A Serving of Scandal

by Prue Leith

  Oliver knew further argument would make him furious and achieve nothing, so he changed tack. ‘Does that mean, I hope it does mean, that you will join Kate’s name to the petition?’

  Terry smiled, a quizzical curl of the lip. ‘Absolutely not. If Miss McKinnon wants to sue, the courts are open to her. She might even get legal aid. Who knows? But we will certainly not complicate matters with a joint petition.’

  ‘But why ever not, Terry? Her defence will corroborate ours, and it will show the world that the Government believes her to be as much a victim as I am.’

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’

  Suddenly Oliver had had enough. He stood up, walked to the desk and leant over it, forcing Terry to look up at him. ‘Because the public might think that you lot had a heart, which of course you do not, and because Kate has been appallingly treated by all of us. She’s had her contracts terminated, her life turned upside down and her good name muddied. If we are to sue and get what damages there are, Kate needs the money. That’s why.’

  Terry stood up, put the unread file back in the briefcase, slowly clicked it shut and shook his head.

  ‘No dice, Oliver,’ he said, making his languid way to the door. He turned with his hand on the doorknob, holding the pause like a bad actor in a play. ‘You are sounding like a lover, Oliver. The less concern you show for your little cook the safer you will be.’

  Oliver went to see his old friend Lord Brampton in the House of Lords. Brampton had been a peer for the last twenty years and was now in his late seventies. He had been a friend of Oliver’s father for fifty years, since Durham University where they had both played in the squash team. Brampton was a cross-bencher, admired by both sides of the House. He was also formidably clever, the premier Queen’s Counsel on intellectual property rights. Oliver could not claim to be on intimate terms with him, but he knew Brampton would be straight with him, neither telling him what he wanted to hear, nor revelling in doom.

  It was a Friday evening and neither Lords nor Commons were sitting. As he stopped in the middle of the echoing, history-soaked lobby, he could see down the wide passages into both chambers. He looked through the open doors to his left at the familiar green benches of the Commons with the Speaker’s dais to the end, and then to the right to the gilt and red of the Lords, with the woolsack under the throne.

  The likes of Salisbury, Wellington and Palmerston had spoken from those red branches. This was the chamber where distinguished, erudite, interesting, big achievers from the law, the church, business, government and charity, ended up. Plus, he thought, a few rogues and hereditary peers to leaven the mix. The best club in the country.

  The thought that he might now never be a member hit him like a sudden punch. It had not occurred to him before. While fighting for his current job he had not, until this minute, thought he was also fighting for his future seat here. Having successfully made it to one of the most senior posts in the cabinet, his right to a peerage was pretty well automatic. The only proviso (unwritten, of course, just as his right to the Lords was unwritten) was that he not be disgraced.

  Oliver straightened his shoulders and walked on up to Brampton’s cramped office, shared with two other peers. Brampton, still lean and athletic looking, rose and came round his desk.

  ‘How good to see you, young man. I follow your rise and rise with admiration and interest.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, ‘Shall we go to the bar?’

  When they were seated in a corner, insulated by the steady buzz of talk, Oliver said, ‘I imagine you have been following my travails. Likely to bring an abrupt halt to my rise and rise as you put it.’

  ‘I doubt it. But, yes, I’ve been reading the gossip. I sent you a note, you remember, of the chin-up, play-on variety.’

  ‘Of course you did. I’m sorry. Actually the only heartening things about this horrible business are messages like yours. I’ve had mail from friends like you, but also from hundreds of constituents and complete strangers.’

  ‘So, how can I help, Oliver? Where have you got to? Is Terry still threatening to sue?’

  Oliver told him everything: his unease at abandoning Kate, his conviction that to sue was a mistake. He also told Brampton about the necklace and the china, and his anxiety about the stories being made public. Brampton listened carefully, like the lawyer he was, seldom interrupting, and making a few indecipherable notes in a little Moleskine notebook done up with an elastic band.

