He sniffed, as though he could already smell the pine. 'Couldn't do any harm, I suppose.' It was the closest he had come in months to anything resembling enthusiasm.
Elizabeth despaired of trying to check her face in the flicker of passing street lights as the car made its way up Birdcage Walk. 'So what kind of woman is Claire Carlsen?' she asked, snapping away her compact.
'Different.' Urquhart paused to consider. 'Whips don't much care for her,' he concluded, as though he had no identifiable opinion of his own.
'A troublemaker?'
'No. I think it's more that the old boys' network has trouble in finding the right pigeon-hole for a woman who is independent, drives a fifty-thousand-pound Mercedes sports car and won't play by their rules. Has quite a tongue on her, too, so I'm told.'
'Not something of which you as a former Chief Whip would approve. So why are we going to dinner?'
'Because she's persistent, her invitation seemed to keep creeping to the top of the list. Because she's different.'
'Sounds as if you do approve, Francis,' she probed teasingly, her curiosity aroused.
'Perhaps I do. As Chief Whip I welcomed the dunderheads and do-nothings, but as Prime Minister you need a little more variety, a different perspective. Oh, and did I say she was under forty and extremely attractive?' He returned the tease.
'Thinking of giving her a job?'
'Don't know. That's why we're going this evening, to find out a little more about her. I could do with some new members of the crew.'
'But to make room on the life raft you have to throw a few old hands overboard. Are there any volunteers?'
'I'd gladly lash that damned fool Drabble around the fleet. And Annita Burke was born to be fish bait.' 'I thought she was loyal.' 'So is our labrador.'
'Go further, Francis. Much further. Bring it back.' 'What?'
'Fear. They've grown idle and fat these last months, your success has made things too easy for them. They've found time to dream of mutiny.' They were passing Buckingham Palace, the royal standard illuminated and fluttering proud. 'Even a King cannot be safe on his throne.'
For a moment they lost themselves in reminiscence.
'Remind them of the taste of fear, the lash of discipline. Make them lie awake at nights dreaming of your desires, not theirs.' The compact was out again, they were nearing their destination. 'We haven't had a good keelhauling for months. You know how those tabloid sharks love it.'
'With you around, my love, life seems so full of pointed opportunity.'
She turned to face him in the half-light. 'I'll not let you become like Margaret Thatcher, dragged under by your own crew. Francis, you are greater than that.'
'And they shall erect statues to my memory . . .'
She had turned back to her mirror. 'So make a few examples, get some new crew on board. Or start taking hormone therapy like me.'
The door of the buttermilk stucco house set in the middle of Belgravia was opened through the combined effort of two brushed and scrubbed young girls, both wearing tightly wrapped dressing gowns.
'Good evening, Mrs Urquhart, Mr Urquhart,' said the elder, extending a hand. 'I'm Abby and this is Diana.'
'I'm almost seven and Abby is nine,' Diana offered with a lisp where soon would be two new teeth. 'And this is Tangle,' she announced, producing a fluffy and much-spotted toy dog from behind her back. 'He's very nearly three and absolutely . ..'
'That's enough, girls.' Claire beamed proudly from behind. 'You've said hello, now it's goodbye. Up to bed.'
Stereophonic heckling arose on either side.
'Pronto. Or no Rice Pops for a week.'
Their protest crushed by parental intimidation, the girls, giggling mischievously, mounted the stairs.
'And I've put out fresh school clothes for the morning. Make sure you use them,' their mother called out to the retreating backs before returning to her guests. 'Sorry, business before pleasure. Welcome, Francis. And you, Mrs Urquhart.'
'Elizabeth.'
'Thank you. I feel embarrassed knowing your husband so much better than you.' 'Don't worry, I'm not the jealous type. I have to share him with the rest of the world. It's inevitable there should be a few attractive young women amongst them.'
'Why, thank you,' Claire murmured, acknowledging the compliment. In the light of the hallway's chandelier she seemed to shimmer in a way that Elizabeth envied and which she had thought could only be found in combination with motherhood between the pages of Vogue. Was Claire also the type that had herself photographed naked and heavily pregnant, just to show the huddled, sweating masses with backache and Sainsbury's bags just how it was done?
