by Prue Leith
Kate and Oliver continued their conversation and Kate turned the engine off. They were talking about the MP’s life, living away from the family in the week, weekends in the constituency. He told her of his daughters’ obsession with ponies, which he found charming but inexplicable, and of Ruth’s dislike of London and the political party circuit.
‘It’s an odd life,’ he said. ‘I can understand Ruth’s charge that the Westminster village is immoral, unreal, obsessed with its own importance and with political manoeuvring.’
‘It must be tough being a cabinet minister. So few people can behave normally with you.’
Oliver frowned. ‘Don’t you behave normally with me?’
‘No, I don’t. Or not usually, though at Lancaster House I guess I did, if losing one’s temper and being so rude is normal.’
‘You were quite right. I deserved it.’
‘I’m glad I’m forgiven. But no, I don’t behave entirely normally with you. I’d like to, but I can’t. With anyone else, for example, I would ask, What are you up to at work? What’s new? What’s exciting? Tell me the gossip, but of course I can’t. You might be dealing with state secrets or something.’
He was silent for a second or two, and then said slowly, ‘Well, the answer to that question is that I’m not effectively dealing very well with anything right now because of an idiotic tangle, can you believe it, about a necklace.’
‘A necklace?’
And then he told her the whole story as if it was an amusing anecdote about him being so crass he hadn’t twigged that a president would not give street-market presents and that neither he nor Ruth could tell a two-thousand-year-old piece from one made in the Philippines yesterday. ‘And the joke is that Ruth has never worn the necklace and hasn’t a clue where it is. At least she didn’t give it to the charity shop! So there’s hope yet.’
He sensed that Kate saw through his jocularity and guessed just how concerned he was, and what the consequences could be. Her face was troubled. ‘Oh, poor Oliver, and poor Ruth. You must both be worried sick. If you can’t find it, the Tory press could try to hound you out, couldn’t they?’
Oliver confessed that, yes, he was anxious, but he didn’t think Ruth was. She was irritated with him for not obeying the rules and getting them into a potentially embarrassing mess, but she wasn’t concerned for his political career.
‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘I don’t think Ruth believes in politics any more. I think she feels that however hard politicians try not to, they are corrupted by the power and the glamour, and that politics achieves very little. She sometimes says that business and charities achieve more than the state ever can, because the short-term need for popularity and votes prevents politicians ever doing the right thing. She’s half right, I guess.’
‘She’s half wrong too,’ Kate said.
Oliver shrugged, leant over to give Kate a quick kiss on the cheek, and opened the car door.
Later, lying in bed and replaying the conversation they had had, Oliver felt happier than he had for days. He did enjoy Kate’s company, she was sympathetic and funny. Still, he was pleased with himself for resisting the temptation to invite her in for a nightcap. Cabinet ministers needed to keep their distance.
But in the morning he woke uneasy. He knew that he had had too much to drink, that he had been indiscreet, and maybe, he thought, even disloyal to Ruth. He hadn’t meant to tell Kate about the necklace, but she was so easy to talk to.
God, he thought, what’s the matter with me? I’m angry with Ruth for her lack of sympathy and solidarity, and then I go and blab our troubles to the cook. How solid and loyal is that?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Oliver leant over to kiss Kate goodbye, his cheek briefly brushed hers and she felt the quick peck of his lips. At once she felt her heart somersault. The blood rushed to her face so hotly she thought he must feel it. He climbed out, then ducked his head in.
‘Thanks for the lift. And more than that, thanks for listening, Kate. You are good at it.’
Kate could not breathe, never mind speak. She could still smell his aftershave and feel the slight rasp of a day’s beard. And feel his breath. It was as if suddenly all her senses and nerves were tuned to him and him alone. He closed the door quietly, and she watched him walk up the front step, exchange a few words with the copper, put in the key, open the door, then turn to give her a last quick wave before he went in and closed it.
Immediately she felt the loss of him. She wanted him to come back and kiss her again. And again. She fumbled with the car key, struggling to make the car move quickly so that if he looked out of the window he would not see her sitting there like a love-sick idiot.
