Giles had hoped that time would prove a healer, but in truth they began to live separate lives almost as if they weren’t a couple, and he couldn’t remember the last time they had made love. Despite this, he was determined to remain loyal to Gwyneth, as he didn’t want a second divorce and still hoped they might be reconciled.
Whenever they were together in public, they attempted to hide the truth, hoping Giles’s constituents, his colleagues, and even their family wouldn’t realize their marriage was a sham. But whenever Giles saw Harry and Emma together, he envied them.
Giles had rather assumed that on his birthday he’d be on his way to, or on his way back from, representing Her Majesty’s government in some foreign field. Gwyneth, however, was insisting that the milestone should be properly celebrated.
“What do you have in mind?” asked Giles.
“A dinner, just the family and a few close friends?”
“And where would it be held?”
“The House of Commons. We could book one of the private dining rooms.”
“That’s the last place I want to be reminded that I’m fifty.”
“Do try and remember, Giles, for most of us who don’t go to the Palace of Westminster every day, it’s still something rather special.”
Giles knew when he was beaten, so invitations were sent out the following day, and when he looked around the dining room table three weeks later, it was clear that Gwyneth had been right because everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Emma, who was seated on his right, and their sister Grace, on his left, were chatting to their respective neighbors. Giles used the time to think about his speech, jotting down a note or two on the back of his menu.
“I know we shouldn’t talk business on an occasion like this,” said Emma to Ross Buchanan, “but you know how much I value your advice.”
“And an old man,” said Ross, “is always flattered by a young woman seeking his advice.”
“I’ll be fifty next year,” Emma reminded him, “and you are an old flatterer.”
“Who will be seventy next year,” said Ross. “Perhaps by then it will be time to put me out to grass, so while I’m still sixty-nine, how can I help?”
“I’m having trouble with Desmond Mellor.”
“I never understood why you put him on the board in the first place.”
“Force majeure,” whispered Emma. “But now he’s pushing for deputy chairman.”
“Avoid it at all costs. He’ll see it as nothing more than a stepping stone to the job he really wants.”
“All the more reason to hold on until I think Sebastian is ready to take my place.”
“Seb thinks he’s ready to take your place right now,” said Ross. “But if Mellor were to become your deputy, you’d spend your life looking over your shoulder. It’s a golden rule for any chairman only ever to appoint a deputy who, one, isn’t after your job, or two, has unquestionably been overpromoted, or three, is too old to take over from you.”
“Good thinking,” said Emma, “but there’s not a lot I can do to stop him if he can convince a majority of the board to back him. To make matters worse, Seb thinks Mellor may have been in touch with Giles’s first wife.”
“Lady Virginia Fenwick?” said Ross, spitting out the words.
“And possibly Alex Fisher as well.”
“Then you’d better start looking over both shoulders.”
* * *
“Now tell me, revered aunt,” said Seb, “are you chancellor of the university yet?”
“The Duke of Edinburgh is our chancellor, as you well know,” said Grace.
“Then what about vice-chancellor?”
“Not everyone is quite as ambitious as you, Seb. For some of us, doing a worthwhile job, however humble, is reward enough in itself.”
“Then have you thought about principal of your college? After all, no one is more admired by their colleagues.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, Sebastian, and I will tell you in confidence that when Dame Elizabeth retired from the post recently, I was approached by one or two people. However, I made it clear that I wasn’t born to be an administrator but a teacher, and am happy with my lot.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Seb.
“But tell me, Seb, as you’re on your own tonight, should I assume there’s still no one special in your life?”
“There hasn’t been anyone special, Aunt Grace, since I was stupid enough to lose Samantha.”
“I agree that wasn’t your most glorious hour. I realized the first time I met her that she was an exceptional young woman, and on that particular subject I speak with some authority.”
“You were right. I’ve never met anyone since who even comes close.”
“I’m sorry, Seb, it was tactless of me to raise the subject, but I’m sure, given time, you’ll find someone.”
“I wish.”
“Are you still in touch with Samantha? Is there even the slightest chance…?”
“Not a hope. I’ve written to her several times over the years, but she doesn’t reply.”
“Have you thought of going over to America and admitting you were wrong?”
“Every day.”
* * *
“How’s your campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released progressing?” asked Priscilla.
“I fear progress may not be the right word,” said Harry, who was seated on the opposite side of the table from Giles. “Mind you, one can never be sure with the Soviets. One day you think they might be about to release him, but the next you’re convinced they’ve thrown away the key.”
