The library clock inched toward the hour that he could no longer put off. Simon heaved himself out of the deep leather chair like an old man and walked slowly toward the Chief Whip’s office.
Miss Norse, the Chiefs ancient secretary, smiled benignly as he came in.
“Good morning, Mr. Kerslake,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid the Chief is still with Mrs. Thatcher but I did remind him of your appointment so I don’t expect him to be long. Would you care to have a seat?”
“Thank you,” he said.
Alec Pimkin always claimed that Miss Norse had a set patter for every occasion. His imitation of her saying, “I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Pimkin,” had brought chuckles to the Members’ Dining Room on many occasions. He must have exaggerated, thought Simon.
“I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Kerslake,” said Miss Norse, not looking up from her typing. Simon choked back a laugh.
“Very rude, thank you,” he said, wondering how many tragic stories or tales of lost opportunities Miss Norse had had to listen to over the years. She stopped suddenly and looked at her note pad.
“I should have mentioned it to you before, Mr, Kerslake, a Mr. Nethercote rang.”
“Thank you, I’ve spoken to him already.”
Simon was leafing through an out-of-date copy of Punch when the Chief Whip strode in.
“I can spare you one minute, Simon, one and a half if you are going to resign,” he said, laughing, and marched off toward his office. As Simon followed him down the corridor the phone by Miss Norse’s side rang. “It’s for you, Mr. Kerslake,” she shouted to their retreating backs.
Simon turned and said, “Can you take the number?”
“He says it’s urgent.”
Simon stopped, hesitating. “With you in a moment,” he said to the Chief Whip, who disappeared into his office. Simon walked back and took the phone from Miss Norse’s outstretched hand.
“Simon Kerslake here. Who is it?”
“It’s Ronnie.”
“Ronnie,” said Simon flatly.
“I’ve just had a call from Morgan Grenfell. One of their clients has made an offer of one pound twenty-five a share for the company and they’re willing to take over the current liabilities.”
Simon was trying to do the sums in his head.
“Don’t bother working it out,” Ronnie said. “At one pound twenty-five your shares would be worth £75,000.”
“It won’t be enough,” said Simon, as he recalled his overdraft of £108,712, a figure etched in his memory.
“Don’t panic. I’ve told them I won’t settle for anything less than one pound fifty a share and it has to be within seven days, which will give them ample time to check the books. That would bring you in £90,000 but you would still be £18,000 down the Swanee, which you’ll have to team to live with. If you sell the wife as well as the second car you should just about survive.”
Simon could tell by the way his friend was speaking that Ronnie already had a cigar between his lips.
“You’re a genius.”
“Not me—Morgan Grenfell. And I bet they’ll make a handsome profit in the long run for their unnamed client who seemed to have all the inside information. If you’re still on for lunch next Tuesday, don’t bring your luncheon vouchers. It’s on me.”
Simon put the phone down and kissed Miss Norse on the forehead. She was completely taken aback by a situation for which she had no set reply. She remained silent as the Chief Whip put his head round the door. “An orgy in the Chief Whip’s office? You’ll be on page three of the Sun next, Miss Norse.” Simon laughed. “I’ve got a crisis on over tonight’s vote. The Government are reneging on our agreement for pairing, and I have to get a delegation back from Brussels in time for the ten o’clock division. Whatever it is, can it wait, Simon?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Can you come to my office, Miss Norse—if I can drag you away from James Double-O-Seven Kerslake?”
Simon left and almost bounced to the nearest phone. First he called Elizabeth and then Archie Millburn at his office. Archie didn’t sound all that surprised.
“Don’t you think it might be wise for us to stop seeing each other?”
“Why?” said Raymond. “Palmerston had a mistress when he was seventy, and he still beat Disraeli come the election.”
“Yes, but that was before the days of a dozen national newspapers and investigative journalism. Frankly it wouldn’t take a Woodward or Bernstein more than a few hours to discover our little secret.”
“We’ll be all right. I’ve destroyed all the tapes.”
“Do be serious.”
“You’re always telling me I’m far too serious.”
“Well, I want you to be now. Very.”
Raymond turned to face Kate. “I love you, Kate, and I know I always will. Why don’t we stop this charade and get married?”
She sighed. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I’ll want to return to America eventually, and in any case I wouldn’t make a very good Prime Minister’s wife.”
“Three American women have in the past,” said Raymond sulkily.
“To hell with your historical precedents—and what’s more, I hate Leeds.”
“You’ve never been there.”
“I don’t need to if it’s colder than London.”
“Then you’ll have to be satisfied with being my mistress.” Raymond took Kate in his arms. “You know, I used to think being Prime Minister was worth every sacrifice, but now I’m not so sure.”
“It’s still worth the sacrifice,” said Kate, “as you’ll discover when you live at No. 10. Come on, or my dinner will be burned to a cinder.”
“You haven’t noticed these,” said Raymond smugly, pointing down at his feet.
Kate stared at the fashionable new slip-ons.
“I never thought the day would come,” she said. “Pity you’re starting to go bald.”
