A Woman's Place (18 page)

To his surprise George felt an emotion akin to pity. What an impossible situation for her. It must hurt dreadfully to know she could not take the man in her arms again, could never gossip about him, nor seek help or advice to alleviate the pain. For George, now that he was himself on intimate terms with the lady, had no doubt it had been a true love match, on one side if not on the other. Elaine was not capable of a casual liaison. Whatever her motivation – and he could well believe that ambition had played its part – she must have been deeply attached to the Prime Minister. And still was.

Then the Prime Minister turned smoothly away and headed in a different direction. George watched again as Elaine's head dipped and for a brief moment her eyes were sad. He gripped his chunky glass tightly in both hands. He felt protective, but the underlying sensation was excitement. A woman like that was a great prize. He must ensure he did not force the pace with her; but, if she was available to be won, then he would win her.

It was time. Shooed gently by junior Ministers, for no civil servants could attend such an occasion, guests began to drift down the stairs and away. Elaine explained that she must return to a working lunch back at the department. She smiled at George in a preoccupied way, and bade him goodbye with regret.

Fred gazed at his bank statement in the deepest gloom. The days when overdrafts were printed in red might be long past, but the repeated ‘O/D' symbols next to every figure in the right-hand column were unmistakable.

He added up the numbers once more. His Commons salary came to just over £1,500 per month after all stoppages. Petrol money hovered around £500 monthly but that entailed driving backwards and forwards to his constituency more frequently than he liked. The train journey was much more convenient but brought in no spare income whatever. The contribution to his rented second home in the patch, with every twist he could make, did not make him much profit. His outgoings regularly grabbed more than was coming in and the overdraft had exceeded his monthly salary. It had to be admitted that the bank were right to drop hints.

What could he do? Fred put his head in his hands. He had no marketable talents in the outside world as far as he knew – he had been so young to enter the House and had had no time to develop a
career beyond politics. He had no savings to speak of, indeed no assets at all. So it would have to revolve around his current status and importance.

If only somebody outside would offer him a job. Nothing excessive, just a few hundred pounds a month. Surely an MP was worth
something
. It would have to be declared, of course. He would be entirely open about it. And he would work honestly with whoever was paying him, offer sensible advice and information about any parliamentary activity which might affect their future – generally justify their investment, in fact.

Might they expect more than mere advice, though? Fred bit his lip. A one-way exercise might produce no more than a few quid. Would they want him to go further, to make speeches in the House on their behalf? It was permitted, indeed common practice. ‘I have to declare an interest as parliamentary adviser to the Towns and Gardens Ironmongery Association. This interest is duly recorded in the Register.' Then he would use the pages they had prepared and press the Minister in the direction they wanted.

It would make life easier in one way, and not simply financially. Instead of hours of research in the Commons Library, not really understanding the tables and charts, a ready-made argument would be thrust into his hands. He would sound much better informed and up-to-date. Over a period of time he could develop expertise in some esoteric subjects which would secure his worth. It might even be fun, along with the occasional dinner in a decent restaurant he could never afford himself. And if he lost his seat – not beyond the bounds of possibility – a place on the board of an associated company might assuage the grief.

No wonder so many colleagues followed this path. It was so damn obvious. More than a hundred of them, according to Lord Nolan's calculations, were advisers of one sort or another: around a third of everyone on the government benches not actually disqualified by being in government. On the other side it was done differently but with the same result: the trade unions put money into local party coffers and expected the sponsored Member to declare it proudly, then speak and vote their way. If he or she did not, there could be trouble.

Maybe it would be more than occasional speeches. Would they tell him to volunteer to serve on a bill, and put down amendments to their benefit? Would he be expected to conceal the fact by using somebody else's name? Or allow his own to be used in the same fashion, dog eat dog? Many ways existed to get round the rules. Fred shook his head dolefully. It was virtually impossible blatantly and openly to put down written questions to the Minister which reflected a financial interest – the press would be on to him like a shot. Oral questions were easier, if only because the spur of the moment could be pleaded. Yet the whole finicky operation felt more like a minefield than a bed of roses.

Fred had found it hard to believe at first that the number of backbench MPs who like himself gained nothing extra whatever from their parliamentary employment was so small. As he ran his finger once more over the bank statement he could see how naive he had been. Even without a family to support he could not survive this way: either more money was needed, or he would have to cut his lifestyle back severely.

