'Prime Minister.' She nodded coyly while the civil servant made herself scarce.
He waved his arms a little awkwardly. 'Excuse the, er… working formality. A busy day.'
'Your poll, Francis.' She opened her briefcase and extracted a single sheet of paper which she thrust across the table. He had to stretch to retrieve it. He studied it briefly.
'Of course, I know these are the figures I asked for. But where are the real figures, Sally?'
'You're holding them, Francis. Ludicrous, isn't it? You didn't have to get me to cheat and fiddle. Ten points ahead, just as you asked. You're home and dry.'
His eyelids blinked rapidly as he took the information in. A smile began, like the fingers of a new dawn creeping across his face. He started nodding in pleasure, as if he had known all along. 'I could have kept my virginity after all.'
He looked up from the piece of paper, a crease across his brow. She was making a point of sorts but damned if he could figure out what. Over a set of figures, one poll amongst the thousands? Selective statistics, the sort of thing Government departments did by instinct? He took out a colourful handkerchief and wiped his nose with meticulous, almost exaggerated care. He wanted to celebrate yet she seemed intent on puncturing his euphoria. That, and the distance between them across the table, would make the next bit easier. 'How are those new clients I sent you?'
She raised her eyebrows in surprise; it seemed such a tangent. 'Fine. Really fine. Thanks.'
'I'm the one who should be grateful, Sally. There will be more in the future… clients, that is. I want to go on helping.' He was looking at the figures again, not at her. He was evidently uncomfortable, unsnapping his watch strap and massaging his wrist, easing his collar as if he felt claustrophobic. Claustrophobic? When she was the only other person in the room?
'What is it, Francis?' She pronounced his name in a more nasal manner than usual; less attractive, he thought. 'We have to stop seeing each other.' 'Why?' 'Too many people know.' 'It never bothered you before.' 'Elizabeth knows.' 'I see.' 'And there's the election. It's all very difficult.' 'It wasn't exactly easy fiddling your goddamned figures.' There was a silence. He was still trying to find something in the sheet of paper on which to concentrate. 'For how long? How long do we have to stop seeing each other?'
He looked up, a flicker of unease in his eyes, his lips stretched awkwardly. 'I'm… afraid it must be for good. Elizabeth insists.' 'And if Elizabeth insists…' Her tone was scornful.
'Elizabeth and I have a very solid relationship, mature. We understand each other. We don't cheat on that understanding.'
'My God, Francis, what the hell do you think we've been doing here, there, everywhere in this building, even in that chair you're sitting in, if it wasn't cheating on your wife? Or wasn't it personal for you? Just business?'
He couldn't hold her stare. He began fiddling with his pencil, wondering if she were going to burst into hysterics. Not that, anything but that. He couldn't handle hysterical women. 'Not even after the election, Francis?'
'I've never cheated on her, not like that. Not when she has made her wishes clear.'
'But she need never know. Our work together, it's been fantastic, historic' 'And I'm grateful…'
'It's been much more than that, Francis. At least for me. You are like none of the other men I've ever been with. I'd hate to lose that. You're better than the rest. You know that, don't you?'
Her nose was bobbing sensuously, full of sexual semaphore, and he felt himself torn. His relationship with Elizabeth was his bedrock; through the years, it had made up for his sense of guilt and sexual inadequacy, provided a foundation from which he had withstood all the storms of political ambition and had conquered. It had made him a man. By God, he owed her. She had sacrificed as much as he for his career, in some ways more, but it was all beginning to blur as he stared at Sally. She leant forward, her full breasts enticing, offered up still more fully by the support of the Cabinet table. 'I'd be happy to wait, Francis. It would be worth waiting for.'
And wasn't she right. He owed Elizabeth but with her it had never been like this, not raw, uninhibited, dominating lust.
'And there's our work together. We're lucky for each other, Francis. It's got to go on.' He had never betrayed his wife before, never! But he could feel that irresistible tightness growing within him once more and somehow Elizabeth seemed to belong to another world, the sort of world they had inhabited before he became Prime Minister. Things had changed; the job imposed different rules and responsibilities. He had given Elizabeth what she wanted, the chance to run her own court in Downing Street, did she have a right to ask still more of him? And somehow he knew he would never be able to find another Sally, would have neither the time nor the opportunity. He might be able to replace her mind, but not her body and what it did for him. She had made him feel so supreme, a young man once again. And he could always explain to Elizabeth that it was in nobody's interest to have Sally roaming free, discontented, perhaps vengeful, not now. 'It would be difficult, Sally.' He swallowed. 'But I'd like to try.' 'First time? Give up your virginity, Francis?' 'If you would have it that way.'
He was staring at her breasts, which held him like a rabbit in the beam of a lamp. She smiled, closed the lid of her briefcase and snapped the locks shut as if inside it she had trapped his innocence. Then she rose and walked slowly around the long table. She wore a tight black body stocking in an oversized silk-cotton jacket from Harvey Nicks, an arrangement he hadn't seen before, and as she approached him the jacket was drawn back to expose her full physical charms. He knew he had made the right decision. It was good for the cause, would ensure continued support and security, Elizabeth would understand that – if she ever found out.
Sally was there, beside him. She extended a hand. 'I can't wait. Partner.'
He stood up, they shook hands. He felt triumphant, all-powerful, as though there were no challenge, no dilemma, to which he could not rise. She was a remarkable woman, this American, practically a true British sport, his smile suggested. What an utter English prick, she thought.
Brian Redhead's beard had grown longer and wispier with the years, but his Geordie bite remained formidably sharp. Why else would he have survived so long as the doyen of early morning radio and continued to attract an endless stream of politicians to be mangled and torn even before their first cup of coffee had time to grow cold? He sat in his studio within Broadcasting House like a hermit in his cave, searching for some intangible truth, the table strewn with dirty cups, disused notes and soiled reputations, glowering at his producer through the murky window of the control room. A huge old-fashioned wall clock with a burnished oak surround hung on the wall, like a British Rail waiting room, the second hand ticking remorselessly onward.
'It's time once more for our review of the morning papers and we have our regular Thursday reviewer, Matthew Parris, to do just that for us. The Royal robes seem to be in something of a twist again, Matthew.'
'Yes, Brian. Our home-bred answer to all those Australian soaps begins another tangle-filled episode this morning, but perhaps there are signs that some sort of ending may be in sight. There are suggestions that we could be losing at least one of the key players, because the latest straw poll carried in The Times puts the Opposition ten points behind and it could be the straw that breaks the Opposition camel's back. Not that Gordon McKillin will take kindly to being compared to a camel, or a tramp for that matter, but he must be wondering how soon it will be before he's sent off to live in a Royal underpass. He might find it a lot more comfortable than the House of Commons this afternoon. But it's The Times editorial comment which has galvanized the rest of Fleet Street in their late editions. Time for an election to clear the air? it asks. No one doubts that it would not only be Mr McKillin's leadership under public scrutiny, but also the King's. The Mirror goes back to basics. "Under the present system he could be the biggest twerp in the kingdom yet still get to reign. To use his own words, something has got to be done." And not all the other papers show as much respect. Have you forgotten the Sun headline of just a few days ago which shouted "King of Conscience"? The Sun's editor obviously has, because he's reused the same headline today – except it's been abbreviated to read simply: "King Con". It seems a week is a long time in Royal politics. There's more in the rest…'