A Woman's Place (26 page)

The pony-tail twitched. He was lucky, he supposed, to get as much sex as he wanted instead of missing out and merely reading about it. His girlfriend had once earned her keep on these streets and was into the tricks – whips, leather, bondage, plus some exciting variations. She liked to keep her skills honed, she said, just in case he ever let her down.

The customer was taking his time. The manager made a quick bet with himself: girls or boys? If he was after children, paedo stuff, or animals or what-have-you, he'd not find that on the open shelves. Nor in the locked cupboard under the counter, not since the visit the week before by
plain-clothes
men from the local cop shop who'd removed most of his stock. Another expense, that was, keeping them sweet.

Anthony stood, uncertain. The female breasts and buttocks on the front cover of
Eros
moved him not at all, but it seemed wisest to take the copy, along with
Men Only
. At home, alone, he might find them more arousing. But he could not stop his eyes wandering to the other part of the shelf where the flaunted pectorals and thighs were of a different gender.
Hunk
and
Prowl
were new to him,
Gay
Times
held no interest, but
Vulcan
and
Steam
shrieked at him to buy. Hurriedly he gathered a collection and returned to the counter.

Face to face: ‘I'd like these, please.' A twenty-pound note was handed over. Pony-tail made a show of checking prices but offered no change. As the magazines were thrust casually into a flimsy plastic bag Anthony raised his eyes long enough to register that the man's teeth were stained and foul. He picked up the bag, shoved it clumsily into his briefcase and was gone.

‘How're you getting on, Jim?'

It could not be said that Nick Thwaite liked his deputy, but it was an essential part of his duties at the
Globe
to keep his team sweet. Not that he trusted Betts further than he could throw him. Given the whisker of a chance the nasty little Scouser would shove him aside and step into his shoes without a qualm. All was fair in love, war, business and newspaper offices. Yet there was something so unswervingly cynical and amoral about his subordinate as to make even Thwaite squirm. Sell his own grandmother, he would; and that's what made him indispensable.

‘Got enough to start on a few of our overseas friends and their links with the party in power,' Betts informed him. He pulled down a couple of red folders from a shelf. ‘More than I expected. Did you like the piece about what's new in Essex?'

‘You were a bit gentle with them, I thought.'

‘Oh, sure. But the file on Essex man, or at least that one, is coming together nicely. Those pictures will be very handy.' He pointed to a list ‘I've been pursuing political links. Bhodesh, or whatever he calls himself, is a big contributor to the Tories. Quite a few others hedge their bets by supporting both sides. One guy's donated twenty-five thousand pounds each to two think-tanks, for each of the main parties. Must have it to burn.'

Thwaite grunted appreciatively. ‘Hang on to that stuff. We're interested in the government side at the moment; not that the other lot aren't equally dodgy, but since they don't have their hands on the reins of power yet they've nothing much to be corrupt
with
. And Blair's lot are such a ghastly boring bunch.'

Betts concurred. ‘Correct. Could be the downbeat lifestyle. A socialist diet of beansprouts and grated carrots won't do much for a man's libido, or oblige him to search for a few readies to pay the bills. The Tories, now, they have standards to maintain.'

‘I'm old enough to remember Labour under Wilson and it was exactly the same.' Thwaite corrected him. Neither had a shred of sympathy for politicians of any colour: unless a local candidate was particularly attractive neither bothered to vote.

‘They claim it's our fault, too, that's what makes me laugh,' Betts agreed. ‘Blame the press. As if we tell lies, when what
we
do is merely report what goes on. Don't they realise we don't need to make it up?'

‘If everybody behaved according to the rules they'd have nowt to fear from top investigative journalists like yourself, Jim.' Thwaite slapped his deputy on the back.

‘Right. Nobody's hounded by the press unless he sets himself up as a victim in the first place.'

‘Though if all we ever got in public life was prudes and sea-green incorruptibles we'd have governments composed entirely of John Selwyn Gummers and Oppositions full of Dennis Skinners,' Thwaite mused. ‘Never get a thing done, and in the long run far less entertaining. The lack of contamination by real life'd mean they'd end up knowing bugger all. D'you know Skinner's never had a passport, never been abroad, yet he's full of loud opinions about foreign parts, mostly hostile.'