He squared his shoulders. It was a precious thing to be elected; his constituents expected him to use his judgement freely and without favour. When he spoke out, they would want to feel he did so because he cared, not because somebody had paid him for it. He'd rather be a poor fool than a bought man. That was an expensive proposition but at least it meant he could live with his conscience.

But it would be wise not to trumpet the fact around Westminster. Everyone else down the corridor would think he was mad or stupid, or both.

Back in No. 10 those invited to remain were singled out with practised tact by uniformed staff, like steers lassoed by ranging cowboys, and whisked into the neighbouring dining room.

It was smaller, more intimate, with warm wood panelling, another superb chandelier and a long narrow table. Wineglasses sparkled and silver shone. The plastic roses which had been the table decoration under the previous Prime Minister had been rapidly replaced by fresh chrysanthemums, narcissi and snowdrops sent daily by Bedfordshire growers. The air was filled with the welcome smell of roast lamb and rosemary.

Jayanti found himself seated almost opposite the Prime Minister with the Party Chairman and Lord Tarrant within earshot. Alert to every nuance, he found himself deferred to and treated with elaborate courtesy. His aversion to meat forgotten, like a hungry hamster he nibbled, sipped, nodded, demurred, concurred enthusiastically with what was said to him and generally enjoyed himself hugely.

Dickson cursed silently that he had not managed to read and memorise the personal details of everyone present, though some were old friends and sponsors, including the shipping magnate from Hong Kong and a slightly mysterious South Korean who was good for a quarter of a million. The Labour Party had reportedly turned down a cool £5 million from a Bangladeshi on the grounds that he had nothing to do with Britain and merely wished to be associated with the winning side. Perhaps had the offer been accepted they would have
been
the winning side at the last election. Such scruples were a luxury Roger could not afford.

Despite the sterling crisis the job in hand demanded his complete concentration. Peter Aubrey had not needed to remind him. The chap opposite – he checked his seating plan discreetly … Bhadeshia – had been a donor for some time, but his name had recently come to the fore as his contributions had increased dramatically. Roger wondered gloomily what exactly Bhadeshia hoped for in return. The man's eagerness to please and the fawning way he agreed with Peter suggested it was not a safe seat in Parliament or help with the Customs and Excise.

Perhaps Mr Bhadeshia wanted to be loved. Respected, certainly: Roger had no qualms about that. Having started life in a family with no shares, no cars, no home ownership and no opportunity, the Prime Minister had a healthy respect for anyone who had built financial success from nothing. He was familiar with the Bhadeshia history and after a well-placed question was soon better informed about his guest's burgeoning commercial prospects. He chuckled quietly to himself. If the future was as rosy as Bhadeshia painted it he'd have no trouble being loved. Wealth always attracted admiration as well as jealousy, but with luck would be followed not long after, normally, by recognition and adulation.

And honour. Maybe an appearance in the honours list would please Mr Bhadeshia and keep his money rolling in? Needs must, and it was the easiest response, entirely within his control. It was hard to tell with these people. Dickson fixed Jayanti's face firmly in his mind, and turned with a suppressed sigh to his neighbour.

The rain had stopped but a cold wind blew down Whitehall, skittering leaves, flapping trouser legs, wriggling unwelcome inside thin jackets. The press had vanished. A few tourists consulted sodden maps and shivered. George Horrocks hesitated, then buttoned up his overcoat and turned left.

As he entered Trafalgar Square he bought a copy of the
Evening Standard.
Its huge headline –‘ECU CRISIS' – told too little; the story explored only the political implications, the blow to British sensitivities, the government's fury that the French and Germans appeared to have stitched everything up. Patriotism galore but little of substance, George rapidly decided. Realism was too much to expect.

He turned to the pink sheets of city coverage. Alarm bells rang there loud and clear. A company such as Prima, operating across frontiers and keen to grow, would have to decide quickly whether to calculate in sterling, dollars or this new international currency. Accountants and financial advisers, he had no doubt, had cancelled their lunchtime engagements and were working feverishly on it. Maybe he should have done the same?

