'If what you say about the election is true, it seems to me you can't afford not to take him on. He's only a man,' she persisted.
'You don't understand. In an hereditary system the man is everything. You are all George Washingtons, you Americans.' He was dismissive, deep into his glass.
She ignored the sarcasm. 'You mean the same George Washington who grew to be old, powerful, rich – and died in his bed?' 'A Monarch is like a great oak beneath which we all shelter…' 'Washington was cutting down trees when he was a boy.'
'An attack on the Monarchy would turn the electorate into a lynch mob. Bodies – my body – swinging from the highest branches.' 'Unless you lopped off the branches.'
They were engaged in a verbal duel, thrust and parry, parry and thrust, automatic responses, using the honed edges of their intellects. Only now did Urquhart pause to reflect, and as his eyes ran over her she could feel the tension begin to drain from him, the malt beginning to dissolve the shards of glass grating inside. She felt his gaze wandering up from her ankles, over her knees, admiring the waist. Then he was lingering at her breasts, oh, and how he lingered, peeling off layer after layer, and she knew the mellowness had already been replaced by a renewed tightening inside. He was changing from victim to hunter. It brought back a sense of boldness, of command, as the energy of fresh ideas began to flow through his veins and wipe away the lines of despondency which had crowded in around his eyes. In their small world of the armchairs, he began to rise above his troubles and to feel once more in control. As if he were back on his Chesterfield. When, finally, his thoughts had travelled up her body and their eyes met, she was smiling, slightly mocking, reproachful but not discouraging. Her body had been massaged by his imagination, and responded. He brightened. To do battle with the Monarch would be…' 'Constitutionally improper?' She was goading.
'Bad politics. As I have already learned, to my cost. The King's speech gave him the high ground and I cannot afford to be seen once again in public dispute with him…' He arched an eyebrow, exquisitely. She had never known an eyebrow to express such passion. 'But perhaps you are right. If I am denied the high ground, then there is always the low ground.' Once more he was alive, tingling, she could feel the energy and renewed hope. 'An hereditary Monarchy is an institution which defies all logic. An opiate we sprinkle on the masses from time to time to reassure them, to fill them full of pride and respect, to extract their allegiance without them asking too many questions.' 'Isn't that what tradition is all about?'
'Yet once they start asking questions about an hereditary system there is little logic left to sustain it. All inbreeding and isolation, palaces and princely privilege. It is not the stuff of a modern world. Or of a debate about the underprivileged. Of course, I couldn't possibly be seen to lead such an attack. But if such an attack were to be mounted…' 'The King is Dead, Long Live the Prime Minister!'
'No, you go too far! You're talking revolution. If you start hacking away at the greatest tree in the forest, there's no telling how many others will be brought down with it.'
'But maybe that's not necessary,' she commuted, picking up his thought. 'Perhaps simply cut it down to size. No shadow for the Opposition to hide in.' 'No branches from which to lynch me.' 'No more Royal bark?' She smiled. 'You might say that.' He nodded in appreciation. 'Not so much off with his head as… off with his limbs?' 'You might say that, Sally. But as Prime Minister I couldn't possibly comment.'
He spread his hands wide and they both began to laugh. She thought she heard the sound of an axe being gently honed. 'Did you have any specific limbs in mind?'
'There are many branches to our beloved Royal Family. Some easier to reach than others.'
'The King and his kind embarrassed, harassed, and on the defensive. A public spotlight probing the darker corners of the Palace. The shine knocked off him and his words, his motives discredited. And all backed by an opinion poll or two? The right questions, eh?'
Suddenly his face went rigid. He leaned across and placed his hand firmly above her knee. Considerably higher above her knee than was necessary. The fingers were stiff with tension and she could smell the whisky on his breath. 'By God, but it would be dangerous. We would be taking on hundreds of years of history'. A tussle behind the scenes over a simple speech left me humiliated. If this were to turn into a public battle, me and the King, there would be no going back. If I were to lose, it would be the end for me. And for all who were with me.'
'But unless you have your election in March, you're dead anyway.' She placed her own hand upon his, warming it gently, massaging away the tension with her palm and the caress of her own fingers, welcoming his closeness. 'You would take such risks? For me?'
'Just say please, Francis. I told you, anything you want. Anything. Just say please.' She turned his hand over so that it was palm up, and began to stroke it with the tips of her fingers. Her nose was quivering. 'And you know how to say please, don't you?'
He brought his other hand across to still the sensuousness of her fingers. Theirs couldn't be solely a professional relationship, not if he were to tilt full at the King. There was too much at stake. He knew he would have to make her commitment deeper, more personal, tie her to him. 'There are civil servants just beyond that door. And no lock…'
She took off her glasses and shook her hair. It glowed like midnight in the light of the lamps. 'Life is full of risks, Francis. I find risk makes it all the better.' 'Makes life better?' 'Certain parts of it. What risks are you willing to take, Francis?' 'With the King? As few as possible. With you…?' And already she was in his arms.
Urquhart didn't care for opera, but being Prime Minister involved him in so many things he had no liking for. Attending the Slaughter House twice a week for Question Time. Being affable to visiting presidents, smiling black faces who, calling themselves colonial freedom fighters, had brought their countries to impoverishment and dictatorship, and who Urquhart could remember in their youth having been nothing but murderous thugs. Listening to the front door of the so-called private apartment in Downing Street, the door with no lock, bounce on its hinges as civil servants cascaded still more red boxes and ministerial papers down upon him. As Prime Minister, he had discovered, there was no hiding place.
Elizabeth had insisted he come to the opening night of a new opera and had been so persistent he had been forced to succumb, even though he had no ear for Janacek or forty-member choruses who seemed intent on singing from forty different scores, all at the same time. Elizabeth sat transfixed, her attention upon the tenor who was battling to drag his beloved back from the dead. Rather like the leader of the Liberal Party, Urquhart mused.
Stamper had also encouraged him to come and had secured the private box. Anyone who can afford three hundred pounds a seat for the stalls, he had said, must be worth bumping into. He'd arranged with the management to swap the publicity of Urquhart's presence for the address list of the Opera House patrons, all of whom within a week would be hit with an invitation to a Downing Street reception, a vaguely worded letter about future support for the arts, and a telephone call asking for cash.
And there was Alfredo Mondelli, a man with a face like a light bulb, round, solid, all bone and no hair, with eyes which bulged as if the bow tie of his evening dress had been secured too tightly. The Italian businessman sat with his wife alongside Stamper and the Urquharts; judging by the fidgeting which could be heard coming from his direction, he was equally filled with tedium. For several endless minutes Urquhart tried to find distraction from the music in the procession of gilded female figures who chased plaster cherubs around the domed ceiling, while beside him the creaking of Mon-delli's chair grew more persistent. When finally the interval came it was a release for them all; a clearly exulted Elizabeth and Signora Mondelli rushed off to the powder room, permitting the three men to take refuge in a bottle of vintage Bollinger.