry, and Commonwealth environment matters.’

  ‘What a horrible portfolio. But I can’t say I care. Bloody woman harangued me non-stop. Who needs an opposition with fellow ministers like that?’

  Oliver was tempted to leave the reception. It was being held in Admiralty House and was intended to improve relations between the top brass in government, especially now that they were all battling with the fall-out from the credit crunch and banking collapse. The only good thing about it, thought Oliver, was the food.

  He looked around, noting that half the cabinet had not bothered to attend or had already scarpered. The PM had put in a ten-minute appearance, and left with excuses about an early start for the US in the morning.

  But some instinct told Oliver to stick it out. The undeclared gifts affair would probably break this week – Ruth had not been able to find the necklace – and he was going to need all the friends he could muster. Maybe he should have been nicer to Lady Framer. It would be just his luck if she sat on the Commons Ethics Committee or the Nolan Committee or some such. He must check out the membership and start a discreet back-me campaign.

  Oliver was hungry. The necklace affair had made thinking about anything else difficult, and today he had cancelled a lunch to talk to his personal lawyer. Helen had ordered some coffee and sandwiches, which were inedible.

  He stopped a waitress who was passing w
ith a tray of mixed canapés.

  ‘Could you just stand there while I have my lunch and supper?’ he said, popping two warm cheese tartlets into his mouth in rapid succession.

  She was very pretty and smiled brightly but did not understand a word. Polish or Russian, he thought. ‘Ya ochen golodeyn,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you speak Russian! I from Belarus. Student.’

  Oliver told her, in Russian, to keep him supplied with canapés, and she laughed with pleasure at the attention. She said she’d keep coming back.

  He had a useful conversation with a couple of colleagues from the Commonwealth desk and then the student from Belarus was back. He took a little block of hollowed out cucumber filled with crayfish mayonnaise and put it whole into his mouth. He smiled at her. ‘Delicious,’ he said in Russian. Then he turned to Sean.

  ‘Sean, who do you think the caterer is? This is a step up from the usual, don’t you think?’

  Sean looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I bet you it’s Kate McKinnon.’

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. She’s good. And I trust her.’

  ‘Trust her?’

  ‘Well, you can leave menus to her and she won’t come up with something ridiculous, like bacon-and-egg ice cream or blotches of sauce splashed about the plate, or calling strips of leek a tagliatelli. And she can cook, which makes a change for official functions.’

  Sean looked slightly bewildered. ‘You seem to know a lot about food, Sir.’

  ‘I know the difference between good food and pretentious nonsense, yes.’

  Oliver liked his PPS and would rather chat to him than most of the civil servants, ministers and quango bosses in the room, but duty prevailed and he launched himself back into the throng, giving Baroness Framer a wide berth. As he worked the room he conscientiously, and quite enjoyably, discussed the Congo, the latest revelations about long-dead spies disclosed under the thirty-year rule, a possible cap on MPs’ expenses, and, inevitably, the economy.

  After three, or maybe four, glasses of wine and a good few more exquisite canapés and some grilled asparagus rolled in grated parmesan, he was certain the cook in the kitchen must be Kate.

  The crowd was thinning and he could decently leave. But he said to Sean, ‘It would be nice to thank Kate. I usually pop into the kitchen and say a word.’ Actually, he thought, more than a word, she’s a lot more interesting to talk to than half my colleagues. ‘But this isn’t my show and I’ve no idea where the kitchen is, or even if there is one. Could you just do a recce and see if the caterer is Kate? And if she’s back there somewhere with her troops?’

  She was, and Sean came back and ushered his boss into a dining or meeting room, obviously commandeered as a temporary kitchen. The room was noisy with waiters dropping empty silver flats into heavy plastic crates and stacking dirty glasses into compartmented boxes. Kate was counting empty wine bottles.

  ‘Hello, Kate, I knew it would be you. No one else does such delicious food.’

  ‘Thank you! I wondered if you would be here. It seems the world and his wife are.’

  ‘Well, yes, except no wives. Just the servants of the people.’ He turned to Sean. ‘You know my PPS, Sean?’

  Sean and Kate smiled politely at each other. Sean said to Oliver, ‘Will you be going back to the office or to Lambeth, Sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ll walk. I’m getting fat and flabby. All this good food from, what’s your company called? No Nonsense?’

  ‘Nothing Fancy.’

  He laughed. ‘And you don’t call rare duck breast tartlets with pomegranate fancy? I call it fancy and completely delicious.’

  Kate dropped him a mock curtsey and said, ‘Thank’ee kindly, Squire.’

  Oliver turned to Sean. ‘I think we are just about done here, Sean. Thank you, as always. Your mastery of who’s who among junior ministers in obscure departments is second to none.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Sir. Shall I tell Debbie you won’t be needing the car any more?’

  ‘Please. And that I’m sorry to have kept her so long. I should have told her I would walk.’

  ‘I think she’s glad of the overtime.’

  And, thought Oliver, I have just told everyone in the department not to waste taxpayer’s hard-earned money. Oh dear.

  When Sean had gone he said to Kate, ‘This isn’t my party tonight, as you know, so I can hardly offer you a glass of someone else’s champagne, can I?’

