A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  She read them a story and tucked them both into her bed. Then she, Amal and Talika had supper – mostly peas, with a bit of chopped left-over chicken and sweated onion in it, followed by defrosted banana loaf and custard. Amal and she drank a bottle of red between them (Talika wasn’t drinking because of the baby) and then Amal stuck his head out of the top bathroom window to check if the paparazzi had gone, which they had.

  ‘Kate, do not reconnect the bell. Don’t answer the door or the phone. Talika will be back in the morning, early, to defend the fortress. And I’ll do the school run.’

  Kate thought she’d cry again. They were so wonderful; such great friends. She could feel her eyes welling up and she didn’t dare speak. She nodded, kissed them both and watched them walk down the path, Amal carrying the sleeping Sanjay, Talika swaying slightly, elegantly, beside them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When the piece in the Standard came out, Oliver was at home on his own in Lambeth. For once he had no engagements and was looking forward to an hour or two at his desk, the ten o’clock news, then bed.

  But at six-thirty there was a call from the Downing Street press officer to tell him that the Press Secretary Terry Taughton was on his way to see him. ‘It is top priority, Sir,’ said the young man, ‘and I am to ask you not to answer the door to anyone else, or speak to anyone else until you see him. He will be with you in ten minutes.’

  Oliver felt curiously calm. He assumed that the Necklace Affair, or the Limoges Affair (as, rather dramatically, he thought of them) were finally out. Well, it was bound to happen. Terry will be coming to discuss tactics. Or maybe to ask for his head – Terry was very close to the PM. But no, Oliver decided, however much the boss might like his henchman to do the dirty work, he would have the good manners to sack him himself. After all he had been in government as long as the PM, and was, for all his secret ambition, a solid supporter.

  Oliver climbed to the upstairs landing and looked gingerly down, but the porch roof was in the way and he could not see if there were any pressmen at his front door. As he stood there, tempted to climb onto the porch roof and peer over, with the risk of being photographed from below, the door bell rang, making him jump. He ignored it as instructed, and continued to scan the street. A taxi was stopping opposite. A man with a camera round his neck and a camera bag over his shoulder climbed out, hauling his tripod and a little ladder after him. As he paid the driver he turned his head, joshing with people already at Oliver’s door. So the vultures were here in force then.

  He still felt oddly detached, but expectant, waiting for fear or distress to kick in. He went downstairs and into the kitchen to make tea for his colleague. If his career was over, he would at least stick to the civilities. Personally he would prefer a whisky, and would probably have one, but Terry Taughton was teetotal. A legacy, Oliver suspected, of alcoholism.

  He spilled a little boiling water as he filled the teapot. His hands, he saw, were shaking. Not so calm then. He wiped up the spillage, then held both hands out, stiffly, willing them to be still. But they continued to tremble. He carried the tray into the study.

  Terry rang him from his mobile. ‘Oliver, are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, open the door, but stay behind it. Just wide enough for me to get through. I don’t want the press to get a shot of you, do you hear?’

  Oliver thought his tone unnecessarily peremptory, but decided to overlook it. After all, this is what press secretaries were for. It was the moment when they emerged from the background chorus and got to be, briefly, lead players.

  ‘Sure, Terry. Will do.’

  Taughton sidled through the door, his thin frame tall and bendy. Like the snake he was, thought Oliver. As soon as he was inside he walked ahead of Oliver towards the stairs.

  ‘We need to go upstairs, and sit away from any window. OK?’

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Forget the tea. I don’t want them snapping you through the kitchen window.’

  ‘I’ve already made it, and it’s in my study. And the curtains are drawn.’

  For the first time Terry smiled. ‘Good man, you’re learning. Let’s go into the study then.’

  Bloody cheek, thought Oliver. And what does he mean I’m learning? Closing the curtains is hardly rocket science. He poured the tea with his back to his guest, grateful to see that his hands were now steady – having the cup rattling in the saucer would be embarrassing, shameful even. It crossed Oliver’s mind that his discomfort would be matched by Terry’s satisfaction.