When Simon returned home his first words were “We’ll survive.”
“Thank God for that,” Elizabeth said. “But what have you done about your resignation letter?”
“Archie said he would return it the day I became Prime Minister.”
“If that’s ever to be true I want you to promise me just one thing.”
“Anything,” said Simon.
“You’ll never speak to Ronnie Nethercote again.”
For a moment Simon hesitated before saying, “That’s not completely fair, Elizabeth, because I haven’t been totally straight with you from the beginning.” He then sat his wife down on the sofa and told her the whole truth.
It was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.
“Oh, hell,” she said, looking up at Simon. “I do hope Ronnie can forgive me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I phoned him back soon after you had left for the Commons and I spent at least ten minutes telling him why he was the biggest two-faced bastard I’d ever come across, and I didn’t want to hear from him again in my life.”
It was Simon’s turn to collapse on to the sofa. “How did he respond?” he asked anxiously. Elizabeth faced her husband. “That’s the strange thing, he didn’t even protest. He just apologized.”
“Do you think she will ever speak again?”
“God knows, I hope so,” said his father, staring at the picture of his grandchild on the mantelpiece. “She’s still young enough to have another child.”
Andrew shook his head. “No, that’s out of the question. The doctor warned me a long time ago that could be dangerous.”
He had returned home from hospital ten days after the accident. The first thing he and Louise did was to attend Robert’s funeral. With Andrew on crutches, Sir Duncan had to support Louise during the short service. As soon as the burial was over Andrew took his wife back to Cheyne Walk and put her to bed, before returning downstairs to join his parents.
Andrew mother bowed her head. “Whatever happens, you must move from this place a
s soon as possible. Every time Louise looks out of that kitchen window she’ll relive the tragedy.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Andrew. “I’ll start looking for a new house immediately.”
“And what do you plan to do about the Prime Minister’s offer?” inquired Sir Duncan.
“I haven’t finally made up my mind,” he said sharply. “He’s given me until Monday to come to a decision.”
“You must take it, Andrew. If you don’t your political career will be finished. You can’t sit at home and mourn Robert’s death for the rest of your life.”
Andrew looked up at his father. “No goal, Dad, no goal,” he murmured and left them to go and sit with Louise in the bedroom. Her eyes were open but there was no expression on her face. Little white hairs had appeared at either side of her head that he had not noticed the week before. “Feeling any better, my darling?” he asked.
There was still no reply.
He undressed and climbed into bed beside her, holding her close, but she did not respond. She felt detached and distant. He watched his tears fall on her shoulder and run down on to the pillow. He fell asleep and woke again at three in the morning. No one had closed the curtains and the moon shone in through the windows, lighting the room. He looked at his wife. She had not moved.
Charles paced up and down the room angrily.
“Give me the figures again.”
“Nethercote has accepted a bid of £7,500,000, which works out at one pound fifty a share,” said Clive Reynolds.
Charles stopped at his desk and scribbled the figures down on a piece of paper. £90,000, leaving a shortfall of only £18,000. It wouldn’t be enough. “Damn,” he said.
“I agree,” said Reynolds, “I always thought we were premature to lose our position in the company in the first place.”
“An opinion you will not voice outside this room,” said Charles.
Clive Reynolds did not reply.
“What’s happened to Nethercote himself?” asked Charles, searching for any scrap of information he could find about Simon Kerslake.
“I’m told he’s starting up again in a smaller way. Morgan Grenfell were delighted by the deal and the manner in which he handled the company during the takeover. I must say we let it fall into their laps.”
“Can we get any stock in the new company?” asked Charles, ignoring his comment.
“I doubt it. It’s only capitalized at one million although Morgan Grenfell are giving Nethercote a large overdraft facility as part of the deal.”
“Then all that remains necessary is to see the matter is never referred to again.”
Andrew spent the weekend reading over the letters of condolence sent to him and Louise. There were over a thousand, many from people he didn’t even know. He selected a few to take into the bedroom and read to Louise; not that he was sure she could even hear him. The doctor had told him not to disturb her unless it was really necessary. After such a severe shock she was now suffering from acute depression and must be nursed slowly back to health. Louise had walked a few paces the previous day but needed to rest today, the doctor explained to him.
He sat by the side of their bed, and quietly read the letters from the Prime Minister, from a contrite Jock McPherson, from Simon Kerslake, from Raymond Gould, and from Mrs. Bloxham. There was no sign that Louise had taken in anything he had said.
“What shall I do about the PM’s offer?” he asked. “Shall I accept it?”
She made no response of any kind.
“He’s asked me to be the Minister of State for Defense, but I need to know how you would feel.” After sitting with her for a few more minutes and eliciting no response he left her to rest.
Each night he slept with her and tried to infuse her with his love, but he only felt more alone.
On the Monday morning he called his father and told him he had decided to turn down the Prime Minister’s offer. He couldn’t leave Louise alone for long periods while she was still in this state.
Andrew returned to the bedroom and sat by her side.
He said in a whisper, as if to himself, “Should I have taken the job?”
