A Parliamentary Affair (21 page)

Andrew offered up a prayer that he was not being made a fool of. ‘I shall be thirty-three in September. I suppose our professions are exactly the opposite; in my job it doesn’t do to be too young. You’re regarded as a bit of a pipsqueak if you’re aiming for Parliament before thirty. On the other hand, we mustn’t leave it too late; trying to get a winnable seat past forty is doing it the hard way, while after fifty it’s nearly impossible.’

Miranda found the self-effacing manner terribly English and appealing. ‘That might explain why there are so few women in Parliament – taking time out to care for families means being older and at a disadvantage by the time they start, I guess.’ Miranda had researched the subject, interviewing would-be women MPs from his party who were bitter at the many barriers.

‘Part of the problem is that selection committees have a fixed idea of what an MP should be like,’ said Andrew. ‘Male, of course, preferably married, with the regulation two children. White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, if possible; blond and bland, I’m afraid. But as long as we’re more successful than the Labour Party at the hustings there’s no great pressure for change. I’d like to see more good female candidates coming forward – that’s not flannel, I mean it – but it’s said to be the women on selection committees who aren’t keen. They and the voters – women voters too – persist in seeing it as a man’s job. We’re still some way from equality in this country.’

He was conscious that he laughed a little nervously. Chairs were being scraped back as guests began to leave the tables. The two of them stood up, suddenly, found themselves physically close, forced together by the tangle of chair-legs and tables. He almost put out his hand to guide her – Ferriman would not have hesitated – but drew back. Miranda was almost his own height. Her dark eyes were large, skilfully made up. If he kept his own gaze studiously away from her breasts it was difficult to avoid looking into those slightly mocking eyes. He felt uncomfortable and a little scared.

Miranda’s response was robust. ‘Don’t apologise! Australia’s far worse. At least here you do believe women should have every opportunity. Down under we’ve the original Neanderthal Man, and lots of ’em. Neither Les Patterson nor Crocodile Dundee is entirely fictitious – I know guys just like that. Makes it bloody hard. That’s why I’m here.’

Walter and Maud Shoesmith moved tactfully back under the hall lamp. It would not do for the party to carry on too long as the ambassador was still expected to show his face at the embassy staff celebration. Coats were being collected; a line was forming to say goodbye. Andrew took a deep breath and turned to Miranda.

‘How are you getting home?’

Ever the gentleman, she reflected, amused. Perhaps taking a taxi alone was not on the agenda tonight. She noted the implication that he wanted to be involved whatever method she chose. The main door was open, letting in a gentle breeze. It was a fine night.

‘Do you have a car? No? That makes two of us. Anyway we’d get nicked for being over the limit. My God, your drink-driving laws are ferocious! Good thing, I guess. It’s dry, so why not walk for a while through the park, past the mosque and the boating lake and come out down near Baker Street? Then we can catch a cab. How does that sound?’

Their conversation had lasted nearly two hours without flagging. She had a roguish, almost masculine style about her, swashbuckling, piratical; she didn’t actually say, ‘Coming?’, but pulled the shimmering jacket around her shoulders and set off into the warm night, then waited a moment, looking back over her shoulder. Andrew scurried quickly after her. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. If Tessa wouldn’t come to events like this, then she, not he, was to blame if he walked a lady home.

Miranda would have resented any description of herself as promiscuous. True, had she bothered to list all those men she had slept with, the numbers might have troubled her and left her wondering what risks she might thereby be running. But never so far had an encounter left any unpleasantness, for she was choosy and careful. The usual problem was that a man got too keen, but she had developed kindly ways of turning passion into undying friendship, such that her amorous path was littered with devoted men who thought the world of her.

The men she was attracted to came from a variety of backgrounds, but were mostly strong-minded types with large bank balances and bigger egos. She was not interested in their money, or even in the power they wielded, though both put such men in a category with which she felt quite at home. Once, she had taken a fancy to a young garage mechanic but he had become quite besotted, almost impossible to deter; putting him off had been an unhappy business which had probably marred the poor lad for life. From then onwards Miranda restricted herself to charming successful men with limited emotions and some inkling of where to stop. Not one, however, had touched her heart. Secretly she wondered if anybody ever would, and whether, as she approached thirty, she would now recognise the great romance if it ever appeared.