  ‘First things first. I take it you have not seen the Evening Standard?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘No.’

  Terry took a newspaper clipping from his folder, which, Oliver noted, contained a lined notebook and a pen too. He passed the cutting to Oliver.

  Oliver had trouble reading the text, let alone absorbing the information. His brain seemed to be on some sort of go-slow. His first feeling was confusion, or was it relief? There was nothing about the necklace or the Limoges dinner service. But then horror spread though him like blood in water. His first coherent thought was of the Prime Minister, what would he do? Then Kate: Christ, she would hate it. Then Ruth. Had Ruth seen it? No, the Evening Standard did not get to Birmingham. But some London friend could have rung her. He looked across at Terry without speaking. He wanted to sit down. Think for a minute. He sat on the sofa.

  Terry sat opposite him and said, ‘Right, now, first question. I need the truth. What actually is going on? Think before you answer, Oliver, because whatever you say now will become your story.’ He put a hand up to prevent Oliver saying anything. ‘No, hear me out. This is important. It is extraordinarily difficult to change a story once you’ve told it. And it will become your defence, or your explanation, the government line. So it needs to be sustainable.’

  Not truthful, Oliver noted, but sustainable. The man was a creep. He said, ‘I understand. But there’s no problem. Kate McKinnon and I are not having an affair. I know her, yes, she’s an acquaintance. She cooks for me. But there is nothing improper going on.’

  Terry’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded slightly. ‘OK, so how come they have this story then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘We’ll find out. That won’t be hard. It will be someone in your department, almost certainly. Who hates you, Oliver?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone. Anyway, the story is not true.’

  ‘None of it? Not the going home together?’

  ‘I gave her a lift back from Hampton Court, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She couldn’t get a taxi, and I offered.’

  ‘Who knew about that lift?’

  ‘Just about everyone. It wasn’t a secret. I offered to take anyone else, not just Kate. I had an empty car. If you can call a car empty with a driver and a copper in it.’

  ‘But you did not bestow lifts on any others?’

  Oliver clenched his teeth at Terry’s sneering tone. ‘No, they were all sorted, I think,’ he said. ‘Only Kate needed a lift.’

  ‘Was Sean with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘God, Terry, what is this, the inquisition? He was in his own car. He lives somewhere south of the river.’

  ‘If you think this is the inquisition, wait until you have to answer a pack of journos. Or a defending counsel in a libel court.’

  The questioning went on, and Oliver began to see his relationship with Kate in a new light. According to Terry, a government minister who accepts lifts from a young woman late at night, who gives lifts to her in a government car, who regularly shares a bottle of wine in kitchens all over London with her, who goes to her child’s birthday party at Kew, who defends her to a Kew official and gets her son off a charge of thievery, who even helps her load empty bottles and rubbish into her car, is either guilty or a complete idiot.

  But, damn it, he had not done anything wrong. Just behaved like the friend he was
. And yet, and yet … if he was so innocent why did he not tell Terry that the lift involved a detour through the streets of Acton, or Ealing or somewhere completely off his usual map. Or about carrying Toby along the street, or that he’d been into Kate’s house, into her bedroom.

  ‘Terry, for God’s sake!’ Oliver interrupted Terry’s catalogue of his misdemeanours. ‘You should know, being a master at it, that you can spin any innocent action into a crime.’

  Terry raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘And if the cook in question had been male, ugly and old? Would you have been driving him home and sharing regular nightcaps with him? Grow up, Oliver. If you haven’t actually screwed Ms McKinnon it’s only because you’re a bit slow and haven’t got there yet. No one humps rubbish at midnight for people they don’t fancy. Or dashes to the defence of the son of “an acquaintance”.’

  Oliver swallowed his anger. He shook his head, ‘But no one knows about the birthday party or loading the van. I don’t need to explain those. I only told you because you insisted on a catalogue of every minor interaction.’