Louise gave such a slight nod that Andrew nearly missed it but her fingers were moving. He placed his hand between her fingers and palm and she squeezed gently and repeated the nod, then fell asleep.
Andrew phoned the Prime Minister.
Raymond dug deeper into the red box.
“You enjoying yourself, Carrot Top?”
“It’s fascinating,” said Raymond. “Do you know—”
“No, I don’t. You haven’t spoken to me in the last three hours, and when you do it’s to tell me how you spend the day with your new mistress.”
“My new mistress?”
“The Secretary of State for Trade.”
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him.”
“What sort of day did you have at the bank?” asked Raymond, not looking up from his papers.
“I had a most fascinating day,” replied Kate.
“Why, what happened?”
“One of our customers required a loan,” said Kate.
“A loan,” repeated Raymond, still concentrating on the file in front of him. “How much?”
“‘How much do you want?’ I said. ‘How much have you got?’ they asked. ‘Four hundred and seventeen billion at the last count,’ I told them. That will do fine to start with,’ they said. ‘Sign here,’ I said. But I couldn’t close the deal because the lady concerned was only in possession of a £50 banking card.”
Raymond burst out laughing and slammed down the lid of the red box. “Do you know why I love you?”
“My taste in men’s clothes?” suggested Kate.
“No, no. Just your taste in men.”
“I always thought that mistresses were supposed to get fur coats, trips to the Bahamas, the odd solitaire diamond, yet all I ever get is to share you with your red box.”
Raymond opened the box once more, took out a small package, and handed it to Kate.
“What’s this?”
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
Kate slipped off the purple Asprey paper and found inside an exquisitely made miniature, a solid gold replica of a red box on a gold chain. The neat lettering on the side of the lid read, “For Your Eyes Only.”
“Although they don’t announce the birthdays of ministers’ mistresses in the Sunday Times, I can still remember the day we met.”
Andrew made a bid for the house in Pelham Crescent the day he was shown over it, and Louise’s mother came down to London immediately to organize the move.
“Let’s hope this does the trick,” she said.
Andrew prayed for nothing more. The move from Cheyne Walk took about a fortnight, and Louise could still walk only a few paces before she had to sit down. Louise’s mother rarely left the house and Andrew began to feel guilty about how much he was enjoying his new job at the Ministry of Defense. Each night and then again in the morning he would try a few words to Louise. She nodded occasionally, touched him once in a while and even began writing notes to him, but never spoke and never cried. The doctor became even more pessimistic. “The crucial time has passed,” he explained.
Andrew would sit with her for hours while he worked through the red boxes. Harrier jump jets for the RAF, Polaris missiles for the Royal Navy, Chieftain tanks for the Army, what should Labour’s attitude be to Trident when Polaris was phased out? Should we allow Cruise to be based on British soil? There was so much to learn before he could face the civil servants on their own ground or the members from the dispatch box. As the months passed Andrew was always asking questions; a year had gone by and he was beginning to know some of the answers.
He looked up at his wife once again. She was gazing at the portrait of Robert on the mantelpiece.
On the anniversary of his son’s sixth birthday Andrew stayed at Pelham Crescent all day with Louise. For the first time a tear lodged in her eye. As he held her, h
e kept remembering the lorry. He could see it so clearly now as if in slow motion. If only the phone hadn’t gone, if only the gate had been closed, if only he had turned earlier, if only he had run a little faster. “No goal, Dad, no goal.”
If only he had scored that goal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RAYMOND ENTERED A Washington ablaze with red, white, and blue as the Americans prepared for their bicentennial. He was among the three ministers chosen to represent the United Kingdom when they presented a copy of Magna Carta to the United States Congress. He was making his first trip to America on Concorde only a few weeks after its inaugural flight. Tom Carson had complained to the House about the expense of the trip but his words had fallen upon a silent Chamber.
As the plane taxied to a halt at Dulles airport three limousines drew up. The three ministers were given a car each and motorcycle outriders rushed them to the grounds of the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in less than thirty minutes.
Raymond had an immediate love affair with America, perhaps because it reminded him so much of Kate with its bubbling enthusiasm, its spirit, and sense of perpetual innovation. During the ten-day visit he managed to forge several useful contacts in the Senate and House, and over the weekend became an unrepentant sightseer of the beautiful Virginia countryside. He concentrated on getting to know those contemporaries whom he felt would be on the American political stage for the next twenty years, while his more senior colleagues dealt with President Ford and his immediate entourage.
Raymond enjoyed starting each day with the Washington Post and the New York Times. He quickly learned how to reject those sections that seemed full of endless advertisements for non-essentials he couldn’t believe anyone really bought. Once he had finished reading both papers he found he had to wash his hands as they were always black with newsprint. The one occasion he kept the Outlook section of the Washington Post was when it did profiles on the three ministers from London. He tucked the paper away as he wanted to show Kate the paragraph that read: “The two Secretaries of State are interesting men at the end of their careers, but it is Raymond Gould we should keep our eyes on because he has the look of a future Prime Minister.”