Yet to have been in Downing Street at such a juncture, to have caught that flicker of worry on the PM's face, to have heard the hints about Cabinet splits and uncertainties had been worth any quantity of virtuous sandwiches. Moreover, the contacts, in business terms, had been superb – such as Lord Tarrant, who had confirmed an invitation to George to join the board of his bank. That would be a tremendous step up. George was not bothered about the additional £25,000 that would bring him but anticipated learning a great deal about international finance. In return he planned to encourage his new friends to take more interest in the fast-moving cable industry. At the moment their complacent ignorance left the Americans with all the juicy options.

Then there was Bhadeshia, who had promised a prospectus on this new share issue for his overseas activities. Now that South Africa's politics had settled down and Rwanda and Sudan and Ethiopia had run out of citizens to slaughter, an uneasy calm had descended over much of Africa. The result was an inviting water-hole into which smart operators were dipping their snouts. That scheme, handled well, could be a tremendous goer.

George squinted up at the sky: the rain would hold off a while yet. One other countenance had pleased him mightily. It had been good to see Elaine, and firmly to insist that she came for dinner at his house on Saturday. She was not the easiest lady to court.

In an unguarded moment Mr Bulstrode would confess that he enjoyed his rota at the MP's surgery. Now that his days as the local bank manager were over his position as Fred's chairman had revived his air of natural authority. Saturday mornings would find him, clipboard in hand, scurrying around inside the draughty village hall, ticking off names and ordering this person or that to sit and wait. Supplicants and complainants alike would be treated with a mixture of suspicion and disdain. Mr Bulstrode would then usher them into the inner room and the great elected presence, where all problems would be resolved.

At least, that was the idea, he reflected grimly as Mrs Hepworth's shrill voice penetrated the thin partition. This was her third appointment with the new MP. The young lad was making heavy weather of it. The previous Member, wily Sir Nigel, had eventually given instructions that the list was to be full when she phoned. Bulstrode glanced up. New arrivals were becoming restless. He rose, coughed discreetly and tapped on the door.

Fred's agitated face appeared. ‘What is it?'

‘Your next lot's here, and the ones after that too. If you don't shift the old biddy soon you'll lose more votes than you're gaining.'

‘She has a lot of worries,' Fred protested. ‘Her two sons are in prison, and there's what she calls the Social, and her granddaughter's been suspended from school…'

‘Aye, I'll bet.' The Hepworths were well known. Bulstrode tried to peer inside but Fred hung on to the handle. As he closed the door once more he caught Bulstrode's parting shot – ‘Has she told you yet about her six Rottweilers?'

Fred returned to the small desk. He sat and pressed his fingertips together in what he hoped was a mature pose. Mrs Hepworth, large, shapeless and not very clean, was still gabbling angrily. He had the uneasy sense that he had missed an important piece of the story. She paused for breath: it was now or never.

‘Er…yes. But what I'm not clear about, Mrs Hepworth, is what exactly you feel I could do?'

The woman glared at him. ‘Do? I don't suppose there's anything you can
do
, Mr Laidlaw. Nobody's ever been able to
do
much for me, not since my husband died.'

Fred blanched at the possibility that he was about to hear the late Mr Hepworth's grievances as well. He rose hastily.

‘Well, then, Mrs Hepworth. I hope you've found our discussion useful. Do contact me again.' And he propelled her out, still whining.

It was to be another hour before an exhausted Fred staggered into Milton Conservative Club and leaned heavily on the bar. Stolid faces indicated that he was to buy the next round. Wearily he obliged, then with relief downed half his pint. He began to flip through his notes.

‘If I'd realised…' he started, then stopped. Everyone in the club, Bulstrode and the steward included, believed MPs were overpaid and underworked. There was no sympathy to be had.

He tried again. ‘I wish there was a course on how to be an effective MP,' he said. ‘Look at this lot – three people bothered about pensions or social security, one's got gypsies in his garden, two would like the taxman hung up by his toenails, and thirteen people brought a petition against that new planning development. And everybody thinks I have a magic wand.'

‘Ah, that planning application,' murmured Bulstrode. ‘I meant to have a word with you about that.'

‘Don't worry, I've got that one clear,' Fred assured him. ‘I'll oppose it strongly, I told them.'

‘I hope you won't,' was the ominous reply. ‘The developer's my brother-in-law. So go easy, will you?'

The problem, Fred had to admit as he drove away, was not so much his ignorance or inexperience but the expectations of his electorate. That worked two ways.

