A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  The man needed punching. Oliver took a step towards Terry, who seemed to glide back, still chuckling. Oliver just managed to keep his hands by his sides as he snapped, ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You get off on other people’s miseries, don‘t you? But if you‘ve finished having fun, perhaps you could take yourself off now.’

  Terry looked at him, unperturbed. ‘Mmm … well,’ he said, slowly, ‘I admit this is a lot more fun than managing conferences where everyone knows everyone else’s script. But I have no desire to see you busted, my dear Oliver. Indeed, quite the reverse. My reputation as well as yours is at stake here.’ He drifted towards the door. ‘And believe me, I’m your route to salvation. You may even get to thank me.’ He shot an elegant cuff to look at his watch. A platinum Rolex, Oliver noted. ‘Your car will be here in a few minutes. There’s already a policeman outside, so running the gauntlet will be easy. The car will wait outside Number Ten to bring you home.’

  ‘Unless I’m out of a job, in which case, you will cancel it?’

  ‘Indeed. Politics is not for ninnies.’

  Oliver went upstairs to put on his suit jacket. It was true that the administration liked to project an informal, hardworking, shirt-sleeves image, but he was too old-fashioned not to wear a suit for an interview with the Prime Minister. Especially if he was to leave that interview no longer a member of Her Majesty’s government, and have to hail a taxi in Whitehall.

  The interview with the PM was short if not sweet.

  ‘All I want to know, Oliver, is, are you telling us the truth? I have just had Terry on the line and he says you are an idiot, but he believes you.’

  ‘A fair enough summary, Prime Minister. I am not cheating on my wife, and indeed never have.’

  ‘Good Lord. No need to protest too much. I don’t expect complete marital fidelity from my ministers. Just that they are not stupid enough to give the press a story. Even an untrue one.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry about that, Sir. But I’m genuinely innocent. What it amounts to is that I gave a friend a lift.’

  ‘Is she a friend then? Outside of the official circuit, I mean?’

  Oliver could see the trap. If he said she was he could be accused of improperly using his position to employ a friend. If he said she wasn’t, then how to explain the lifts? He decided on the truth.

  ‘I only know her through work. But I am interested in cooking, and she’s a great cook, and I guess I have become friends with her as a result. Unwise, as it turns out.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Oliver hoped the PM would not ask him to sever all connections with Kate, because he would not lie to his boss. And how could he be loyal to Kate and to him? But he didn’t.

  ‘Well, you will issue a carefully worded denial. Terry will write it for you. I will issue a statement of support. And then you must do what Terry says. He’s deciding how best to proceed.’

  The PM must have caught some dissent in Oliver’s eye, because he went on, ‘Terry is a difficult sod, but he is the best. If you get us into any more trouble, or it turns out there are more skeletons in your cupboard, then his job will be impossible and I will have no option but to throw you to the wolves.’

  ‘I understand that. And thank you. I am very grateful for your support.’

  ‘Mmmm. A public announcement of prime ministerial support for a colleague in trouble is often followed swiftly by his resignation. You’re not in the clear yet, but as long as there are no more revelations we should be able to ride the storm. But I cannot pretend I’m delighted with you, Oliver. The last thing this government needs is to hand the Tories another muck heap to rake in.’

  ‘There is no muck heap, Prime Minister. I promise.’

  Except, thought Oliver, the little matters of a missing necklace and some smuggled china resulting in evaded tax. But he told himself the PM meant a sexual muck heap. And he was absolutely innocent there.

  The car was waiting for him. Oliver ignored the questioning crowd of journalists corralled behind barriers across the street and got into the back seat. A policeman had opened the door for him, and a detective, one he did not know, slipped in next to him from the other side. Oliver looked, he hoped, relaxed and happy. Not triumphant, not solemn.

