by Prue Leith
‘No.’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m damned if I’ll be driven out of my own house. I’ve got a business to run, and we have that cocktail thing for Battleby and Partners tonight, remember. Everything’s here, I can’t decamp to you.’
Kate spent the morning working as normally as she could. She cooked and stacked, sorted and tidied. The difference was that Talika manned the phones, saying ‘No comment’ to the press and taking messages for the rest. Then Kate would ring customers and suppliers back, and ignore pleas from TV stations, radio or the press. But on the whole it was productive. She concentrated on getting the Battleby party done, and there were moments when she forgot about the press altogether.
She never forgot about Oliver, though. Every time one of the phones went she hoped it would be him. Every time the bleep of her mobile alerted her to a message, she’d silently pray. But nothing.
At lunchtime she and Talika listened to the news. There was a short piece about Oliver’s statement and the Prime Minister’s support.
They flicked on the TV in time to see the end of a discussion about public morals, with one pundit saying what ministers did in their own time was their affair and the press should stay out of it, and a second saying politicians should be role models for the nation and the press had a duty to hold them to account. Up flashed a head and shoulders picture of Oliver and one of Kate, looking young and pretty with a background of trees. The presenter covered the station’s back with a reminder that the allegations were not proven, and then it was over and they were on to the next item.
‘Where did they get that picture from?’ asked Talika.
‘No idea. It looked like a family snapshot or something, didn’t it? I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Maybe your brother? Or mother?’
‘They’re in Arizona.’
‘It could be emailed in seconds.’
Kate shook her head. ‘No. They wouldn’t do that without asking me. And that looked like a picture taken fifteen years ago, when I was in catering college. Could have come from anyone.’
Talika put her hand on Kate’s, her eyes soft with sympathy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Really, ‘Lika. Let’s get back to work. I want to be done before Amal gets back with the boys.’
‘They won’t be here till four. He’s taking them to Uncle Rashid’s Cash and Carry, remember? They can run riot in the aisles and be fussed over by Rashid.’
They worked on, hardly talking, Radio Three in the background, for a couple of hours, and then Talika went to make some supper for them all while Kate checked through her lists to make sure she had everything. Nothing infuriated her more than leaving stuff off the van and having to go back for it. It meant an inevitable panic.
When she was ready to load the gear, Kate decided she’d brave the door stepping journos and do it herself. After all, what could they really do to her? And anyway, surely they could not interfere with her going about her lawful business? It would be outrageous.
Carrying two crates of wine glasses, she propped them against her hip and opened the front door. She glanced around and was relieved to see only two photographers, sitting on the low wall by the gate. They scrambled to their feet and ran to her, but she kept her head down and walked calmly to the van. She put the boxes down and unlocked the van doors.
‘Kate,’ called one, ‘this way, Kate. Look here, Kate.’
She refused. She knew her longish mop of curls would obscure her face, preventing them from getting a usable pic.
As she turned and bent to pick up her boxes, one of the men suddenly leaned down and grabbed her hair by her fringe. He yanked her head back while the other man pushed his camera into her face and clicked away.
‘Ow,’ Kate screamed, ‘let me go! How dare you?’
One of them laughed, and said to the other. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you.’
Kate now stood, trembling but furious. She repeated, ‘How dare you?’ She held her forehead in both hands. ‘That hurt.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart.’
He didn’t look sorry and Kate, her voice calmer, said, ‘Right, I will do you for assault.’
‘No witnesses, darling,’ he said, ‘and I could do you for busting my camera. I’ve got a witness for that.’
His mate said, ‘Calm down, love, we just had to get a picture. We’ve got a couple or three now, and since Barney here hasn’t got a camera any more, we’ve come to an agreement we’ll share these. So you’ll be glad to hear we’ll love you and leave you. No harm done, is there?’