Betts wagged a finger. ‘We don't need to make the argument for them. Plenty of smarmy
so-and
-sos are already on the box pontificating about how much worse it'd be if MPs had no outside interests, how it would make the place even more insular and peculiar. Which reminds me' – he hunted for a notebook – ‘talking of the peculiar, I meant to start the rounds of the latest PPS appointments. You never know.'

‘Catch 'em while the pants are still down, is that it? Surely this new PM is more careful?'

Betts found a packet of cigarettes and snorted. ‘Don't you believe it. He's virtuous, they're not. In fact they're getting worse. It may be our fault, as you say. The question is, has the press scrutiny which has so illuminated British politics recently driven the brighter sparks away, in which
case we're all losers? Or are the press simply less respectful to authority, less obsequious – which you and I'd see as a good thing – so we refuse to stay mum when a juicy bit of tittle-tattle pops up?'

Thwaite was laughing out loud, but he glanced thoughtfully at his reporter. The man was not stupid: his faults lay elsewhere. “The trouble is, Jim, that you couldn't give a fuck either way, could you?'

Pramila tapped urgently on the door, waited anxiously and then opened it a few inches. Immediately she was enveloped in thick steam, which billowed across the tiled floor from the bath and threatened to escape down the stairs. Her husband did not like to be disturbed, but the fact was she had no choice. With the white mobile phone clutched tightly to her bosom she tiptoed inside and closed the door.

The wail of soulful but rhythmic bangla music floated from a radio placed on the floor by the bath. Jayanti was warbling along with the music and waving a backbrush to keep time. Only his dark head was visible, the sleek wet hair decorated with the bubbles which enveloped the rest of his body.

The lunch with Harrison had given him plenty of food for thought. The dinner to come, the political committee of the Carlton Club, black tie with all the trimmings, would offer a further chance to imitate the manner and style of a Harrison, so carefully observed, and to put some of the man's suggestions into practice.

In his heart Jayanti Bhadeshia knew he could never be accepted as an English gentleman. The establishment existed, was alive and well, and would keep him at arm's length. But he was sure he could get closer, enough to move easily in the inner circles and to ignore the occasional snub.

His common sense and integrity told him, in any case, that it was foolish to be resentful at the sneers or exclusion. The type of person who did not wish him to sit at his table was not worthy of consideration. The best course of action was to ignore such people. Whether the origin of such snobbery was anti-immigrant prejudice or a misguided sense of their own importance or both, if those who challenged it were successful then the old guard would eventually wither away. Look what had happened at the turn of the century as the British aristocracy, after first deriding Americans as rough and ignorant colonials, ended up marrying them for their money. Thus was their entry to society secured. It hadn't happened yet with Asians – the only hereditary Asian peer, Baron Sinha, had never taken his seat and remained in Calcutta – but it must, sooner or later. Naturally the gatekeepers would be choosy. The elevated ranks could best be strengthened by the ennoblement of those who were already top-notch. Such as himself. Then there could be no further argument: as a citizen honoured by the Queen, he could not be gainsaid.

In response to the Minister's blunt question, Jayanti had decided on the spur of the moment to be equally forthright. That was not his way normally. In his circle haggling was a refined and elegant exercise. It offended his sensibilities to be too explicit. He had been brought up to perform the formalities first, before negotiation; he harboured the belief, buttressed by years of experience, that a deal struck too easily probably would not hold when things went wrong.

Harrison, of course, knew about the East Africa project, but had professed gratifying surprise at progress made to date. Within a few moments he had expressed a desire to acquire shares, if that could be arranged. A nominee shareholder trust might be set up, he hinted, in a tax haven away from prying eyes; since no money would change hands it did not have to be declared.

