What Will Survive (17 page)

‘Just find me a taxi and I'll go back to the flat. I'm not hungry, not much anyway, and I can make myself a sandwich.'

Aisha was gone. Stephen turned his head slowly, looking at the men in suits and their wives in stupid cocktail dresses.

‘Stephen? Stephen, you're not listening to me!'

Carolina sounded on the verge of tears. Across the room, Stephen spotted a familiar face — two familiar faces.

‘You do know someone. There's James and Corinne. Let's go and talk to them.' Seizing his wife's hand, he pulled her towards a well-known financier whose wife, a best-selling novelist, was rumoured to have made a generous donation to Party funds.

‘No, the colours are fine, that isn't the problem,' Aisha said patiently into the phone on her desk. Her assistant, Becky, was sitting in an old armchair, waiting to resume a discussion about Aisha's correspondence, and their eyes met. Shaking her head, Aisha interrupted whoever was at the other end of the line: ‘They run, that's the problem. I mean, the dye's not fast. It's not insurmountable, in fact if I speak to my assistant, I'm sure we can find —' She listened for a moment.

Becky's attention wandered to the photographs pinned to a huge cork board on the wall of Aisha's office. Most of them had been taken while she was visiting projects she had started or was about to invest in, showing bolts of cloth or examples of traditional needlework; Aisha was in two or three of them, talking to teenage girls or listening to groups of older women. The pictures Becky secretly liked best were from fashion shoots or the catwalk, but she had been allowed to pin them up only after she persuaded Aisha that they would interest journalists and visitors from other NGOs. Her absolute favourite, a glossy ten by eight, showed Aisha in a knee-length red cocktail dress, laughing as she fell backwards on to a bed covered in rose petals.

‘That's even better,' she heard Aisha say, ‘if you know someone local. Shall we speak again in a couple of weeks?'

She put down the phone and looked at Becky. ‘That went better than I expected. Where had we got to?'

‘We were just finishing the letter to Baroness Singh.'

‘Oh yes. Say I'd love to come to the next meeting and I'm really sorry I can't stay for lunch.'

Becky scribbled something, head bent over her notebook, blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail.

Aisha said, ‘What else?'

Becky reached for a folder on the low table next to her chair. ‘These came,' she said, sliding out several sheets.

‘The new logos?'

‘Yes, and they're fantastic. I think so, anyway.'

Becky handed them across and Aisha began examining different designs, all of them a variation on the initials ALT, the Aisha Lincoln Trust.

‘Mmm, not sure about this. Or this — but this is terrific.' She held up a version in which the first three letters of the world ‘alternative' had been highlighted in a different colour. ‘We'll go with this one.'

‘You haven't seen them all.'

‘I don't need to. This is just what I wanted — a million times better than the old one.'

‘Do you want to think about it?'

Aisha shook her head. ‘No. This is it. Definitely.'

‘All right, I'll call the studio this afternoon.'

Aisha handed it back. ‘Get some copies made, I'd like to show them to a few people.' She slipped her hands into the pockets of her trousers, swinging gently on her desk chair. ‘Anything else I need to deal with?'

Becky swapped the folder for her notebook. ‘Just the messages I took off the machine while you were away.'

‘All right, what have we got?' As she waited for Becky to begin, Aisha leaned across to close the window, and then buttoned up her cardigan. ‘Is it me or is it cold in here?'

‘It's cold for April,' said Becky, who was wearing one of Aisha's old cashmere sweaters with a T-shirt and jeans. She turned a page in her notebook and started to recite: ‘Not important, I can deal with that; the courier company called again, they're amazingly inefficient but I think I've got them sorted at last; John from Handley's wants to talk to you about the charity commissioners —'

Aisha groaned. ‘OK, I'll call him this afternoon.'

‘The alterations are finished on that dress. I can pick it up on my way here on Friday if you like.'

‘When's the party?'

Becky picked up a diary, which was open on a table beside her chair. ‘Next week — Tuesday.'

‘Friday's fine then, unless I go into Minehead myself before then. Max wants me to pick up a book he's ordered.'

‘A book?'