“Could anything happen to change that?”
“A change of leadership in the Kremlin might help. Someone who wants the world to know what Stalin was really like. But there’s not much chance of that while Brezhnev is in power.”
“But he must know that we know that he knows.”
“He does, but he’s just not willing to admit it to the outside world.”
“Does Babakov have a family?”
“His wife escaped from Russia just before he was arrested. She now lives in Pittsburgh. I’ve been in touch, and I’m hoping to visit her when I’m next in the States.”
“I hope you succeed,” said Priscilla. “Please don’t think even for a moment that we onlookers have forgotten about your campaign. Far from it, we are inspired by your example.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “You and Bob have been so supportive over the years.”
“Robert is a great admirer of your wife, as I’m sure you know. It just took me a little longer to appreciate why.”
“What’s Bob up to now the company is flourishing again?”
“He’s planning to build a new factory. It seems that most of his equipment belongs to the Stone Age.”
“That won’t come cheap.”
“No, but I don’t think he’s got a lot of choice now it looks we’re about to join the Common Market.”
“I saw him having dinner in Bristol with Seb and Ross Buchanan.”
“Yes, they’re plotting something, but I’ve only been able to piece together one or two clues. If I was Detective Sergeant Warwick…”
“Detective Inspector Warwick,” Harry said, smiling.
“Yes, of course, I remember, he was promoted in your last book. No doubt Inspector Warwick would have found out what they were up to some time ago.”
“I may be able to add one or two nuggets of my own,” whispered Harry.
“Then let’s swap notes.”
“It’s important to remember that Seb has never forgiven Adrian Sloane for appointing himself chairman on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”
“In Huddersfield,” said Priscilla.
“Yes, but why’s that relevant?”
“Because I know Robert has taken the ferry across the Humber several times in the last couple of months.”
“Could he be visiting another woman, who just happens to own fifty-one percent of Farthings?
”
“Possibly, because Arnold Hardcastle recently stayed with us overnight, and apart from meals, he and Robert never came out of the study.”
“Then Adrian Sloane had better keep both his eyes wide open, because if Bob, Seb, and Arnold are working together as a team, heaven help him,” he said, glancing across the table at Priscilla’s husband.
* * *
“Bingham’s Fish Paste seems to have fallen out of the headlines lately,” said Gwyneth, turning to the chairman of the company.
“And that’s no bad thing,” said Bob. “Now we can get on with feeding the nation and not titillating the gossip columnists.”
Gwyneth laughed. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “We’ve never had a jar of your fish paste in the house.”
“And I must confess I’ve never voted Labour, though I might if I lived in Bristol.”
Gwyneth smiled.
“What odds would you put on Giles holding on to his seat?” asked Bob.
“Clinging on by his fingernails seems the likely outcome,” said Gwyneth. “Bristol Docklands has always been a marginal seat, but the opinion polls suggest that this time it’s going to be too close to call. So a lot will depend on who the local Conservatives select as their candidate.”
“But Giles is a popular minister, much admired on both sides of the House. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“About a thousand votes in Griff Haskins’s opinion. But his constituency agent never stops reminding me that if the national swing is against you, there’s not a lot you can do about it.”
* * *
“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.
“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.
“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.
“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.
“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”
“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.
“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”
“And at Downing Street?” inquired Bob.
“We don’t do high tea at Downing Street,” said the prime minister, as he made his way slowly around the table, shaking hands and signing menus.
Giles was touched by how long the prime minister stayed, only leaving when a dutiful PPS reminded him that he was the guest of honor at the miners’ dinner where he was due to make a speech. Just before he left, he took Harry to one side and whispered, “Thank you for your help in Moscow, Mr. Clifton. Don’t think we’ve forgotten. And don’t give up on Babakov, because we haven’t.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, and they all stood again as the prime minister left the room.
After they’d resumed their seats, Jean Buchanan said to Griff, “It must be such fun being an old friend of the PM.”
“I’ve only met him once before,” admitted Griff. “But like an elephant, he never forgets,” he added as Harry stood up, tapped the side of his wineglass with a spoon, and waited for silence.
“Fellow guests, I invite you to join me in a toast to my oldest and dearest friend. The man who introduced me to his sister, and is godfather to our son Sebastian. Will you rise and join me in a toast to the Right Honorable Sir Giles Barrington, Her Majesty’s first minister of state at the Foreign Office, and a man who still believes he should be the captain of the England cricket team.”
