Freya’s allocated task in advance of the Prime Minister’s arrival was to keep champagne topped up. She was being rheumy-eyed and unhelpful. Already she’d dropped two flutes. The first mistake sent champagne splashing up Sasha’s legs. He needed her to be on top of her game. After sweeping up fragments from the second glass he asked her what exactly was wrong.
‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘I’m supposed to know?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No.’
‘Is it because I rushed you, getting ready?’
‘No.’
‘Are you trying to annoy me by overrelying on the word “no”?’
She lifted an eyebrow at this.
‘What exactly, or just vaguely, is wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
Since then he’d been intermittently trying to get his daughter to talk, but her only concession to reciprocity had been to take a bowl of nuts from his hand — nuts that had, after a dozen tiny sampling sessions, left telltale hints of glitter on his fingers. She gave him, in lieu, a side plate of carrot sticks. Each stick radiated outward from a central ramekin of taramasalata. He resented her for being a blot on his happiness, and hated himself for thinking of his own daughter as a blot. He relocated her to the reception desk. She stood behind it, shoulder to shoulder with Surfer John, silent. What came to mind was a Christmas where he and Viv had sent her upstairs to think about why torturing Grandpa was bad.
‘Caroline,’ he called.
‘Yes, Mr Finch?’
‘Be great if you could help Elena top up the champagne.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
If they were all like Caroline his job would be easy-peasy.
Did the salmon blinis need a little squeeze of something? Would it not have been better to serve them with precise little slices of lemon? He was sure he’d requested lemons. He wondered whether the volume on the gramophone was pitched just a little too high.
He moved between groups, hoping key individuals noticed his name badge. He was being hands-on, a boss who wasn’t afraid to get involved. He was serving up miniature fish cakes with a self-deprecating air, a years-since-I’ve-done-this-type smile, but was nervously aware that the point of such self-deprecation was that other people should notice and appreciate it, thereby balancing the ledgers of modesty and praise in his favour. The ministers each had in their information packs a handwritten note signed by Moose. Printed at the bottom was his full name and title, but you could never be sure, could you, what people read and what they skipped. This was his show and he had to have faith.
Some of the men and women were raucous already and others were whispering in corners, exchanging hushed thoughts about the PM, placing stress on unremarkable syllables. ‘I just think unless the Lady can pull something exceptional out of the bag, something out of the ordinary, then what we might be looking at tomorrow is, you know, don’t you think, if we’re totally honest …’ Fifty of them now? Sixty?
Marina was with a PR woman. Both of them were holding hefty Filofaxes. A call Maggie would need to make to Scargill. This evening, from this hotel, a call that could change the course of history. He loved overhearing little titbits like this. In hospital he’d felt the press of cancelled life all around him. Tonight put him back in the world.
A lady with a sequinned neckscarf was contemplating a selection of soft cheeses.
‘Pursuit of income equality!’ someone said.
Over there, by the painting of Harold Wilson, a Welshman was telling Jorge that politics was a matter of give and take — ‘we give the English our coal, and the English take our water’ — and Jorge was giving him the kind of smile that succinctly expresses complete and utter incomprehension.
John Redwood was seated next to one of two dozen flower arrangements purchased at stupendous expense. Redwood touched his chin and nodded as a young guy in a polka-dot bow tie talked to him about a ‘small idea I have’. On Redwood’s face was a frown of amused concern.
‘The Lady’s view,’ Redwood said eventually, and Moose missed a few words as someone thanked him for a canapé, ‘… do not need that, those things, to help them find work. A great myth!’ When Redwood was happy he looked like Spock from Star Trek. In other moods he was Liza Minnelli.
Conversations mixing with other conversations.
‘Secondary issue.’
‘Well, that I’d agree on.’
‘Probable cause.’
‘More or less exactly it.’
‘Two hundred thousand, though, is not enough for contempt of court.’
‘Pass the …?’
‘I just can’t get excited about Durham.’
‘Would you …?’
There was the clinking of fragile glass. Earrings as elegant as the chandeliers overhead. Pockets of choking cigar smoke through which Moose held his breath. He tried not to cough because coughs, when they came, still detonated pain: overlapping, pouncing jolts of it. There were a lot of polished skill-sets around. A lot of firm handshakes and air-kisses. Smiles too big to be fake, too bright to be true — which made them what? Full lips. Empty eyes. He tried to ignore the momentary sense that it was all a vicious pantomime.
At the end of the bar five important men had been in conversation for perhaps an hour. Geoffrey Howe, the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, was among them. He seemed to be talking about the differences between humans and animals. He broke off to throw a fishcake down his throat.
Dinner jackets identical but for the width of the lapels. White shirts with studs instead of buttons. One or two maroon cummerbunds and shoes of uniform shine.
Some further food disappeared from Moose’s platter, some napkins from his hand, and one of the group told Mr Howe that the distinction between humans and beasts was our ability to be coolly rational.
‘No no,’ another said. ‘Our deep capacity to — well, to feel, yes?’
‘No,’ Howe said, ‘you’re right.’
A young aide Moose had earlier seen sweating in the restaurant now dropped a canapé on the floor. ‘I am so s-s-sorry,’ he said.
Moose walked over to John and Freya. Freya was still opting for silence. Fine, be that way. He clutched John’s shoulder, a ball of muscle.
‘When the Key VIP arrives, John, alert me immediately.’
‘The Key VIP?’
‘MT.’
‘MT?’
‘Jesus, John, is there anything going on in there?’ He tapped John’s forehead with his finger. He did so much harder than he’d meant to. ‘The Prime Minister.’
John yawned and said sure no problem.
Babble at the edge of a dream. Breastbone pain. He’d have to keep slow and calm, look after his heart. Tiredness was already coming for him, trying to steal away the night’s opportunities.
Sir Anthony Berry was talking to an aide. Moose quietly interjected and asked if everything was all right with the room. Berry had been due to stay at the Metropole, but after a last-minute cancellation Marina had squeezed him in.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Berry. He was the ideal guest, polite to a fault, hair carefully combed. ‘Happy a space became available. Thanks for all your help.’
A simple thank-you: it could mean so much. The smallest acts of appreciation were magnified tenfold tonight.