Aisha grinned. ‘Didn't I tell you? I've made him promise to read one a month or I'll take his Gameboy away. He's going out of his way to find books the library doesn't have, but I don't mind as long as he's reading something.'

Becky pulled a face. ‘God, I'm dreading Kieran getting to that age.'

‘Get him in the habit now,' Aisha advised. ‘The boys loved books when they were little. I used to read aloud to both of them, Dickens and poetry —'

‘Poetry?'

Aisha nodded. ‘Hard to believe, isn't it? Ricky loved nonsense rhymes, so did Max — he knew ‘The Jabberwocky' by heart. I don't know what happened, except I was away a lot and Tim — well, you know Tim. He'd rather they were doing something practical.' She looked down at her hands for a few seconds. ‘Listen, I think I'll stay in London that night — Tuesday, did you say? Call the
Telegraph
magazine and ask if they can see me the next morning.' Aisha was trying to persuade the magazine to run a feature, and had promised to take some jewellery samples into the office.

‘They'll want you to wear them — for the photos, I mean.'

‘I have a better idea, actually...' She yawned. ‘Is that it? I'm dying for a coffee. I didn't sleep very well last night.'

Becky looked up with a sly smile. ‘Apart from an invitation to talk to the WI.'

‘Where?'

Becky mentioned a big village on the other side of the county.

Aisha grimaced.

‘They're very interested in the trust. They might make a donation.'

‘Oh God, fund-raising. When do they want me?'

‘September or October.'

‘Oh, that's ages away. Can you look at the diary and suggest a couple of dates?'

‘Will do.' Becky was about to shut her notebook when she remembered something else. ‘That woman left a message, the one with the funny name.'

Aisha raised her eyebrows.

‘Sor-ry. You know who I mean, she wants you to have tea at the House of Commons. Is she an MP or something?'

Aisha said flatly: ‘Carolina Massinger. Her husband is.'

‘I can always say you're away. Hey, Aish, is something the matter?'

Aisha made an impatient gesture. ‘Not at all. What's her number?'

Becky read it out. ‘Not a London code, is it? Where does she live?'

Aisha finished writing it on a pink Post-it note and got up. ‘Surrey, I think. Are you coming down for coffee?'

‘In a minute. I'll do a couple of letters first and you can sign them.' Becky was a fast and accurate typist but Aisha was trying to persuade her to start an Open University degree, pointing out that if the trust continued to expand she would need a manager as much as a personal assistant. For the moment, Becky lacked confidence, but Aisha hoped she would come round to the idea. She watched her walk to her own desk and restock the printer with paper.

‘There's iced ginger cake,' Aisha said from the door.

‘Oh no! You shouldn't tempt me.' Becky placed a hand on her stomach, which was very nearly flat.

Aisha rolled her eyes and started down the stairs to the middle floor. As her footsteps faded on the landing, the phone rang. Becky crossed the room to answer it and listened for a moment.

‘I'm sorry, she's not here this minute. Would you like to leave a message?' She pulled the pink pad towards her and started writing. ‘What was the second name? Oh yes, your wife's already called. Of course, I'll tell Mrs Lincoln. No, really, it's no trouble.'

Becky put down the phone, mildly curious about this couple who both seemed so keen to see Aisha. She'd mention it when she went down to the kitchen, she thought, pulling out her chair and clicking the mouse on her correspondence file.

‘Is that yours?' Somewhere in the room, a mobile was piping the opening bars of the William Tell Overture.

‘No. Must be yours.' Out of breath, she lifted herself up on her elbows and said incredulously: ‘Don't you know your ring tone?'

‘The kids keep changing it. Christ, where is the damned thing?'

He leaned over the side of the bed and felt on the floor, among piles of discarded clothes. As his hand closed on the mobile, the noise stopped.

‘I'd better just check —' He pressed various buttons to see if the caller had left a message. When it began to play, he sat bolt upright and swung his legs to the floor. ‘Shit, shit, shit.'

‘What's up?'

‘It's Number 10.'

Aisha felt for a pillow, propped it against the headboard and leaned back. She glanced down, noticing that her breasts were flushed and covered in a fine film of perspiration. On her belly, a couple of coarse curly hairs had stuck to her damp skin, and she lifted them off.