They took themselves off and Kate leant against the van, her head on her crossed arms, eyes shut. She was conscious of the metal against her forearms, warm from the afternoon sun. She could still feel the ache at her hairline. She wanted to run inside and weep on Talika’s shoulder, but she fished in her pocket for a tissue, blew her nose loudly, and then got on with loading the van.
Thank God there was no one else there. Maybe the press machine had already moved on to the next story, she thought. Maybe things would now return to normal.
She must have made five or six trips to the van, and had loaded all the last-minute cooking utensils, the glasses, linen, ice, paper napkins, rubbish sacks, etc at the back, when Amal appeared with the children.
Kate found her eyes filling with tears as Toby ran to her, flinging her off balance with the violence of his affection. She staggered back, laughing, then picked him up for a hug. He flung his arms round her head and buried his face in her neck. Then, within seconds, he was struggling against her grip. She put him down reluctantly and watched him run after Sanjay who, looking for his mother, had gone into the house.
Amal said, ‘No paparazzi then? That’s good news.’
Kate wanted to explain the events of the afternoon, but she looked at her watch and decided she didn’t have the time. Talika could tell him tonight.
‘Yup, and I’ve decided to just get on with it. I need to get the food out and I can go.’
Amal followed her into the house and went to say hello to his wife, while Kate fetched the first refrigerated box. It wasn’t heavy, but it was awkward. She hitched her skirt up and climbed into the van. Then she knelt on the floor and pushed the box into place. She needed to pack the van tightly or she wouldn’t get everything in.
It crossed her mind that if Amal reappeared he would be horrified at the sight of calves, maybe even a bit of thigh, visible from behind as she clambered about. She should really have worn her chef’s pants. This skirt wasn’t particularly short, but kneeling on it was awkward. Talika would never be so indelicate as to display her calves, or even her well-clothed bum, to the world like this. She smiled at the thought. Amal was such an old fashioned, lovely guy.
Suddenly she heard his voice behind her. She turned round and saw him put his hand over the lens of a movie camera while trying to push the cameraman away. He was speaking loudly but not quite shouting.
‘Will you please stop that? You are on private property and no one has invited you to film here. Besides, have you no decency?’
‘Give us a break, mate, we’re only doing our job …’
She realised there were two of them, one holding a boom. Amal reached into the van and helped Kate out, saying, ‘Go inside. I’ll do the rest.’
Kate ran inside, pursued by the sound man. She shut the door in his face, her heart pounding, and looked through the spy hole. She could not see the TV people, but she could see Amal, shaking his head. Then he turned, put his key in the lock and slipped in.
‘What do they want?’ she said. ‘They can hardly think Oliver is going to pop out of the front door, can they? A TV crew is expensive. They must think they’re on to something.’
‘I doubt it. They just need some pictures, vaguely relevant, to go with their non-news story. But if the back view of a woman loading a van is relevant, I will be very surprised. Don’t worry, I doubt if they’ll use it.’
But he didn’t sound exactly convinced.
‘I wonder ho
w long they were there for?’ said Kate. ‘I was in the back of the van for ages, moving stuff to get the cold boxes in.’
Kate was thinking of Oliver. She couldn’t bear the idea of him seeing her on television, crawling inelegantly around her van, displaying her bum and bare legs.
She found herself cringing at the thought.
‘Have they gone? I’ve got to get on. It’s four-thirty.’
‘They’ve gone as far as the street, but we can’t stop them filming from there. So, if they want to see me loading a van, I am happy to be a telly star.’ He smiled broadly, obviously to cheer her. Which it did. He gave her a quick kiss on the fore-head and said, ‘Come, where have you got to? I’ll load the rest, drive it to the client, and Joan can take over from there.’
‘But I have to be there. The Battleby secretary is a dragon.’
‘No, you don’t need to be there. If necessary, I’ll stay and cope with the dragon, then leave Joan to it. It’s only a cocktail party isn’t it? She can do it on her head.’