Oh God, she thought as she swung out. Maybe I am a lovesick idiot.
She drove twenty-five yards to the end of the street and turned the corner. Then she stopped, turned off the engine and put her head down on the steering wheel, her heart thumping, trying to think.
She had so wanted to put a hand up to his cheek when he’d said Ruth did not care about his career. She’d wanted to pull his head down to her breast and let that thick grey hair slip through her stroking fingers. And then thoughts of his face in her bosom, his arms reaching round her back, were too much for her and she sat up abruptly, saying aloud, “Don’t be such a bloody fool. He’s married. Happily married.”
She turned the car and headed back over the river (she hadn’t told Oliver that Lambeth was seriously out of her way). She drove slowly, admonishing herself for her stupidity, for lusting after a man who was not hers and not available and anyway unobtainable. He was a politician, for God’s sake, and a high-ranking cabinet minister. He was out of her reach for a dozen good reasons.
And yet, and yet … She loved the easy way he treated her. And the way he listened to her views, even on things she knew little about, like the massacre in the Congo or the new president of the US. And he was just so good looking: pale grey hair thick and shiny, face slightly tanned, eyes dark and deep. How had she managed to be so unaffected until now?
She knew the answer to that. It was because he’d come so close. She’d breathed him in. He’d added sex to the friendship mix and it was intoxicating. But she knew he had not meant to. He’d felt nothing, she was sure. He had not lingered for a minute over that goodbye kiss. He’d dutifully given it, as he would to any woman who had given him a lift. He’d told her some personal stuff because he’d had one or two glasses too many, and he would probably regret it tomorrow and be frosty to her.
She could not bear that. She wanted that closeness to go on for ever. She longed to know everything about him: his childhood, his ambitions, his getting into politics, the details of his marriage. It crossed her mind, of course it did, that she might be in love with him. Which was ridiculous of course. She’d had a couple of glasses too, and she was starved of male company, of proper conversation, of the dream of love. Fatal attraction, that’s what it was. And it was dangerous, dangerous.
Kate had had no idea that a peck on the cheek could so undo her. It astonished her. She, who was such a control freak, so organised, so sensible. As soon as she’d thought it she knew it was true, and yet it surprised her. She said it to herself with a kind of wonderment. I’m lusting after the Foreign Secretary, that’s what.
Amal had teased her, suggesting she fancied him, and at the time she hadn’t. She’d been blind as well as stupid.
But it would not wash. Going round the Hammersmith roundabout she sat up straight and shook her head vigorously, she had to be made of stronger stuff than this, surely? Your trouble, she told herself, is that you are a desiccated single female, with no love and no sex in your life. So you are clutching at straws. It’s just because he is handsome, intelligent and nice to you. And he’s there: who else is there around to desire?
She stepped on the accelerator and drove fast up Hammersmith Road, continuing her internal rant. You are infatuated with a dishy guy who exudes power and fame, two great aphrodisiacs. Oliver has both a
nd you are in the grip of an overheated fantasy. Get real, Kate McKinnon.
A week later, on the Saturday afternoon when Toby was with Sanjay and Talika, she and Amal did the monthly Cash and Carry trip. This time they went in Kate’s shiny new transit van, just delivered. Amal had been right: she’d managed to do a never-never deal which meant she’d hire it for two years, then buy it outright at a knock-down price.
They used the Anglo-Indian Emporium in Neasden, not because it was the cheapest or the nearest, but because it belonged to Amal’s uncle and had a good stock of what they both needed: Indian spices and pastes and other specialities for the Taj Amal, and a good gourmet selection for the sort of stylish, mostly Western, food that Nothing Fancy cooked.
Kate enjoyed the Cash and Carry. She had to discipline herself to stick to her buying list and not be tempted by the mounds of cheap but good quality glass cloths, multipacks of discounted pepper grinders, and glass lily vases on sale at half price.