  When Oliver had finished, Brampton stood up and picked up their glasses. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s have another whisky and I’ll tell you what I think.’

  He started with the Necklace and Limoges affairs. ‘I don’t think there is anything more you can do about the tax on the dinner service. They will have your statement that it was a long time ago, with rules less clear, and that you had simply not thought about it; that you admitted you should not have done it, that you later paid the tax, the interest on the tax, and the fine. If a journalist goes digging around and discovers it, they will try to make something of it, probably accusing you also of using public funds to transport your goods, but it won’t run for long. The public will see it as trifling. Foolish, but not drastic.’

  ‘God, I hope so,’ said Oliver, ‘and it may not see the light of day. As far as the Inland Revenue is concerned the Limoges file is closed. The one that worries me is the necklace. We still haven’t found it.’

  ‘OK, well, here’s what I think. You should get a letter into the Foreign Office files that states your case very clearly, apologises, and offers to repay the value of the necklace.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford it. It could be worth half a million.’

  ‘Really? Good God.’

  ‘Yes. My suspicion is that the tip-off about the necklace was somehow prompted by discontents in the Yemeni administration. When Ruth was given it, relations between the two countries were good. Now they tend to lump us in with the US, and they don’t like us at all. Could be a way of embarrassing us, but I think it’s more likely to be a stab at the present regime. The president has recently been re-elected but with more opposition. You know the sort of thing. How could our leaders be giving away Yemen’s priceless heritage to infidel westerners? Maybe one of their museum people ferreted around our national museums and discovered it was nowhere and asked a few questions.’

  ‘Interesting. I guess the only way we will know is if some journalist thinks it worth his while to pursue. Getting info under the Freedom of Information Act is time consuming to say the least.’

  ‘Well, that’s one thing in my favour. But won’t the letter you’re suggesting, even without an offer of repayment, just spark a mole to leak the story, especially if they know the value. It’s too good a story to pass up, surely? “Foreign Secretary in Half a Million Fraud” will sell a few papers. Wouldn’t I just be hastening disclosure?’

  ‘There is that danger, but it shows that you are proactively concerned about the matter and not waiting like a frightened mouse for it to surface. You could write to the head of whoever collects such things – is it the Treasury? – and simply say that you are very sorry to report that you and Ruth have been unable to find the necklace, and remind them that neither of you thought it was valuable so regret you did not take proper care of it.’

  ‘And what about the repayment?’

  ‘Best to say nothing about that, I’d say.’

  They turned to the central question of the adultery allegations. Brampton thought Terry was playing a slippery game, one that would enhance his standing, but do nothing for Oliver’s or Kate’s. ‘He cannot lose. It’s cut and dried. It will give the press a bloody nose, but it will drag you and Kate through the mud for months more. True, you will have proved your innocence, but the public won’t really believe in it. “No smoke without fire”, is how they see all sex stories.’

  ‘What would you advise them to do, if you were Terry?’

  ‘God forbid. Appalling man.’ Brampton gave a theat
rical shudder. ‘What they should do is settle the thing as quickly as possible, asking for a complete apology printed prominently on the front page of the next issue and on the home page of the website. And they should insist on costs and a small sum for damages, which they should give to charity. Not enough to bankrupt Scandal Sheet – bankrupting small businesses, even unsavoury ones, won’t go down well in this climate – but enough for Terry to be able to say they have won on all counts.’

  Oliver agreed with all this, and was pleased when Brampton offered to see the Prime Minister or Terry and see if he could persuade them.

  ‘That is really good of you. If anyone can make them see sense, it’s you.’ Oliver took a slow sip of his whisky, and looked steadily into the older man’s eyes. ‘Can I ask you to make the case for including Kate in the petition? It is so unfair on her, and she can’t afford to sue. The fact that she won’t be challenging Scandal Sheet’s allegations in court surely weakens our case, doesn’t it?’