‘I can’t ask you …’
‘You’re not asking me, I’m telling you. When I’m through at Battleby’s I’ll go on to the restaurant. I’ve got to be there tonight, but you need supper with the boys and a soppy DVD with Talika.’
Kate grinned. ‘Goodness, Amal, you’re a star. A Bollywood hero rescuing tearful women with masterful authority.’
‘Any more of that, woman, and I’ll abandon you to the rat pack.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At four o’clock the day after the Kate thing broke, Sean arrived with the speeches Oliver was to give over the next week on his Middle East tour. They were basically the same speech, about the necessity for Hamas and the Israelis to stop killing each other, but there were several versions. One was clearly for American and Jewish consumption and one for Arab/Palestinian ears, but since he was going first to India and Pakistan, local sensitivities and leaders’ egos had to be catered for as well. Sean fed him a lot of background information, and gave him a clutch of reading which he would somehow have to absorb between dinner tonight and arrival in New Delhi tomorrow.
He would be flying in a private jet from the Queen’s Flight, leaving from Northolt. Normally this was a privilege and a pleasure. There was no hanging around, no customs, no passport control to speak of, and a private cabin with a proper bed and a lot of saluting and ‘Yes, Minister’. This time, however, he’d be up most of the night working and arrive completely knackered.
He had proposed chucking the dinner, but Terry had been adamant. Right now he needed to show that it was business as usual, and pictures of the Foreign Secretary with his wife on his arm, arriving or leaving a dinner with colleagues just before flying off on Government business, would help.
Oliver was not looking forward to seeing Ruth. They had still not spoken. He had left for the office long before she was due at the Lambeth house. He had tried the land line at lunchtime but there was no reply, and her mobile, as usual, was off. He told himself he was right not to cancel appointments to be with her; he was innocent, so why behave as though there was a crisis? Besides, he had work to do. But he knew, too, that he was avoiding her.
He would have to have a few minutes’ private conversation with her, maybe at home when he picked her up. It would be OK. She was a sensible woman, and she’d said she believed him.
Right now he was more concerned about Kate. It was twenty-four hours since the Evening Standard piece had appeared, and now all the papers and news bulletins were covering the story. And he had not been able to say a word to the poor woman. Last night, Terry had made it crystal clear that he should not contact her. Not that he’d have obeyed if he’d been able to ring her.
The very fact that he didn’t even have her number on his mobile, or anywhere at home, thought Oliver, was proof, if proof were needed, that she was not his lover. Maybe, he thought grimly, I’ll end up having to produce Vodafone records to clear my name.
All today he’d wanted a moment to get Kate’s number from Helen, or even to ask Helen to get her on the line for him, but it had been impossible. He’d kept all his morning appointments and there had been no space between them. Then Terry had again been with him this afternoon, updating him on the investigation: irritatingly, it looked as though Terry was right that the source of the story appeared to be a government butler or one of Kate’s people; they were not sure yet. Terry had stayed a good hour, and then there had been the Middle East briefing with one of their experts and Sean. It was nearly six-thirty before they were done, by which time Helen had already left the office.
It was completely ridiculous. He was Foreign Secretary and he couldn’t get hold of a woman he wanted to speak to. He couldn’t do as he normally would and just tell Sean to down-load her contacts onto his BlackBerry, or even send his driver to Kate’s house with a message for fear of worsening the situation. Even if Helen was here, it would probably not be wise to involve her.
He would be away a week and almost never alone, so if he was to speak to Kate he must do it now. He walked through to the outer office and found the telephone book. He sat on one of the black leather sofas and looked up both McKinnon and MacKinnon. But where did she live? Somewhere west, Ealing or Acton. It was mad – he’d been to her house, indeed into her house, yet he had only the vaguest idea where it was. He’d sat in the back of the car, exhausted as always, but enjoying talking to Kate and glad of an excuse not to be doing his boxes. He hadn’t noticed where they were going, although he remembered crossing Hammersmith Bridge. Debbie had been following her sat nav – he remembered Kate giving her the postcode – but of course he couldn’t remember what it was.