Andrew matched her step for step. A lacklustre fight with his conscience had been abandoned between the second and third glass of wine, in the middle of an uproarious anecdote from Miranda on the goings-on in the upper echelons of
The Globe
. Briefly he consulted the oracle of his upbringing but found there nothing but encouragement. A little philandering was par for the course, provided it was kept private and upset nobody. The key was not to take it all too seriously; not to get involved with a close friend’s wife; not to be a marriage wrecker. With Miranda there was no such impediment. Yet she was like no one he had ever met before. The learning curve felt like a roller-coaster, with his former dim self wringing its hands at the top, too terrified even to try, just as the new Andrew let go and started an exhilarating descent.

The two were deep in conversation as they walked down the Outer Circle road and past Clarence Terrace. The Regent’s Park mosque loomed on their left, its gold dome resembling nothing so much as one of her breasts now hidden under the jacket. So to Baker Street tube station. Miranda
had not really meant to walk far but the air refreshed her and helped clear her head. She started to think hard about what she intended to do with the man now talking animatedly by her side.

It did not seem such a foolish idea, once they arrived at the brightly lit station, to take the Tube the rest of the way to Victoria instead of hunting for a taxi. Deep in the tunnels there was nobody to recognise them, no one to chide. Both, a little light-headed, felt like children let out of school. Sitting beside Miranda in the scruffy carriage surrounded by drunks on their way home, Andrew felt protective towards the woman at his side. Tentatively he put an arm behind her, across the back of the seat. Heads turned in their direction: a pair of toffs after a party, no doubt. Miranda wriggled into the corner and smiled at him. His eyes strayed helplessly downwards. She pulled the jacket back over her cleavage, meeting his look with an embarrassed shrug and a grin.

‘Can’t help it, I woke up like this one day when I was thirteen. I do assure you it’s all mine.’

He did not answer. He felt uncomfortable, not really knowing what to do, palms moist and pulse quickening. A wild kind of jubilation was already jumping in his brain.

At the Wilton Road exit from Victoria station Miranda paused and bought copies of the first editions off the newsstand, glancing quickly through them. ‘Our first edition won’t be out for at least an hour,’ she confessed.

‘We’re lucky even to be mentioned with the other papers at the end of
Newsnight
each evening. Makes me wild.’ Then they stood uncertainly in the street, avoiding honking taxis and theatre crowds fresh from
Starlight Express
and
Buddy
. For several moments they chatted as traffic lights changed from red through amber to green and back again, twice. Still they did not move. The summer wind blew rubbish and bits of old newspaper down the road. Neither wanted to end the evening. His earnest lack of pushiness could be a handicap, Miranda noted. On the other hand, his English manners might be turned to good purpose. She gestured down the street.

‘My flat is in Rochester Row. Now would you please be a real sport and walk me there?’

She had given him the key. Now he felt completely free. A decent chap could not ignore a girl’s reasonable request: it would have been gross to refuse. Gravely he offered his arm. ‘May I?’

Nobody talked like that in Australia. Miranda stood back in amazement for a split second, then slipped her arm through his.

This time they walked linked, matching stride to stride. Her hair streamed behind her in the breeze coming off the river. The perfume she wore seemed potent and sensual; his heart was beginning to thump.

Miranda’s flat was on the first floor of an old brown house not far from Vincent Square, close to the
Globe
office in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Nothing was said as they climbed the carpetless stairs, only a giggle of shushing conspiracy as she tried to put her key in the lock. He put his hand on hers to steady it. Both were trembling slightly, their breath coming in short bursts.

Miranda stepped inside the doorway and stood with her back to the wall near the phone stand, looking sidelong at him. He closed the door quietly. As he searched for the light switch she shook her head; there was enough light coming in from street lamps beyond the window. Her hands were pressed flat against the wall, her back arched. He stood completely still, not daring to take hold of her, not yet. Now he could stare, openly, without pretence or, subterfuge.