  But Brampton was shaking his head. ‘Not as much as photographs of you walking side by side into court, and testifying one after the other will. No, Oliver, not a good idea. You have to drop her.’

  Oliver ran his palm over his head, eyes shut.

  ‘Would you at least ring her and explain why I cannot help her?’

  Lord Brampton again shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Oliver.’

  Oliver sat still, looking into his whisky. He knew that what had just passed was his last, feeble, unsuccessful parry on Kate’s behalf. And it had failed. He had a momentary image of her sinking fast in deep water, drowning, hands reaching for his … He looked up to see Brampton’s eyes, soft with sympathy, watching him.

  ‘Brutal, I agree,’ Brampton said. ‘But that’s politics.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kate was in the downstairs bathroom looking for a decent-sized safety pin to hold her chef’s pants up – she’d lost a good bit of weight recently and she didn’t have time to alter her trousers – when she heard the thud of the mail hitting the hall floor. She pinned the trousers, checked her image in the mirror and thought how much better she looked when slim (well, slim-ish), then went through to sort the mail.

  As usual it was ninety-five per cent junk. Most real communication came by text or email these days, but that did not diminish the post-bag. She swiftly sorted through it, binning a lot and keeping the few items of interest – a couple of postcards from friends, her subscription copies of the New Statesman and The Week and a catering mag.

  There was only one proper letter for her. Kate looked at the Foreign Office logo on the back of the envelope for a long while, hesitating to open it. For a split second she’d thought it was from Oliver and her heart had leapt. But of course it wouldn’t be. If he had wanted to communicate with her officially, he’d had six weeks to do it. And if he was writing from home, he wouldn’t use a government envelope. She thought, he’s a bastard or a coward, that’s what. Either he does not care what is happening to me, or he is ignoring me on orders from above.

  She slowly inserted her paper knife and slit the envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope, addressed to Kate McKinnon, Kate’s Kitchen, c/o the Foreign Office, Whitehall, with a big blue handwritten message across it: PLEASE FORWARD. The writing was vaguely familiar. Probably from an old customer from the Kate’s Kitchen days who has lost my address and doesn’t know of the change of name, she thought. Well, good, I could do with any new work right now. She slit the smaller envelope and unfolded the letter.

  Dearest Kate,

  I hope so much this gets to you. Over the last six months I’ve tried to track you down through places we both worked, or friends we had in common, but either they had not heard of you or had no idea where you are now. Even internet search sites, and Facebook etc came up blank.

  But tapping your name into Google five weeks ago suddenly brought up the Evening Standard story, and then a lot more like it. So I discovered that you are still cooking, still single, that you have a son, Toby (who must be our child) and that you are embroiled with a government minister.

  It will be nothing to you I know, but I cannot tell you how much jealousy I feel for this Oliver Stapler, and sadness for you. I have thought about you so much over the past seven years but until recently I’ve not tried to contact you because I know you must hate me. You have every right to. I behaved like such a shit, running away. And now it looks as if this Stapler chap is scuttling back to his wife and abandoning you. Poor Kate, you must think men are a complete shower.

  You will not be surprised to hear that my marriage fell apart. I am obviously lousy at relationships. My ex-wife has got the kids, and makes access to them as difficult as she possibly can. She also got most of my money – I had to sell my half share in a successful restaurant, so now I work for my ex-partner as salaried chef. Not great.

  But the reason for this letter is to say how truly sorry I am for the way I behaved. I would give anything to see you again and to get to know my son.

  I long to know if you love this Stapler guy, if there is any point in my coming to see you?

  I feel as if I’m putting a message into a bottle and tossing it to the waves. But there must be some chance of this reaching you. If it does, have mercy, and contact me.

  Chris

  At the top of the letter was an address and telephone number in Melbourne.

  Kate sat quite still, conscious that her heart rate was up and that the letter was trembling in her hand.