  Terry made a dismissive puff of the lips. ‘No one knows? Want a bet? In my experience once one ministerial peccadillo emerges, it is swiftly followed by an avalanche of others. As we speak, waiters at Hampton Court and gardeners at Kew and little old ladies who just happened to be watching you kissing Kate at midnight, are reaching for their phones.’

  ‘I have never kissed—’

  ‘Careful, Oliver! Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes! Or … well … depends what you mean … I may have given her a peck. Everyone—’

  ‘You see?’ Suddenly Oliver did see.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Indeed, and hitting the fan in shovelfuls.’

  ‘But surely if I just tell the truth …’

  ‘The great British public will back you? Well, that’s our only hope. And only if you do what I say: lie low and let me handle it. And even then, my guess is …’

  ‘They won’t believe me.’

  ‘Unlikely to.’ Terry was inspecting his manicured fingertips. ‘They think all politicians are dishonest, corrupt and devious and only interested in saving their skins. But your first hurdle is the PM.’ He transferred his attention from his nails to his watch, delicately adjusting its position on his wrist. ‘He’s going to see you in forty minutes. If he believes you it makes my job marginally easier. He’s hardly the most popular of prime ministers but his support might mean something. Of course if he doesn’t believe you, you’ll be out on your ear anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get to know the result of the interview as soon as I do,’ said Oliver, ‘if you haven’t fixed it in advance. Have you?’

  Terry lips parodied a smile, but he didn’t answer. God, thought Oliver, I’d like to see him flat on the floor with a rapidly swelling lip.

  Terry stood up. ‘Just two more things,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to like the first one. But needs must. I spoke to your wife this afternoon. I thought it best to get to her before the press does.’

  ‘You what?’ Oliver was half out of his seat. Terry, unconcerned, put up a hand. ‘Steady on, Oliver. I had no choice.’

  Oliver was now leaning over Terry, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘You took it upon yourself to inform my wife that her husband is accused of adultery? Don’t you think she might have preferred a call from me?’

  ‘No time. Think about it, Oliver. That edition of the Standard hit the streets at about five-thirty. Which meant it would be on Sky News and BBC News 24 within the hour. And you are about to have an appointment with the Prime Minister. There was no time for me to tell you and then for you to tell her before the press pack would be upon her. So I told her.’

  Oliver was forced to follow the man’s logic but it did not pacify him.

  ‘And what exactly did you tell her?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I said all the right things. How you were issuing a denial, and thinking about suing, and how the Prime Minister was issuing a statement of support. That it was just a malicious rumour and it would all blow over. But in the meantime you needed her, blah blah. The usual. And I said you would ring her as soon as you left Downing Street this evening and—’

  Oliver cut in, his voice rising. ‘For Christ’s sake, Terry, stop. We haven’t said anything about issuing a denial. I’m not thinking – or had not until this second – of suing. We don’t know the PM is going to support me. I haven’t even seen him …’

  Terry waved a hand at him. ‘Oliver, do sit down, I find your looming over me rather claustrophobic.’

  Oliver sat down again, feeling stunned. He said, ‘How can you prejudge …’

  ‘Because the pattern is always the same. Always. The accused hotly denies the charge, the wife stands by him, the PM supports him, and the press go on ferreting. If they find nothing more, they give up and life goes on. Only usually they do find more, and that gives the PM an excuse to get rid of him and his wife an excuse to leave him.’

  Oliver sat in silence, marvelling that anyone could be so casually, so smugly, unkind.

  ‘Besides,’ Terry added, ‘if I’m wrong and the PM does not support you, then you issue a public letter of resignation, he issues a different statement about his regret, and only Ruth is confused. No real harm done.’

  ‘But why tell her a pack of lies? Just because you enjoy lying?’

  ‘Don’t be childish, Oliver. I jumped the gun because I needed to brief her to keep her mouth shut. Besides, we need her here. Persuading her was not easy. She didn’t seem to think “one of Oliver’s muddles” as she put it, necessitated her presence.’

  Oliver, beginning to feel beaten, said, ‘OK, Terry, I can see you had to speak to her. You had better tell me how she reacted.’