  He fished out his mobile and rang Ruth. It went straight to voice mail, and for once he was relieved at this rather than annoyed. He left a message of much greater confidence than he felt: ‘Hi, darling. I’m so, so sorry about all this. It’s rot of course, but unpleasant, especially for you. Thanks for agreeing to come up. Terry seems to think it’s important, and I would really like you here. They are sending a car for you at ten. We’ll talk then unless you ring tonight. But don’t worry, Ruth. I’ve just seen the PM and he’s on side. So it will all be over soon, I’m sure.’

  God, he was tired. And he needed a whisky. As soon as he got home, he poured himself a stiffish one, drowned it with water from the kitchen tap and turned on Sky News. Sure enough, there was footage of him entering Downing Street and a rolling headline at the bottom of the screen. ‘Prime Minister issues statement in support of embattled Foreign Secretary.’

  That was fast. Terry must have had both his denial and the PM’s statement all ready to go, just waiting until the PM had seen him. So the interview was play acting.

  Oliver waited for the story to come up again. There was nothing in the short piece other than a rehash of the Standard piece and some inane comment. He was relieved to see that there was no footage of Kate. Just a still photograph of her, head and shoulders only, looking rather plump and clearly taken some time ago. One of her friends had obviously made a little pocket money.

  Nothing of Ruth, or their house either, thank God.

  Once in bed, and before the Valium he had taken to ensure a decent night’s sleep kicked in, Oliver’s mind ran over Terry’s crude analysis of his political ambition, and had to concede that what Terry had said was essentially true. He was in line for the top job, he did want it, he’d worked hard all his life climbing the ladder. Was he going to risk it all by being seen publicly to befriend poor Kate? Had he damaged his chances already?

  And then Oliver suddenly saw the decision as perfectly simple, and, indeed, already made. He had to do whatever it took to overcome this idiotic crisis. Pompous as it sounded, there was a greater good than his moral comfort. Not just for his career, but for the Government, his Party, his Prime Minister. He could not let them all down by playing into the hands of the press.

  He would have to find a way to contact Kate, to help her, but without openly championing her.

  He would let the Downing Street press office manage the matter, while he stayed out of it and got on with his day job. God knows, he thought, I haven’t time for this nonsense. According to Terry, all tonight and tomorrow his office would be deflecting calls to the Downing Street press office and it would be a big story for maybe a week, for most of which he would be away in the Middle East anyway.

  As long as he, personally, said nothing, absolutely nothing, it would go away.

  Oliver wasn’t sure the line Terry was thinking of taking – which was to threaten government legal action – was right, but then they were the experts. Terry had spent years in Fleet Street before joining the PM’s team and he had a reputation for getting his way with newspaper editors by a mixture of carrot and stick; exclusives and access for the ones who behaved, outer darkness, even the law, for those who didn’t.

  He would do as Terry demanded and the PM ordered. Why employ a dog and do your own barking? And Terry was one mean dog.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bone-tired from her horrible day, Kate had slept surprisingly well and was up next morning at six, anxious to know the worst. She would have to do her budget calculations for the summer without the projected income from the Foreign Office. They were by far her biggest customer, and she would not be able to replace them quickly.

  She crept to the front door and peered through the spyhole. There was no one on the path or, as far
as she could see, anywhere. So, she thought, the paparazzi are not early risers then.

  When Toby was dressed and fed, she parked him in front of a sing-along DVD. She could hear him adding his small voice to the cartoon characters’ rendering of The Jungle Book. The sound cheered her and she took her coffee into her office, with her shoulders back and her head up. Nobody died, she told herself.

  But the first email she read was from her client at the Ministry of Defence, regretfully informing her that they would not be having the veterans’ charity tea party in the Whitehall Palace crypt after all.

  She didn’t believe it. They were dumping her and getting another caterer, not cancelling the event. But the speed of it! They must have had instructions from Government Hospitality.

  She rang her wine merchant. It was only seven a.m. but she knew he’d be there. Tim was not much more than a one-man band and he got to his business early to hump cases or deliver early orders.