Partly it was politicians' own fault. Elections were fought and won over who made the most plausible promises. Were the contests conducted on a more realistic level then voters might demand less afterwards and probably end up much more satisfied. But there was a fat chance of that ever happening.

Meanwhile it was widely believed that MPs had greater authority than a court of last resort; that they were omnipotent. Thus if a visit to the MP produced nothing effective it was the MP's fault. It had not taken Fred long to recognise that in fact he had no power to compel anyone to do anything; throwing his weight around was mostly a waste of time. The best he could manage was to pass on queries, suitably articulated on House of Commons notepaper, to those who did so jealously guard the right to decide. He was no more than a jumped-up postbox. The realisation had left him feeling distinctly deflated.

Fred sighed. The frustrating first year as a constituency Member had flattened his enthusiasm in more ways than one. He had slowly learned not to give his own opinion too readily. His honesty had got him into difficulties and he would have to hold his tongue more. Obfuscation was the name of the game. No wonder the profession was so despised.

It was beginning to rain. He switched on the windscreen wipers and wished he hadn't had that second half; in due course he would have to stop and add a further delay to his journey back to London. At least the rest of the weekend was free. He let his mind roam ahead, and wondered if anybody would be in the Battersea house and available for a comradely evening.

He swallowed hard. Suppose it was Karen? How would she react, if he suggested going out together? True, she did not seem to harbour any grudges about the New Year's Eve débâcle; she had not mentioned it once. But Fred was deeply conscious of his loss of face with her that night. The memory made him cringe with embarrassment – if only he had thought ahead he might by now have been her regular boyfriend. Instead he had seen her glance more than once across the breakfast table at Anthony and smile happily if the look was returned.

Fred wasn't jealous so much as laid low by his own naivety and incompetence. Yet the image of Karen minus her sweater under the hall light on New Year's Eve, lovely warm glowing Karen, ready to press up against him and to lead him upstairs – even as he drove, the picture made his head swim and his manhood respond.

He would try again with her; he must. He had visited a chemist and provided himself with the necessary requisites. The woman at the checkout had not even looked up when he had made his purchase. Pride, and his increasing need to share his doubts and fears about his strange life, demanded a real friend, preferably a bed friend. Someone to have fun with, who might understand and offer a murmur of support on the pillow in the deepest recesses of the night. Surely it wasn't too much to ask?

A huge lorry surged past and drenched the windscreen in spray. Fred slowed and began to look for a service station. Let the silly bastard in that lorry take risks in this weather; he, Fred Laidlaw, had too much to live for. Next time the chance came, he would be ready.

The columns did not add up. Jayanti Bhadeshia bit his lower lip and tried for the fourth time. That something was wrong he was sure: the group had thirty shops in North London with much the same turnover; twenty-eight of them seemed to be performing satisfactorily, yet in these two in King's Cross there had been a sharp drop.

It could mean only one thing: he was being robbed.

What a bloody nuisance, on top of everything else. Those lost deposits at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International would have been so handy, especially since the bulk had never been
accounted for to the Inland Revenue. That several of the known thieves had been jailed was hardly consolation. If Pramila knew how their fortune had been so drastically depleted by that unfortunate collapse, she would have been shocked and hysterical for days.

Nor had he kept her fully informed about the potential losses of Rajiv's car hire company. Rajiv had returned weeping to India; the Prime Minister's office had sent a baldly worded letter of regret that nothing could be done to bring him back. But the firm's finances had turned out to be a disaster. In accepting his family duties Jayanti had found himself the principal underwriter of a small insurance operation on the side. The books there were a complete fantasy. Claimants were queuing up but instalments had ground to a halt. Meanwhile a steady stream of guaranteed payments went to Rajiv's grieving family, leaving Jayanti ever further in the red. He fretted that he could not tell Pramila and seek her advice: to do so would seem like a reproach.

And interest rates were about to rise once more. He cursed again. That was fine if you were in funds, awful if you were a net borrower; and try as he might it began to appear that his liabilities threatened to exceed his easily realisable assets. That was not a comfortable position. In fact it was not a happy situation at all.