There was no Kate or Katherine in the book, only a Kevin and a Keith and a couple of plain Ks living in unlikely places, none of them in Acton or Ealing. Kate had once told him that she didn’t have a website or phone book entry in order to make it difficult for her ex-partner to trace her. He’d thought at the time such measures in today’s electronic age would be futile, but her smokescreen was certainly impeding his efforts.
He put the directory back on its shelf and went through to Helen’s little office. He riffled through her trays, searching for an invoice or letter or menu from Kate. He opened her cupboard and peered at the neat rows of box files, looking for something that would lead to his caterer. But nothing jumped out as likely. That chap Hobhouse in Government Hospitality was responsible for caterers so presumably any files would be with him.
He considered checking Helen’s computer. Kate’s number would be sure to be on there somewhere, but he didn’t know where and couldn’t remember the name of Kate’s catering company – he remembered she’d said she’d changed it from Kate’s Kitchen, but to what? Something silly, Fancy Footwork? Fancy Handwork? No, he couldn’t remember. And he didn’t know Helen’s password, and it would be too embarrassing if someone found him snooping in his secretary’s files … And anyway he had to get to his house, talk to Ruth, go to dinner.
He had a hasty shave in his private bathroom, and was surprised, on emerging, to see Sean had returned.
‘What’s up? Not more papers, please.’
‘No, Sir. But the press are outside both the King Charles Street and the Whitehall entrances, and so I came to take you through to the Ambassador’s entrance. I’ve asked Debbie to pick you up in the courtyard and drive straight through if the rat pack appear there too.’
‘But she’ll have gone home. I told her I’d walk, and she was to pick me up from the dinner to go to the airport.’
‘I know, but she figured she’d be needed, so she came back. The paparazzi are everywhere.’
There was a small clutch of photographers and journalists outside the Ambassador’s entrance. Oliver, trying to look cool, made some trite remark to the detective beside him as a policeman, suitably burly, held his arms wide to clear a path and Debbie drove deftly through the gap.
The whole manoeuvre, thought Oliver, was efficiently handled and over in seconds. Poor Kate wo
uld have none of that protection. No one to guide her through the door steppers, no back route, no assistant, no copper, no detective, no driver – all of them trained in press evasion. He refrained from looking back as the car slid off. He was damned if he’d give them a shot for tomorrow’s paper of him looking cornered and anxious. He was neither, he told himself.
Sean, sitting next to Debbie, had the good sense to say nothing on the short run to Lambeth. Oliver was preoccupied: it occurred to him that maybe he should take the frightful Terry into his confidence about the Necklace and Limoges affairs. They could, singly or separately, undo him, since it seemed he was guilty on both charges. The irony that he was more likely to be brought down by a charge of which he was entirely innocent was not lost on him.
And he couldn’t help fretting about Kate. She must think he was a complete shit. She couldn’t know that he wanted to contact her, that the political machine had taken him over, that he had no option but to ignore her plight. She did not know about his conversations with the all-powerful master of government spin. His thoughts went back to this afternoon’s conversation with Terry, when he’d renewed his arguments for contacting her. It must be much worse for Kate, he’d said, since she would have none of the protection afforded him.
‘They must be door stepping her as we speak,’ he’d said.
‘I am sure they are. Indeed I know they are,’ said Terry. ‘There’s a clip going out every few minutes on both ITV and BBC news of her trying to load her van. She was forced to retreat inside and some Indian fellow, an employee I assume, finally loaded the van for her and drove it away. Wise guy, he would not be drawn.’
‘Oh, God, poor Kate. Can’t we do anything?’
‘What do you have in mind, Oliver?’
‘We can give her some protection, surely? Put a couple of bobbies outside her house to keep them at bay?’
‘Don’t be daft. Of course we can’t. The first assumption of any self-respecting journalist will be spot on: that you are protecting her and, what’s more, spending public money doing so. So, not a chance.’