  She grinned at him. ‘Can’t you? I thought you guys were a law unto yourselves.’ I wish, thought Oliver, his chest tightening at the thought of that wretched necklace.

  She said, ‘It’s quieter in the next room. I’ll bring a bottle. Fizz? Red? White?’

  ‘Red.’ Oliver walked through the door to what was obviously the outer office of the one used for the caterers. It had a door to the corridor outside. Good, he could escape without going through the reception room and being buttonholed by tipsy stragglers.

  Suddenly he felt dog tired. He sat in a chair, put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. I’m not quite sober, he thought. I should get up now and go home or I will regret it in the morning.

  But he didn’t move. It was pleasant sitting here, alone, without Sean minding him like a guide dog, without anyone wanting instructions or advice or to bend his ear. When Kate appeared with an open bottle of Rioja and two glasses, he looked up brightly and said, ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

  ‘Sorry, but everyone was ready to leave and I needed to finish counting the empties.’

  ‘Why on earth do you do that?’

  ‘So I know none of the booze has been nicked. If the empties and the full bottles equal the order, I don’t have to check the waiting staffs’ bags, which I hate doing. They know they can’t go until the tally is done. Also, I can charge the client for the right number of bottles. Some savvy hosts check them with me.’

  ‘Good Lord. I just assume you are an honest lot.’

  ‘Well, I hope we are all straight, but we use a lot of agency staff and some of them have been on the bar circuit long enough to get wise to a million dodges. But knowing we always check probably keeps them honest.’

  She poured them each a glass and handed one to Oliver. ‘Mind you,’ she said, ‘the Foreign Office has its own cellar, so on your jobs the booze is yours, not mine, and it’s Dennis’s job to do the tally. I have nothing to do with it, I’m glad to say. Losing some of your top wines would bankrupt me!’

  It was good sitting in this empty room, chatting to Kate. She looked as fresh as a daisy, though she must have been hard at it all day preparing for this party, then supervising it and being there to the end. She was dressed in chef’s whites.

  ‘Why don’t you give your waitresses aprons with your logo on them? Like that?’ Oliver asked, pointing to the crossed wooden spoon and cook’s knife embroidered over Nothing Fancy on her pocket. It would advertise your wares.’

  ‘I’d love to, and I do if I can. But most government departments, including yours by the way, frown on it. They want to give the impression that they do their own catering. Or maybe they just don’t like advertising. Anyway, it’s a no-no.’

  They talked about Toby and his troubles at Kew, and about Mattie and Andrea, and then Kate stood up and said, ‘I’d better get going. I have to start again at some horrible hour.’

  Oliver looked at his watch. ‘Good God, it’s nearly eleven. I had meant to go back to the office, but I’m just too tired. So it will be an early start for me too.’ He stood up and said, ‘It’s always good talking to you. I hope I’ve not made you too late. You don’t have to drive a van back and unpack it or something nasty, do you?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘Not tonight. Amal left with it an hour ago. It will be unloaded and swept out and parked in my front drive by now.’

  ‘So how are you getting home? Not by tube at this time of night? It’s not safe.’

  She smiled. ‘An
d how would you know that, Secretary of State?’ she asked. ‘When was the last time you travelled by tube?’

  ‘Touché,’ he replied.

  They walked downstairs together, and collected Kate’s jacket from the coat rack, now empty except for hundreds of hangers.

  ‘Don’t you have a coat?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I walked across the river this morning in perfect spring sunshine, but April being April, it’s now raining, or has been.’

  Kate shuffled into her jacket.

  ‘Seriously, Kate, how are you going home? I could flag you down a taxi.’

  ‘I’ve a car outside. I hire one for big jobs. But you? I imagine you have a Daimler with a flag on the bonnet and a driver in uniform with a peaked cap.’

  ‘Hardly. I do have a driver, Debbie, and she drives a pool car, a Jaguar mostly, sometimes a Range Rover or hybrid Toyota. No flag. She doesn’t wear a peaked cap either. And what’s more she’s gone home, so it’s Shank’s pony.’

  They walked to Kate’s car, tailed by Jim the detective. The rain began to fall in earnest.

  ‘I’d better run for a taxi. I’ve no umbrella. What an idiot. Goodbye Kate.’ He waved cheerily and walked fast towards St James.

  Kate sat for a few minutes checking her emails on her phone, and then set off for home. As she turned into Pall Mall she saw Oliver and Jim standing on the kerb.

  She pulled up next to them. ‘Can I offer you a lift? I don’t think you are going to get a taxi.’

  Oliver accepted. He couldn’t face the walk down Whitehall, across Parliament Square, over the bridge and into the hinterland of Lambeth in the tipping rain.

  Besides, he liked her company. He climbed in next to her and Jim got in the back.

  When they drew up outside his house, Kate and Oliver were deep in conversation, but Jim got out quickly and made to open the passenger door. Oliver rolled down the window. ‘Give us a few minutes, will you, Jim?’

  ‘I’ll leave you now, Minister, if I may. I see your security has arrived.’ He nodded towards the policeman on the Stapler doorstep.