Harry waited for the laughter to die down before he added, “And we all hope Giles will retain his seat at the next election, and perhaps even fulfill his life’s ambition and become foreign secretary.”
Warm applause and cries of “Hear hear!” echoed around the room as Giles rose to respond.
“Thank you, Harry, and it’s wonderful to have not only my family, but my closest and dearest friends around me, who have come together for only one purpose, to remind me just how old I am. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and real friends, and surely any sensible man could wish for nothing more. However, many of you have been kind enough to ask me what I would like for my birthday.” Giles looked slowly around the table before saying, “To be prime minister, foreign secretary, and chancellor of the Exchequer all at the same time.” Laughter and applause broke out spontaneously before he added, “But for the moment, I’d be satisfied with holding on to Bristol Docklands at the next election.”
Applause, but no laughter this time.
“No, what I really want is for all of you here tonight, to prosper, and flourish—” Giles paused—“under a Labour government.”
The jeers drowned the cheers, proving the prime minister to be right about Giles being outnumbered by Tories at his own birthday party.
“So let me end by saying, if I don’t win, I shall sulk.” The laughter returned. “A wise man once told me that the secret of a great speech is timing…” Giles smiled and sat down, as everyone rose and gave him a standing ovation.
* * *
“So where are you off to next?” asked Emma as the waiters returned to serve the guests with coffee and After Eight mints.
“East Berlin, a meeting of foreign ministers,” replied her brother.
“Do you think they’ll ever tear down that barbaric wall?” asked Grace.
“Not as long as that stooge Ulbricht is in power and simply carries out the bidding of his masters in the Kremlin.”
“And closer to home,” said Emma, “when do you think the general election will be?”
“Harold wants to go in May, when he’s confident we can win.”
“I feel sure you’ll hold on to Bristol,” said Emma, “barring some accident. But I still think the Tories will scrape home with a small majority.”
“And you’ll remain loyal to the Labour Party?” Giles asked, turning to his younger sister.
“Of course,” said Grace.
“And you, Emma?”
“Not a chance.”
“Some things never change.”
18
GWYNETH GROANED when the alarm went off, and didn’t bother to check what time it was. She had perfected the art of falling back to sleep within minutes of Giles leaving the room. He always took a shower the night before, and laid out the clothes he would need in his dressing room so he wouldn’t have to turn on the light and disturb her.
He glanced out of the window overlooking Smith Square. His car was already parked outside the front door. He didn’t like to think what hour his driver had to get up to be sure he was never late.
Once Giles had shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen, made himself a cup of black coffee, and devoured a bowl of cornflakes and fruit. Five minutes later he picked up his suitcase and headed for the front door. Gwyneth only ever asked him one question when he was going away: how many days? Two, he’d told her on this occasion, and she’d packed accordingly. He wouldn’t even have to check before he unpacked in Berlin, because he knew everything he needed would be there.
His first wife had been a whore, while his second turned out to be a virgin. Giles tried
not to admit, even to himself, that he would have liked a subtle combination of both. Virginia in the bedroom, and Gwyneth everywhere else. He often wondered if other men had the same fantasies. Certainly not Harry, who was even more in love with Emma than he’d been on the day they married. Giles envied that relationship, although that was something else he would never admit, even to his closest friend.
“Good morning, Alf,” said Giles as he climbed into the back of the car.
“Good morning, minister,” replied his driver cheerily.
Alf had been Giles’s driver since the day he’d become a minister, and he was often a better source of information about what was happening in the real world than most of his Cabinet colleagues.
“So where are we off to today, sir?”
“East Berlin.”
“Rather you than me.”
“I know how you feel. Now, what have you got for me?”
“The election will be in June, probably the eighteenth.”
“But the press are still predicting May. Where are you getting your information?”
“Clarence, the PM’s driver, told me, didn’t he?”
“Then I’ll need to brief Griff immediately. Anything else?”
“The foreign secretary will announce this morning that he’ll be standing down from the cabinet after the election, whatever the result.”
Giles didn’t respond while he considered Alf’s casually dropped bombshell. If he could hold on to Bristol Docklands, and if Labour were to win the general election, he must be in with a chance of being offered the Foreign Office. Only problem: two ifs. He allowed himself a wry smile.
“Not bad, Alf, not bad at all,” he added as he opened his red box and began to look through his papers.
He always enjoyed catching up with his opposite numbers across Europe, exchanging views in corridors, lifts, and bars where the realpolitik took place, rather than in the endless formal gatherings for which civil servants had already drafted the minutes long before the meeting was called to order.