Amal and she took separate flatbed trolleys to prevent a muddle paying the bill and a muddle unloading. As quickly as she could, Kate stocked up on all the boring stuff: detergent, bleach, kitchen paper, J-cloths, a new bucket and mop, soft brown sugar, plain flour, bread flour, Uncle Ben’s rice (scorned by chefs, but undoubtedly the best for caterers because it never stuck together however long you kept it warm) and tea lights.
She stacked all this on her trolley then started on the speciality section. She hunted down Maldon sea salt (expensive but the best: the fine flakes crumbled between the fingers and melted on the tongue with a burst of flavour); apricot jam (expensive smooth variety so she did not have to sieve it to glaze cakes or pastries); balsamic vinegar (she bought a standard brand which she’d boil down to thicken it and concentrate its sweetness); muscovado sugar (the only one with a deep treacly flavour); cape gooseberries in tins (for tartlets and clafoutis), and canned whole white peaches.
Amal arrived, his trolley less loaded than hers. ‘I’ve pushed a drinks trolley through already,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got to find some coconut cream. They only seem to have desiccated, milk, or block.’
‘The block works OK. You just melt it.’
‘Yes, memsahib, so grateful for the advice, ma’am,’ he said in an exaggerated Indian accent, bowing, hands together.
Kate cuffed him lightly round the head, ‘Shut up, you idiot. I’m right. Just buy the block. Anyway, it’s cheaper.’
‘Are you done?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ve got to get some elderflower cordial. And could you get me tamarind paste while you’re over there?’
‘Tamarind paste? What do you want it for?’
‘I’m going to make Vietnamese sweet and sour soup.’
‘Really? Sounds horrible.’
‘It’s delicious. Clear broth with pineapple and prawns. It’s for a hen party. The bride-to-be wants something spicy and healthy and of course stunningly pretty that no one has ever seen before.’
‘And is it?’
‘Actually it is. I float slices of star-fruit and leaves of coriander in it. Looks lovely.’
They were driving back, fully loaded, by four o’clock. As they were idling at a traffic light, Amal said, ‘Kate, you remember I was asking you if our Foreign Secretary fancied you?’
Kate’s heart jumped. But she kept her eyes on the road and her voice neutral.
‘Yes. I do. And it’s rubbish!’
‘Well, some people don’t think so. I was listening to a couple of Nothing Fancy staff gossiping the other day. I think you need to be careful, Kate. It could damage your standing with Government Hospitality, couldn’t it?’
Kate found her palms clammy on the wheel. She said, ‘But Amal, this is nonsense. Who said what? Oliver does not fancy me. Of course he doesn’t. He’s got a wife and kids. And anyway, he’s the Foreign Secretary!’
‘So? Foreign Secretaries are not normal men, open to the charms of—’
‘Amal, just tell me what it is someone said, and who. I will kill—
‘OK, OK, it was when we were doing that International Church breakfast in the Methodist Hall, remember? Anyway, the little one, Frankie, I think, said you were having an affair with Oliver Stapler.’
‘What!’ Kate was shouting now. ‘What does Frankie know about it? It’s not true. I’ll …’
Amal put his hand on her thigh and said, ‘Calm down, Kate. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, but you need to see the gossip stops, that’s all … Kate, the light is green. Go.’
Kate drove on. ‘What else did he say? Who was he talking to? What did you say? I hope you told them …’
‘OK, well, here goes. Frankie was talking to Joan and her daughter. They were all polishing glasses. He said, would they like a juicy bit of gossip and that you were having an affair. Joan said bully for you: you worked too hard and you needed someone in your life, or something like that. And then she asked who it was. And Frankie said Oliver Stapler, at which there was a lot of “NO!” and “Really?” and Joan said you certainly liked him, and was about to expand I think, which was when I chipped in. I said they should stop gossiping and get on with the job, and that I had known you for ages and my wife is your best friend and if you were having an affair we’d know about it, etc, etc. I gave them a great lecture about damaging your reputation and they got the message. I hope.’
Kate sat silent at the next traffic light. She shook her head as though to clear it. ‘Thanks, Amal. But what should I do?’