He had worked so hard and been so successful that the effects of other people's incompetence and criminality were that much harder to bear. Yet his fortunes were still to be made: the biggest project of all was at last under way. Beneath the ledgers and dockets on his untidy desk nestled the glossy prospectus of the East African project with the artist's impression of Bhadeshia's Emporium in downtown Kampala. Work had commenced and stage payments were due. With luck it would be a gold-mine.

Jayanti found himself sweating despite the cool of the evening. A sense of panic touched his heart but he pushed it roughly away. His whole career had depended on his calmness under pressure; his family's prosperity and status in the world were his responsibility and he would not let them down.

He squared his shoulders. How could he fail? He, who had so recently dined with the Prime Minister, who knew Ministers and lords by name, who was a friend of presidents and a respected adviser to governments? The idea was unthinkable.

On the contrary: his political contacts were yielding fruit. Wasn't he in demand tonight at a Conservative businessmen's dinner at Lord Tarrant's private house in Lord North Street? He must take a few prospectuses with him. In a minute he would have to change into evening dress. Financially he might be skating on thin ice, but plenty of willing hands were extended to bring him safely to solid ground. White hands, establishment names: people who for the party's sake could not let him sink.

Such distinguished personages would not, however, approve if he ignored a straightforward matter of theft, probably by his own employees. Pramila too would expect him to tackle the matter head on. He looked out of the window. It was late afternoon and raining. He could deal with it on his way in to Westminster.

In a small flat in North London Jim Betts tapped laboriously at his laptop and cursed. Weaned on shorthand and grubby notepads he was still not at ease with the hissing luminosity of the small screen. Sometimes one of his fingers hit a wrong key and the screen would go dark. When he managed to recover his position the last eight or ten sentences, so carefully crafted, would have vanished. That never happened in the days of pen and paper.

He had had no choice but to master the damn thing. The
Globe
was a modern operator and the gadget had a modern. All he needed to do was plug it into a phone socket and press the right combination of buttons; then the text would magically transfer to some other idiot's screen, without any of the clutter – or reassuring certainty – of hard copy.

He reached across the table and swore again. No cigarettes. That made the task in hand not merely difficult but impossible. He pressed ‘save', satisfied himself that the machine was on standby, collected his jacket and headed for the nearest tobacconist.

As he pushed open the shop door it was apparent that some kind of row was in train. He liked this shop; it was unpretentious and friendly. It had had a succession of managers, mostly, like the current incumbent, blokes in reduced circumstances, Irish or ex-pugilists.

‘Look, Mr Patel, you gotta understand.' The young shopkeeper pulled lazily at his pony-tail as he tried to explain.

‘My name is not Patel, it is Bhadeshia. I have told you that before.' Jayanti, his bow-tie askew, dress shirt rumpled, was seething. The shop was dirty and it was evident from dates on the crisp boxes that proper stock rotation was being ignored. The manager was supposed to get a cut of profits, but he was expected to make the profits first, and not by playing games with the health inspectors.

Betts waited, enjoying the scene. It did him good to see a dressed-up Asian twerp being put in his place.

Jayanti glanced over his shoulder. ‘You had better serve this customer. Then you can tell me where the gross is going.'

Pony-tail knew Betts's preference and wordlessly reached for a couple of packets. A
five-pound
note changed hands; coins tinkled on the glass counter. Betts moved away into a corner, unwrapped his purchase and examined a rack of girlie magazines.

‘This is a heavy area, Mr Patel,' Pony-tail hissed. ‘We get geezers coming in I gotta look after, see? Or they'll drive a van into that plate-glass window and nick the lot. One big bust here, and you'll be red-lined. So see it as a kind of insurance.'

Jayanti winced. He had trouble enough persuading respectable insurers to accept his shops as risks. The advent of less reliable versions was most unwelcome.

He should call the police – set up an undercover operation. Recruit a tough nephew, one versed in the martial arts, to replace this artful dodger and ensure the capture of whichever small-time gang was running the protection racket. He looked into Pony-tail's face: the young man returned a stare of such insolence that Jayanti recoiled in disgust.

‘And what you should remember is that a businessman is only interested in a business as long as it contributes, not if it sucks money away from more valuable projects,' he warned. Take too much, he was saying, and I'll close the place.

As Jayanti pulled his cashmere overcoat closer around him and pulled open the door to the street, Betts half turned towards Pony-tail and caught his eye. ‘Trouble, these Pakis, aren't they?' he remarked casually.