Simon was surprised when the Prime Minister phoned personally and asked if he could come up to see her in Downing Street: that was an honor usually afforded only to Cabinet ministers. He tried not to anticipate what she might have in mind.
He duly traveled up from the country and spent thirty minutes alone with the new Prime Minister. When he heard what Mrs. Thatcher wanted him to do he was touched that she had taken the trouble to see him in person. She knew that no member ever found it easy to accede to such a request but Simon accepted without hesitation. Mrs. Thatcher added that no announcement would be made until he had had time to talk his decision over with Elizabeth.
Simon thanked her and traveled back to his cottage in Pucklebridge. Elizabeth sat in silence as she listened to Simon’s account of his conversation with the Prime Minister.
“Oh, my God,” she said, when he had finished. “She’s offered you the chance to be a Minister of State, but in return we have no certainty of peace for the rest of our lives.”
“I can still say no,” Simon assured her.
“That would be the act of a coward,” said Elizabeth, “and you’ve never been that.”
“Then I’ll phone the Prime Minister and tell her I accept.”
“I ought to congratulate you,” she said. “But it never crossed my mind for one moment …”
Charles’s was one of the few Tory seats in which the majority went down. A missing wife is hard to explain especially when it is common knowledge that she is living with the former chairman of the adjoining constituency. Charles had faced a certain degree of embarrassment with his local committee and he made sure that the one woman who couldn’t keep her mouth shut was told his version of the story “in strictest confidence.” Any talk of removing him had died when it was rumored that Charles would stand as an independent candidate if replaced. When the vote was counted Sussex Downs still returned Charles to Westminster with a majority of 20,176. He sat alone in Eaton Square over the weekend, but no one contacted him. He read in the Monday Telegraph—how he missed The Times—the full composition of the new Tory team.
The only surprise was Simon Kerslake’s appointment as Minister of State for Northern Ireland.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“WELL, SAY SOMETHING.”
“Very flattering, Kate. What reason did you give for turning the offer down?” asked Raymond, who had been surprised to find her waiting for him at the flat.
“I didn’t need a reason.”
“How did they feel about that?”
“You don’t seem to understand. I accepted their offer.”
Raymond removed his glasses and tried to take in what Kate was saying. He steadied himself by holding on to the mantelpiece.
Kate continued. “I had to, darling.”
“Because the offer was too tempting?”
“No, you silly man. It had nothing to do with the offer as such, but it gives me the chance to stop letting my life drift. Can’t you see it was because of you?”
“Because of me you’re going to leave London and go back to New York.”
“To work in New York and start getting my life in perspective. Raymond, don’t you realize it’s been five years?”
“I know how long it is and how many times I’ve asked you to marry me.”
“We both know that isn’t the answer; Joyce can’t be brushed aside that easily. And it could even end up being the single reason you fail in your career.”
“We can overcome that problem, given time,” Raymond reasoned.
“That sounds fine now, until the party wins the next election and lesser men than you are offered the chance to shape future policy.”
“Can’t I do anything to make you change your mind?”
“Nothing, my darling. I’ve handed Chase my resignation and begin my new job with Chemical Bank in a month.”
“Only four weeks,” said Raymond.
“Yes, four weeks. I had to hold off telling you until I had severed all the bonds, had resigned, and could be sure of not letting you talk me out of it.”
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“I hope enough to let me go, before it’s too late.”
Charles would not have normally accepted the invitation. Lately he had found cocktail parties to consist of nothing but silly little bits of food, never being able to get the right drink, and rarely enjoying the trivial conversation. But when he glanced on his mantelpiece and saw an “At Home” from Lady Carrington he felt it might be an amusing break from the routine he had fallen into since Fiona had left. He was also keen to discover more about the rumored squabbles in Cabinet over expenditure cuts. He checked his tie in the mirror, removed an umbrella from the hat stand, and left Eaton Square for Ovington Square.
He and Fiona had been apart for nearly two years. Charles had heard from several sources that his wife had now moved in with Dalglish on a permanent basis despite his unwillingness to cooperate over a divorce. He had remained discreetly silent on his wife’s new life except for one or two selected tidbits dropped selectively in the ears of well-chosen gossips. That way he had elicited for himself sympathy from every quarter while remaining the magnanimous loyal husband.
Charles had spent most of his spare time in the Commons, and his most recent budget speech had been well received both by the House and the national press. During the committee stage of the Finance Bill he had allowed himself to be burdened with a lot of the donkey work. Clive Reynolds had been able to point out discrepancies in some clauses of the bill, which Charles passed on to a grateful Chancellor. Thus Charles received praise for saving the Government from any unnecessary embarrassment. At the same time he disassociated himself from the “wets” as the Prime Minister referred to those of her colleagues who did not unreservedly support her monetarist policies. If he could keep up his work output he was confident he would be preferred in the first reshuffle.
By spending his mornings at the bank and afternoons and evenings in the Commons Charles managed to combine both worlds with the minimum of interruption from his almost nonexistent private life.
He arrived at Lord Carrington’s front door a little after six-forty-five. A maid answered his knock, and he walked straight through to a drawing room that could have held fifty guests and very nearly did.