  For nearly seven years, ever since she’d announced her pregnancy and lost Chris as a result, she had cut him out of her mind. If she thought of him at all it was as something evil to be kept away from Toby at all costs.

  She started to read the letter again, and then realised there were two pages. She lifted the top one to reveal a picture of Chris, looking very much as she remembered him but tanned, and with slightly gingery designer stubble giving him an outdoor look. He was smiling, crouched on the beach with his arms round two little girls.

  As Kate studied his open, carefree face, she remembered how much she’d loved him, how much fun they’d had, how they had talked and dreamed of owning a restaurant together. Tears came into her eyes for that lost time. He hadn’t been a villain, just a coward. Maybe most men were cowards …

  She looked intently at the children. Both were blonde and pretty, one – she was about three or four – looking seriously at the camera, her plump little legs covered in sand, a beach bat in her hand. The smaller one was sitting on Chris’s muscled thigh, his arm round her middle. She was twisting towards him, both hands reaching up to his face.

  It must be appalling to have your wife take your daughters away. She thought of losing Toby, and immediately her stomach contracted with a visceral pain and she shuddered. Losing your children was worse, perhaps, than having your lover run away at the prospect of one.

  Poor Chris, she thought. He’s lost his children, his wife, his business, his money. He’s desperate for love and family, and maybe harbours hopes of breaking into this one. For a moment Kate let a little fantasy run like a movie through her head: a fantasy of falling in love with Chris again, of running away from Oliver and her business troubles to Australia, of realising those old dreams – a family restaurant in the country, with children, chickens and pets underfoot; tables in the garden; food from the veg plot. Then she dropped the letter in the wastepaper basket and stood up.

  She would not reply to him. She could not have him messing up her life again.

  Kate was in the bathroom when she heard Oliver’s voice. For a wild second she thought he was in the bedroom. Her heart, treacherously forgetting her weeks of anger, leapt with a mixture of excitement and alarm.

  But almost at once she realised it was the Today programme. Careless of the window to the street, she hurried naked into the bedroom and sat on the bed, staring at the radio, her towel in her hands.

  It sounded as though the Government had won their case against Scandal Sheet, But surely that cou
ld not be? It couldn’t have come to court so soon. But something must have happened because Oliver and the presenter, John Humphrys, were debating the case. Oliver’s voice sounded full and relaxed. Kate’s chest contracted, almost with pain, at the sound.

  ‘I know, Minister, that you cannot speak about the rights and the wrongs of the case.’

  ‘No, sadly the terms of the settlement agreed between the government and Scandal Sheet forbid me to comment, much as, I’m sure you understand, I would like to.’

  ‘Precisely. We’re to draw our own conclusions, and they are pretty obvious. We’re told that the satirical magazine Scandal Sheet is to issue a front page apology, admit there was no substance in their allegations that you had an affair with Kate McKinnon and pay a substantial sum in damages. So that’s pretty clear: if it had come to court they would have lost.’

  ‘John, I’m saying nothing!’ Oliver was smiling, Kate could tell. She found herself, against her will, smiling too. But her smile quickly turned bitter. So Oliver was to get a shed-load of money, whereas she, who was the only one in this sorry tale to have lost money because of it, was to get nothing.

  ‘Well, can you tell us what you will do with the money?’

  ‘Yes. First of all, it won’t come to me. The government sued Scandal Sheet, I didn’t. But I am, I believe, to choose a charity to benefit from this unfortunate business. At least some good will come out of it.’

  ‘And what charity will that be?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but it will be a local one in my Queensmead constituency.’

  Kate heard Oliver say, ‘I’d like any money to go …’ but Humphrys overrode him.

  ‘We need, Minister, to move now to a wider issue. It was the Evening Standard that started this rumour and led the chase. A false rumour, as has now been shown. But they, a big rich corporation, are to escape any penalty while Scandal Sheet, a tiny magazine run on a shoestring, might well be bankrupted.’