  ‘Tim, it’s Kate. Can I ask you something? Are you still sponsoring the fizz for the MOD charity thing we agreed?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t let you down, Kate. You know that, surely?’

  ‘They haven’t told you it’s cancelled?’

  ‘No, is it? I haven’t looked at my emails yet. Well, that’s a relief, I was going to have to foot the bill myself because I can’t get any champagne house to provide even one miserable case. Times are tough, they remind me.’

  ‘Aren’t they just? Well, the MOD have dumped me and told me it’s cancelled. But of course it’s not that.’

  But Tim hadn’t read the Evening Standard and knew nothing about the Oliver allegations. Maybe it had been a mistake to ring him, but she could hardly clam up now. So she told him the gist of the story and that it was not true. He was immediately on her side, indignant on her behalf, sweet and sympathetic. She was gratified when he said, ‘Right, well, if they are shafting you they can whistle for their fizz. As far as I’m concerned I was doing you a favour, a thank you for all the wine you buy from me. I am not doing that for the government, and certainly not for some caterer who never buys a thing from me.’

  Kate went back to her sums, now assuming she would lose all her government work. If she couldn’t replace it she’d lose money this month and right through the summer. Her efforts to get paid by her slow-paying clients had not yielded as much as she’d hoped, she already owed Amal for the plane tickets for the trip to Arizona in August, and she had the new van hire and the blast freezer instalments to pay each month on top of the usual insurances, gas bills etc.

  Cold panic was closing in as Kate did the sums. She reckoned she’d be in the red to the tune of fifteen thousand pounds by October – providing the bank let her run up her overdraft, which was unlikely.

  She made a determined effort to think positively. If the worst came to the worst she could always get a job as a chef some-where, give up the business, have the van and new chiller repossessed, turn her office into a bedroom and get a flatmate.

  But she was nowhere near that yet. She needed to drum up some new business, that was all. Perhaps she should advertise? She never had, relying instead on word of mouth, which was free.

  Perhaps she could get her existing City clients to give her a push with other firms in their offices, and perhaps her private dinner party customers would email their friends and recommend her.

  Problem was, the City was catatonic over the credit crunch, just holding its breath and doing nothing, certainly not giving parties and dinners. And the Mayfair and Kensington women who employed her liked to pretend she was their personal cook, or that they’d cooked the dinner themselves, so getting them to divulge her telephone number to their friends might not be easy. And anyway it damaged her credibility: if she was so hot, she should have an order book crammed for a year, not be soliciting clients.

  She would just have to borrow some money and wait for the business to regrow organically. But who from? Not her mother. She shuddered, thinking of how she’d been firmly rebuffed last time, and she could not bear to ask again. The bank. Again, she’d tried and been refused. Weren’t there government loans for small businesses? She smiled at the thought of being lent money from the government to fill a hole made by the government.

  Something would come up, she told herself, all was not lost. And today, she was certain, Oliver would ring her. She could bear anything, she thought, if he was on her side, which of course he would be. They were in this horrible mess together; it was neither his nor her fault and they would weather it with each other’s sympathy and friendship. It would be fine.

  Kate lifted her chin and went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  As Kate swung round the central work table in her kitchen, two large dark shapes moved abruptly against the window to the garden. Kate stopped stock still, terrified. As the first flash went off, followed at once by another she realised they were photographers, their lenses pressed against the glass.

  Rage assailed her. How dare they? How did they get into the garden? She would kill them.

  She flew through the larder to the door, a tirade forming in her throat as she prepared to yell at them. They were trampling on her flower-bed, and if Toby had come into the kitchen they’d have scared the life out of him. How could they!

  In her fury she fumbled with the key and couldn’t position it properly. And then suddenly she stopped, the fury draining out of her.

  She must not go out. They’d just get pictures of her shouting like a fishwife.