  ‘Rather well, I thought,’ Terry replied. ‘Took it pretty much on the chin. Said she did not believe a word of it. Said you’d often talked about Kate’s delectable dinners or something, which did not sound to her like you were having a clandestine affair: talking about your lover to your wife was, she said, far too sophisticated a double-bluff for you. But she needed persuading that she did really need to come to London. She has a mare about to foal and a potential buyer coming to inspect a pony or something. She seemed to regard this as rather a storm in a demi-tasse.’

  Oliver’s stomach tightened. Ruth’s reaction was entirely typical. Stalwart and no-nonsense, unsentimental. Sometimes it would be nice to have a bit of sentiment, he thought.

  ‘But she is coming? When?’

  ‘Well, I left it that she’d speak to you. She did say she’d come if you asked her to. And she promised to speak to no one on the subject.’

  ‘I will speak to her tonight, of course.’

  ‘Good. If she’s having second thoughts, Oliver, you must insist. I don’t like to admit it, but it will make a lot more impression on the public than the PM’s backing. And can you tell her that a car – actually it will be a local taxi so as not to arouse suspicion – will collect her tomorrow at ten in the morning. She needs to be in London for your dinner tomorrow night.’

  Oliver found this whole conversation demeaning and over-familiar and he was in a state of fluctuating anger. But he was determined to stay cool. Terry was in control and he knew his sordid business, so Oliver had better let him get on with it.

  ‘Of course I’ll do my best,’ he said, ‘but I should warn you Ruth is very much her own woman. I know she will believe me, but she still may not appear for dinner. She hates the Westminster village and its petty gossip.’

  ‘Well, this gossip is hardly petty. And she must be with you, you need her. Badly.’ He bent down to flip open his folder, lay in it his pad and the Evening Standard cutting, carefully push the pen into its little leather loop.

  ‘And what is the second thing? You said there were two.’

  ‘Well, just as it is essential to have Ruth by your side, it is equally essential that Kate is nowhere near. Do not ring her, write to her, email her, text her, receive any communications
whatever from her …’

  For a second Oliver was more surprised than angry. He took a step towards the press secretary.

  ‘Terry, don’t be an ass. Of course I must speak to her. Poor woman, she’s done nothing wrong! Neither of us has.’

  Terry was leaning against Oliver’s desk, one hand holding his folder at his hip. His lanky frame was both elegant and insouciant. ‘Oliver, leave this to me. I will handle it. Just do not give it another thought.’

  ‘But I need to speak to her. See if she’s OK. It would be rude and unkind not to.’

  ‘Out of the question.’ Terry’s voice was dry as dust. Not a grain of sympathy. ‘It will get out and then you won’t have a leg to stand on. I’m sorry, Oliver, you have no option but to cut her loose.’

  ‘Cut her loose? God, Terry, you sound like a bad movie.’

  Terry shrugged. ‘It is a bad movie. But you wrote the scenario, old chap. I’m here to see that it has a happy ending.’

  ‘Happy for whom? You don’t seem to care what happens to Kate.’

  ‘Of course I don’t care what happens to Kate! She isn’t my responsibility. I’m here to see that the damage to the government is kept to a minimum and – a secondary consideration I confess – to nursemaid you through this little drama so you can keep your job. You do want to keep your job, I presume?’

  Oliver was now having trouble concealing his anger. ‘I regard those comments as impertinent and out of order. But to answer your question, I’m not sure I do want to keep my job – not if the price is selling my friends down the river.’

  Terry laughed, a derisive laugh with his head thrown back. Oliver watched his Adam’s apple jump up and down in his long neck and for a second the desire to put his hands round that elegant throat and squeeze, gripped him. He closed his eyes and the moment passed.

  Terry stopped laughing. ‘Oh, Oliver,’ he said, running his hands down his face as if to prevent further mirth. ‘What pompous nonsense. You’re one of the most ambitious politicians in the House. For God’s sake, you’re in line to be the next PM. Don’t tell me you’ll throw all that away just to be nice to some little cook you want to get your leg over.’