He even managed to be served with the right blend of whisky before joining his colleagues from both the Upper and Lower Houses. He saw her first over the top of Alec Pimkin’s balding head.
“Who is she?” asked Charles, not expecting Pimkin to know.
“Amanda Wallace,” said Pimkin, glancing over his shoulder. “I could tell you a thing or two …” but Charles had already left his colleague in midsentence. The sexual aura of the woman was attested to by the fact that she spent the entire evening surrounded by attentive men, like moths around a candle. If Charles had not been one of the tallest men in the room he might never have seen the flame. It took him another ten minutes to reach her side of the room where Julian Ridsdale, a colleague of Charles’s in the Commons, introduced them only to find himself dragged away moments later by his wife.
Charles was left staring at a woman who would have looked beautiful in anything from a ballgown to a towel. Her slim body was encased in a white silk dress, and her fair hair touched her bare shoulders. But what struck Charles most was the translucent texture of her skin. It had been years since he had found it so hard to make conversation.
“I expect you already have a dinner engagement?” Charles asked her in the brief intervals before the vultures closed in again.
“No,” she replied and smiled encouragingly. She agreed to meet him at Walton’s in an hour’s time. Charles dutifully began to circulate round the room but it was not long before he found his eyes drawn back to her. Every time she smiled he found himself responding but Amanda didn’t notice because she was always being flattered by someone else. When he left an hour later he smiled directly at her, and this time did win a knowing grin.
C
harles sat alone at a corner table in Walton’s for another hour. He was just about to admit defeat and return home when she was ushered to the table. The anger that had developed from being kept waiting was forgotten the moment she smiled and said, “Hello, Charlie.”
He was not surprised to learn that his tall, elegant companion earned her living as a model. As far as Charles could see she could have modeled anything from toothpaste to stockings.
“Shall we have coffee at my place?” Charles asked after an unhurried dinner. She nodded her assent and he called for the bill, not checking the addition for the first time in many years.
He was delighted, if somewhat surprised, when she rested her head on his shoulder in the cab on the way back to Eaton Square. By the time they had been dropped off at Eaton Square most of Amanda’s lipstick had been removed. The cabbie thanked Charles for his excessive tip and couldn’t resist adding, “Good luck, sir.”
Charles never did get round to making the coffee. When he woke in the morning, to his surprise he found her even more captivating, and for the first time in weeks quite forgot “Yesterday in Parliament.”
Elizabeth listened carefully as the man from Special Branch explained how the safety devices worked. She tried to make Peter and Michael concentrate on not pressing the red buttons that were in every room and would bring the police at a moment’s notice. The electricians had already wired the rooms in Beaufort Street and now they had nearly finished at the cottage.
At Beaufort Street a uniformed policeman stood watch by the front door night and day. In Pucklebridge, because the cottage was so isolated, they had to be surrounded by arc lamps that could be switched on at a moment’s notice.
“It must be damned inconvenient,” suggested Archie Millburn during dinner. After his arrival at the cottage he had been checked by security patrols with dogs before he was able to shake hands with his host.
“Inconvenient is putting it mildly,” said Elizabeth. “Last week Peter broke a window with a cricket ball and we were immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Do you get any privacy?” asked Archie.
“Only when we’re in bed. Even then you can wake up to find you’re being licked; you sigh and it turns out to be an Alsatian.”
Archie laughed. “Lucky Alsatian.”
Every morning when Simon was driven to work he was accompanied by two detectives, a car in front and another to the rear. He had always thought there were only two ways from Beaufort Street to Westminster. For the first twenty-one days as minister he never traveled the same route twice.
Whenever he was due to fly to Belfast he was not informed of either his departure time or from which airport he would be leaving. While the inconvenience drove Elizabeth mad the tension had the opposite effect on Simon. Despite everything, it was the first time in his life he didn’t feel it was necessary to explain to anyone why he had chosen to be a politician.
Inch by inch he worked to try to bring the Catholics and Protestants together. Often after a month of inches he would lose a yard in one day, but he never displayed any anger or prejudice except perhaps as he told Elizabeth, “a prejudice for common sense.” Given time, Simon believed, a breakthrough would be possible—if only he could find on both sides a handful of men of goodwill.
During the all-party meetings both factions began to treat him with respect and—privately—with affection. Even the Opposition spokesman at Westminster openly acknowledged that Simon Kerslake was turning out to be an excellent choice for the “dangerous and thankless ministry.”
Andrew also knew he would require a handful of men of goodwill when Hamish Ramsey resigned as chairman of Edinburgh Carlton.
“I don’t need the hassle any longer,” Hamish told him. “I’m not in politics for the same reason as that bunch of troublemakers.” Andrew reluctantly let him go and had to work hard to convince Hamish’s deputy, David Connaught, that he should stand in his place. When David finally agreed to allow his name to go forward he was immediately opposed by Frank Boyle, who had already made his opinion of the sitting member abundantly clear. Andrew canvassed every person on the committee during the run up to election for the new chairman. He estimated the voting was going to be seven-all, which would still allow Hamish to give his casting vote in favor of Connaught.