‘I don’t know. You can hardly not meet him. You work for him.’
‘He’s a good client too. Recommends me to all and sundry. And he’s really friendly. He does come into the kitchen for a chat …’
Amal’s eyebrows went up. ‘Does he indeed?’
Kate felt the doubt and accusation and was immediately indignant. ‘Why shouldn’t he? It’s a perfectly innocent thing to do.’
‘But an unusual one for a senior cabinet minister,’ Amal said coolly. ‘Maybe you should tell him of the gossip, and suggest he doesn’t.’
Kate answered at once, without thinking, ‘Oh I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kate’s mind was whirling about. She couldn’t speak to Oliver about that sort of gossip, he might guess how she felt. And she couldn’t bear not to see him. She’d spent most of the last few days hoping he would come and talk to her after next Thursday’s dinner party at Lambeth. She’d half decided she’d have her hair cut, and maybe splash her neck with Clarins Eau de Toilette …
Oh God what was she doing? Plotting seduction instead of planning escape.
She shook her head. ‘It would seem so presumptuous to discuss that sort of thing with a client. Any client, never mind a grandee like him. I can’t.’
‘Well, you had just better avoid him then, make excuses and scarper. And maybe get Joan to squash any backstairs rumour.’
Kate knew it was good advice. She must try to follow it.
On Thursday she managed to prevent herself getting her hair done, or wearing perfume. But she spent the whole time she was in his kitchen cooking, thinking about him. She took inordinate trouble about everything. They had a plate of Iberian ham with a thin mustard dressing, followed by a risotto with langoustine and scallops, a chicory and pecan nut salad, and Chinese apple fritters for dessert.
The minute the fritters had gone into the dining room, she said to Joan, ‘Joan, could you manage the rest for me? I’m sorry to leave early but I’m really tired and have stuff to do. Is that OK?’
Of course Joan agreed, administering motherly homilies about the need for beauty sleep. And yes, of course she’d do the coffee.
Kate carried her boxes out to the car, remembering how Oliver had helped her before, and went back for the rubbish.
‘You’ll have to just put the coffee grounds into his rubbish for once,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll even notice. His cleaner will deal with it.’
Kate drove home, please
d with herself for running away, but feeling hollow inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oliver and Sean got to Hampton Court a little early. Oliver wanted to see for himself that all was ready for the Prime Ministers’ Conference Dinner. His department was responsible, and it was an event for which they traditionally pulled out all the stops.
His communications people, terrified of the Downing Street Press chief, Terry Taughton, had banged on about the likelihood of journalists adding up the cost of Veuve Clicquot’s Grande Dame, 1982 Chateau Latour and the like, and concluding that government ministers were living high on the hog while the rest of the country tightened their belts. But Oliver had insisted on doing the dinner properly or not at all.
‘We own most of the wines, after all, bought them years ago comparatively cheaply to lay down,’ he said. ‘They are perfect for drinking now. And we’re not having fireworks or giving the guests goodie bags stuffed with Rolex watches, for God’s sake. This is Britain, Terry, not Dubai. Nothing ostentatious, just quietly excellent.’
To Oliver’s relief, Terry had given in. If he’d really dug his heels in, the twin objectives – to fly the flag and to flatter the prime ministers of Europe – would have been lost in some mediocre event.
But as it was, Oliver was confident the evening would be a triumph. Hampton Court Palace’s Great Hall looked magnificent. The famous hammer-beam roof, the stags’ heads peering down from between the wide, leaded glass windows and the famous medieval tapestries, all spelt history, power, riches, class.
Oliver could not help a little buzz of pride on walking through the tables laid with gold damask cloths, gold-rimmed glasses, and huge yellow flowers the size of soup plates (tree peonies, according to Sean) in low vases with trailing ivy snaking between the objects on the table.
He said a few words to the Master of Ceremonies, a toast-master familiar from many a banquet, and to Dennis, who was in charge of the service. They seemed fine Dennis even refrained from disparaging Kate.