That was an unusual version of a private share placement. On the whole Jayanti preferred to be paid for his shareholdings, but there was no doubt that Derek was highly persuasive as well as extremely useful when he chose. Promises of funds had materialised from contacts whom Derek claimed to have cultivated, people whose names were bandied around on the back pages of the
Financial Times
but whom Jayanti had never met. Their
Who's Who
entries indicated the barest links with politics. Yet Derek knew them, and their potential – or said he did.

Jayanti pondered the remark attributed to parliamentary lobbyist Ian Greer that ‘you need to
rent an MP like you rent a London taxi', and dismissed it as too crude. A long-term relationship was safer. It was much harder to rent a Minister and had to be done with finesse. But it was not impossible.

Should he, Jayanti, feel guilty? That was ridiculous. Only the British were so horrified by backhanders, which in most parts of the world were standard practice. Indeed, making money on the side had been expected of men in public office throughout most of British history, if only people were honest enough to admit it. Business demanded the greasing of palms. It helped the smooth running of commerce from Singapore to Peru. The British were the odd ones out. Those outbreaks of
breast-beating
which occasionally infected their media were a complete mystery, and in his private view rather immature and silly.

Then there was the enquiry, murmured over a delightful but highly alcoholic
zabaglione
and brandy, whether Derek's host secretly harboured any other ambitions or needs. A long sigh and silence followed as Jayanti toyed with his coffee spoon. But Derek had proved to be very helpful, so far. Nor had it seemed crazy, talking confidentially to one parliamentarian, to confess that he wished to become another – not in the Commons, subject to the hassle of elections and public scrutiny, but in the Lords.

‘My wife has royal blood, you know,' Jayanti explained. This was no time to air the doubts he usually felt over his wife's antecedents. ‘At home we are a well-known family. She points out that businessmen like myself are seriously under-represented in the Second Chamber, despite the fact that we are numerous and respected in this country. We are proud of Lady Flather, the first Asian lady peer, but Shreela is not a businesswoman and she is married to an English lawyer. As for Lord Desai – he's Labour, for a start, and is a professor of economics. A teacher merely – with a mad eye and straggly hair. He may resemble Albert Einstein, but he does not represent
me
.'

Derek had nodded, waiting. Both had ignored life peer Lord Chitnis, a Liberal Democrat. Jayanti needed no encouragement to continue. He lowered his voice. ‘You must not let the idea get abroad, my dear Harrison, that the party is happy to take our money but will not recognise us. You are not racist and neither is the Prime Minister. Nor the Home Secretary. “We will have no racialism in this party” – I heard Mr Howard say so at the Party Conference. The time has come to show you mean it.'

The Connaught's bill had been stratospheric but worth it, for Harrison had shaken hands warmly and promised to see what he could do on all counts. Now Jayanti wondered how safe it might be to approach a few other cronies, especially at that holy of holies, the Carlton Club. Then it dawned on him that that was exactly where to do it.

The music changed and he let his own voice soar in harmony. An agitated face appeared out of the steam above his head.

‘Jayanti! Will you stop making that terrible racket? There is a telephone call for you. Very urgent … must speak to you before you go to the dinner tonight.'

His wife's hand thrust the mobile phone towards him. He reached out to switch off the radio, then put the earpiece to his ear and blew foam from his mouth.

‘Hello! Jayanti Bhadeshia here. Who's that?'

The accent at the other end was smoothly urbane. ‘Mr Bhadeshia? So glad I've caught you. No. 10 here, private office. You are going to the political committee dinner, aren't you?'

‘Yes – yes.' Jayanti sat up, as if the caller had entered the bathroom in person.

‘Excellent. You will find yourself seated next to Peter Aubrey. The Party Chairman, you know? A charming gentleman. He will have one or two things to discuss with you, quite informally, and we will understand if you say no.'

‘Wait…' Jayanti could not grasp what his caller might be hinting at. He switched the phone into his other hand and began to feel around on the floor for a towel. Soap was getting into his eye and
he was finding it hard to concentrate.

‘Are you still there, Mr Bhadeshia? Ah, yes. Now you will want to listen carefully. And of course we have not had this conversation…'