  Here, in the larder, she was out of their reach. If she went back into the kitchen they would get more pictures through the window. What could she do? She sat on a crate of mineral water, and looked at her watch. Eight-ten. She extracted her mobile from her jeans pocket and dialled Talika.

  ‘Hi, Kate. Did you get any sleep?’ The familiar voice calmed her. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. But ‘Lika, are you and Amal coming?’

  ‘Of course we are. Just about to leave. We’ll be with you in minutes.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m stuck in the larder …’ Kate could feel the tears behind her eyes, in her throat. ‘There are photographers in the garden, and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Stay where you are. We’ll be there.’

  As she waited, still sitting on the crate, someone rattled the door, trying to open it. She heard different voices shouting to her. The photographers had obviously been joined by reporters.

  ‘Kate, we know you are in there … Why not come out and talk to us … I promise to report your side of the story … Kate, if you let us take one photo of you, a proper nice picture, then we won’t use any of the horrible ones …’

  And then a familiar voice, ‘Kate, my editor says to offer you a really good deal if you will give us exclusivity. Just look on your mobile. We’ve texted you the details.’

  She didn’t answer. She was no longer furious, just trapped and distraught. The minutes dragged by while she tried to stop herself collapsing into tears or opening the door or answering their demands – she found it curiously difficult to remain silent in the face of the appeals from the other side of the door. To distract herself, she did read her text messages. There were three from friends, offering sympathy; they had seen the Evening Standard or picked up the story online. And there was one from Jarvis Stanley, the Evening Standard man:

  Kate, I know it must be grim for you now. I’m so sorry. But you need to get your side of the story sympathetically told in a responsible paper. I won’t let you down, I promise. Just ring or text and I’ll be there. We can provide a protected hotel for you and Toby and keep the rat pack out. And pay you handsomely. How does £50K sound? Jarvis

  This from a man who had twisted her words, who had broken the story, who used innuendo like a weapon. And he sounded so reasonable and civilised, even through the door. What a hateful profession, thought Kate. I suppose if you want to be a gossip writer you first have to be a conman.

  And then, thank God, she
heard the sounds of Talika and Amal coming into the house, calling to Toby, Sanjay chattering excitedly, the normality of their voices restoring her.

  The next second Amal was with her, giving her a hug and a kiss, and helping her put on her hooded coat.

  ‘Here, if you wear this and walk through the kitchen they won’t get a picture worth using,’ he said. ‘Come, I’ll shepherd you.’

  And he did, one arm round her shoulder. They were through the kitchen in seconds.

  Then Amal braved the reporters on the front steps again, this time with the two children in tow. Kate listened through the door to his firm and repeated ‘No comment’ in answer to the reporters’ clamorous questions.

  Talika made coffee, and the women drank it upstairs in the bedroom, out of range of press cameras. Or so they thought. Within ten minutes of getting her hooded coat off and sitting down with a cup between her hands, Kate looked up to see the top of a wobbly ladder weaving about outside the window as someone tried to put it in place.

  Once again, anger ripped through her. Without a thought she ran to the window, flung it open and gave the ladder, a heavy metal one, a mighty shove. It fell back and sideways, and crashed to the ground. A tiny moment of satisfaction was quickly doused by the thought: Oh Jesus, it might have killed someone.

  She peered through the window and was relieved that all the ladder had crushed was a big camera. There were broken bits of black plastic and glass lying on the stone flags. As the enraged photographer dashed to inspect the damage, Kate yelled, ‘Serve you right! Now get off my property!’ And then she slammed the window.

  She and Talika sat on the bed again and started to laugh.

  ‘I shall remember his furious face for ever!’ said Kate.

  ‘And I will remember yours!’

  ‘I bet the other chap got a good pic of me yelling at him,’ said Kate. ‘I’m going to regret this, but it was fun while it lasted.’

  When they’d calmed down and drunk their coffee, Talika said, ‘Kate, I think you and Toby had better come to us for the duration. You can’t live in a goldfish bowl.’