‘These things are a curse.' Stephen hunched forwards, wearing only his boxer shorts, with the mobile to his ear. ‘Hello, this is Stephen Massinger, I think someone was trying to get hold of me.' He hesitated. ‘Yeah, I'm — in a meeting. OK, I'll hold.' He turned towards Aisha, mouthing, ‘Sorry.'

A meeting? Aisha's eyes narrowed. She studied Stephen's profile: thick dark hair that curled over his forehead, narrow shoulders with a growth of hair on the blades, upper body as hard and muscular as she had imagined. He had mentioned using the Westminster gym, when they met for tea at the House of Commons, and Aisha had told a story about the new vicar banning her yoga class from the church hall in Cranbrook. ‘You'd think we were performing Satanic rites, not the Sun Salutation,' she said, laughing, and Stephen's wife, Carolina, looked blank; perhaps yoga had not yet caught on in Surrey. Aisha had thought about the book on how yoga could improve your sex life which one of the regulars had left behind in the hall, fuelling the vicar's suspicions, but didn't know either of the Massingers well enough to mention it.

That, she realised as Stephen finished his call, was only two weeks ago. She watched him put the phone down on a bedside table, next to a lamp with a bilious yellow shade. The whole room was decorated in the kind of colours Aisha loathed: acidic lemons and washed-out greens, hardly softened at all by the late-afternoon light. Even the bed was covered in pastel cushions, which had dropped one by one to the floor as their movements became more strenuous. She had only briefly seen the living room, a floor below, but it too looked as if it had suffered from the attentions of a rather unimaginative interior decorator. ‘Stephen?' Aisha touched him on the shoulder.

‘Mmm?'

He seemed lost in thought. Aisha waited a moment, then leaned over the side of the bed and seized a handful of clothes.

‘I have to go.'

‘Go?' He turned, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘Why? Because of a phone call? Forget it.' He leaned towards her and pulled her back, gently manoeuvring her body until he was looking down at her. She tried to relax, but the sound of the ringing phone had lodged itself in her head.

‘Wait.' She held him away from her. ‘Have you turned it off?'

It took him a moment to focus. ‘What?'

‘Your phone.'

‘No, someone's going to call me back.' He touched her lips with his index finger, running it lightly down her neck. ‘Aisha, your body is amazing. I can't believe you're really here.' He dipped his head and cupped one of her breasts with his hand, pushing the nipple up to meet his mouth. Aisha's heart rate quickened, until she realised what he'd said and pushed him away.

‘I can't — not while you're waiting for that thing to ring. Do you usually take phone calls while you make love?'

He propped himself on an elbow. He said lightly: ‘I don't make a habit of this, if that's what you mean.'

‘Neither do I.'

He took her hand, lifted it to his mouth and sucked her fingers. ‘So stop thinking about it. They may not call back for hours.' His eyes moved to her breasts and he lowered his head again, but Aisha twisted away. He
was still wearing his watch and she caught his wrist, turning it so she could check the time.

‘I really have to go,' she said. ‘There's a train just before six, otherwise I'll get home very late.'

‘You're going back tonight?'

‘I promised Max. He's finishing a project. You know what teenage boys are like.'

Stephen's shoulders sagged. There were a couple of folds of skin above the waist of his boxers, the only indication that he was, like Aisha, no longer in the first flush of youth.

‘Shit,' he said. Then, making an effort: ‘How old is he?'

‘Seventeen.' Aisha kissed Stephen lightly on the cheek and got off the bed.

‘Three years older than Nicky — my elder son. We've got two boys, same as you.'

‘So you know what I'm talking about.'

She was struggling to fasten her bra. Stephen reached up. ‘Here, let me do that.' He matched the hooks and eyes, which he had undone with enthusiasm a few minutes ago.

‘Thanks.' Aisha began pulling on pants that matched her bra.

He watched her: ‘Did you ever want a girl?'

‘Yes. Did you?'

‘Very much. That's why we had Frannie — Francis, if I'm honest.'

She stepped into her low-heeled shoes, and sat down beside him on the bed. Stephen stared at her breasts, now half-hidden in pink and gold gauze. He had never seen underwear like it, except in adverts.