Slowly she slipped the brilliant jacket from her shoulders. Sequins flashed at him – blue, silver, flame, lifting softly up and down as she breathed. The jacket slithered to the floor. She nudged it to one side, kicked off her shoes and rubbed her bare toes slowly on the carpet.

With a shake, like a dog after swimming, she tossed her dark hair back; then ran her tongue over her lips, eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. He moaned and passed a hand across his face, but smiled back at her, sharing her own pleasure in her body. Slowly first one shoulder, then the other emerged from the black lacy top. Andrew leaned against the closed door only two feet away, and
watched, feeling himself harden and begin to throb, as first with her left hand and then her right she stripped the top down to her waist.

She was tanned all over – no swimsuit line. Her breasts were big, womanly globes, the aureoles large and dark, like an Italian’s. Light from the street lamps fell softly on her so that the nipples stood out clearly; he watched them change from soft to firm, and clenched his fists to hold himself in check.

Those huge amused eyes did not leave his face, but the hand movement and the swelling in his trousers did not go unnoticed.

‘Time enough. In a minute – don’t be impatient.’

The gold belt and skirt joined the sequinned jacket and then the whole body-stocking. She seemed to be moving in slow motion, teasing him, mocking the involuntary, crude nature of his own reactions. Then she stood before him in her panties, nothing but a wisp of stretch lace, still back to the wall.

‘Enjoying watching me, Andrew?’

He nodded, stammering. ‘God, you’re beautiful! I feel I want – I want to eat you.’

‘Then watch some more, if you like.’

She cupped her hands around her breasts, rolled them together, began making a rhythmic sigh, and took her nipples between finger and thumb. Cradling her breasts in her left arm she moved her right hand down across her navel and belly, then slipped her hand between her legs, making soft noises in her throat. She turned her face again, mouth open, towards Andrew.

He was sweating hard now and felt as if he would burst. Quickly he pulled off his own jacket, tie and shirt, fumbling with buttons and losing one in his haste. Her eyes were glazing over as he struggled to undo his trousers, but at the sight of his erect penis she called his name.

‘Andrew … Andrew … come on…’

She reached over and handed him a condom from the drawer of the phone desk. His hands trembled violently as he tried to remember how to put it on. Never before had he wanted sex so desperately. He stepped forward and pressed her up against the wall for all the world as if she were a dockside whore. She pulled down the panties, stepped out of them and wrapped one leg round his waist. Her judgement was accurate – she was just the right height to make it easy to perform standing up. Memories of trying to do this once behind the sheds at a school dance came back to Andrew fleetingly: it had not been a success and the girl had laughed at him. This gloriously ripe woman was instead yelping with merry delight as he pushed himself into her, as if all lovemaking was supposed to be like this. She was not ashamed or fearful – she was with him, thrust for thrust, cry for cry, carrying him along. She was bloody well enjoying it!

In a moment he was done, gasping and panting, and she collapsed into his arms with great gurgles of pleasure, clutching him, embracing him, her kisses mixed with sweaty chortles.

‘I guessed right, didn’t I? Under that English exterior you’re really something else, Andrew. That’s the best – the biggest, I must tell you – that I’ve had in years.’

The compliment pleased him and he eased himself gingerly out. Tessa complained that he was too big and hurt her. At home he only tried once and was usually repulsed. Better put Tessa firmly out of his mind.

Miranda was weaving a different spell on him. To his own surprise he was far from finished. His trousers, concertinaed unceremoniously around his ankles, made him giggle helplessly. He removed the rest of his clothes, put them methodically but quickly over a chair, looked around and found the bedroom. Then, with an echo of his earlier courtesy, he led Miranda there by the hand.

The bed was in an old-fashioned style with brass rails, a white duvet and loads of frilled lacy pillows – startlingly feminine. This time he turned on the bedside lamp and satisfied his desire to look
more closely at her, running his fingers all over her body, kissing her lightly. She leaned back and stretched luxuriously, curling her hands around the brass bars of the bedhead.