Andrew phoned Hamish at home an hour before the meeting was due to begin. “I’ll call and leave a message for you at the House when it’s all over,” Ramsey told him. “Don’t worry, you’re safe this time. At least I’ll leave you with the right chairman.”
Andrew left Pelham Crescent after he had tucked Clarissa up in bed and read her another chapter of Jacob Two Two. He told Louise he would return from Westminster straight after the ten o’clock vote. He sat in the Chamber and listened to Charles Seymour deliver a well-argued discourse on monetarist policy. Andrew didn’t always agree with the logic of Seymour’s case and he had never cared much for the man himself; but he had to admit that such talent was wasted on the back benches.
During the speech a note was passed to Andrew by an attendant. He unfolded the little white slip. Stuart Gray, the lobby correspondent for The Scotsman, needed to speak to him urgently. Andrew slipped from his place on the front bench, stepping over the feet of Shadow ministers still intent on Seymour’s speech. He felt like a small boy leaving a cinema in the middle of a film in pursuit of an ice lolly. He found Gray waiting for him in the Members’ Lobby.
Andrew had known Stuart since he had first entered the House, when the journalist had told him, “You and I are each other’s bread and butter, so we’d better make a sandwich.” Andrew had laughed, and they had had few differences of opinion in the fifteen years since. Stuart suggested that they go down to Annie’s Bar for a drink. They strolled along the corridor and took the stairway near the tea room to the basement bar, named after a former barlady.
Andrew settled down on a couch at the side of a pillar while Stuart went up to the bar to order two whiskies.
“Cheers,” said the journalist, putting Andrew’s glass down on the table in front of him.
Andrew took a long gulp. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked. “Is my father being tiresome again?”
“I’d call him a supporter compared with your new chairman.”
“What do you mean? I’ve always found David Connaught to be a sound fellow myself,” said Andrew, a little pompously.
“I’m not interested in your views of David Connaught,” said Stuart. “I want an opinion on your new chairman, Frank Boyle.” The journalist sounded very much on the record.
“What?”
“He won the vote tonight seven to six.”
“But …” Andrew fell silent.
“Come on, Andrew. We both know the bloody man’s a Commie troublemaker, and my editor is screaming for a quote.”
“I can’t say anything, Stuart, not until I know all the facts.”
“I’ve just told you all the facts: now, are you going to give me a quote?”
“Yes.” Andrew paused. “I am sure Mr. Boyle will continue to serve in the best traditions of the Labour party, and I look forward to working in close cooperation with him.”
“Balls,” said Stuart. “They will only print that in Pseuds Corner in Private Eye.”
“It’s the only quote you’re going to get out of me tonight,” said Andrew.
Stuart looked at his friend and could see lines on his face that he had never noticed before. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I went too far. Please get in touch when the time’s right. With that bastard Boyle in charge you might be in need of my help.”
Andrew thanked him absentmindedly, downed his whisky in one gulp, then walked out of Annie’s Bar and along the terrace corridor to the phone booths at the foot of the stairs. He dialed Ramsey’s home number.
“What in heaven’s name happened?” was all he could ask.
“One of our voters didn’t show,” said Hamish Ramsey. “Claimed he was held up in Glasgow and couldn’t get back
in time. I was just about to ring you.”
“Bloody irresponsible of him,” said Andrew. “Why didn’t you postpone the vote?”
“I tried to, but Frank Boyle produced the rule book. ‘Any motion proposed fourteen days before a meeting cannot be postponed without the agreement of the proposer and seconder.’ I’m sorry, Andrew; my hands were tied.”
“It’s not your fault, Hamish. I couldn’t have had a better chairman than you. I’m only sorry you didn’t leave in a blaze of glory.”
Hamish chuckled. “Don’t you ever forget, Andrew, the voters have the last word in a democracy. In Edinburgh you’re the man who has served them for more than fifteen years and they won’t forget that quickly.”
“You can get dressed now, Miss Wallace,” said the gynecologist returning to her desk.
Amanda started to slip back into her latest Dior outfit—a light blue denim suit bought the previous day in Conduit Street in an attempt to cheer herself up.
“It’s the third time in five years,” said Elizabeth Kerslake, leafing through the confidential file and trying not to sound accusing.
“I may as well book into the same clinic as before,” said Amanda, matter-of-factly.
Elizabeth was determined to make her reconsider the consequences. “Is there any chance that the father would want you to have this child?”
“I can’t be certain who the father is,” said Amanda, looking shame-faced for the first time. “You see, it was the end of one relationship and the beginning of another.”
Elizabeth made no comment other than to say, “I estimate that you are at least eight weeks pregnant, but it could be as much as twelve.” She looked back down at the file. “Have you considered giving birth to the child and then bringing it up yourself?”
“Good heavens, no,” said Amanda. “I make my living as a model, not as a mother.”
“So be it,” Elizabeth sighed, closing the file. “I’ll make all the”—she avoided saying usual—“necessary arrangements. You must see your GP immediately and ask him to sign the required clearance forms. Then phone me in about a week, rather than make the trip down to Pucklebridge again.”
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