Claire introduced her husband, Johannis, who had been standing back a pace; this was his wife's event and, anyway, he gave the impression of being a physically powerful man who was accustomed to taking a considered, unflustered view of life. He also had the years for it, being far nearer Urquhart's age than his wife's, and spoke with a distinctively slow though not unpleasant accent bearing the marks of his Scandinavian origin. Carlsen's self-assured posture suggested a man who knew what he wanted and had got it, while she displayed the youthful vitality of a woman with ambitions still to be met. Contrasts. Yet it took only a few moments for Elizabeth to become aware that in spite of the superficial differences, somehow the Carlsens seemed to fit, have an understanding, be very much together. Perhaps she hadn't married him simply for the money.
Claire led the way through to a reception room of high ceiling and pastel walls - ideal for the displayed works of contemporary European artists - in which the other eight guests had already assembled. Urquhart knew only one of them, but knew of them all; Claire had provided him with a short and slightly irreverent written bio. of every diner, including Johannis. She'd made it all very easy, had chosen well. A bluff Lancashire industrialist who did extraordinary things with redundant textile mills that kept his wife in Florida for half the year and in race horses for the rest. The editor of Newsnight and her husband, a wine importer who had provided the liquid side of the meal which he spiced with spirited stories of a recent trip to vineyards in the mountains of Georgia where, for three nights, he had resided in a local gaol on a charge of public drunkenness until he had agreed to take a consignment of wine from the police chief's brother. The wine turned out to be excellent. There was also an uninhibited Irishman-and-American-mistress partnership who had invented the latest departure in what was called 'legal logistics' - 'profiling alternative litigation strategies,' he had explained; 'Lawyers' bullshit, it's witness coaching and jury nobbling,' as she had offered.
And Nures. Urquhart had known he would be there, a relatively late addition to the guest list while on a private visit to London for dental treatment; his family's fruit firm had used Carlsen freight facilities for more than a decade. The Foreign Office would normally have expressed qualms about his meeting the President of Turkish Cyprus in this manner, without officials present, but Nures was no longer an international pariah. Anyway, the Foreign Office couldn't object because Urquhart hadn't let them know,- they would have felt obliged to parley with Nicosia, Ankara, Athens, Brussels and half a dozen others in a process of endless consultation and compromise to ensure no one was offended. Left to the Foreign Office, they'd all starve.
Claire thrust a malt whisky into Urquhart's hand - Bruichladdich, she'd done her homework - and propelled him towards the Newsnight editor and the developer, neither of whom would be sitting next to him during the meal.
'Pressure groups are a curse,' Thresher, the developer, was protesting. 'Am I right, Mr Urquhart?' He pronounced it Ukut, in its original Scottish form, rather than the soft Southern Urkheart so beloved of the BBC, who at times seemed capable of understanding neither pronunciation nor policy. 'Used to be there was a quiet, no-nonsense majority, folks that mowed their lawns and won the wars. But now everyone seems to belong to some minority or other, shouting t'odds and lying down in t'road trying to stop other folk getting on with life. Environmentalists' - T
hresher emphasized every syllable, as though wringing its neck - 'will bring this country to its knees.'
'We have a heritage, surely we must defend it?' Wendy the Newsnight editor responded, accepting with good grace the fact that for the moment she had been cast in the role of lonesome virtue.
'Green-gabble,' Urquhart pounced, joining in the game. 'It's everywhere. Knee-jerk nostalgia for the days of the pitchfork and pony and trap. You know, ten years ago the streets of many Northern towns were deserted, now they're congested with traffic jams as people rush to the shops. I'm rather proud of those traffic jams.'
'Could I quote you. Prime Minister?' Wendy smiled.
'I doubt it.'
'Here's something you might quote, but won't, lass.' Thresher was warming to his task. 'I've got a development planned in Wandsworth centred around one old worm-eaten cinema. Neither use nor ornament, practically falling to pieces it is, but will they let me knock it down? The protesters claim they prefer the knackered cinema to a multi-million-pound shopping complex with all the new jobs and amenities. Daft buggers won't sit in t'cinema and watch films, no, all they do is sit down in t'street outside, get up petitions and force me to a planning inquiry that'll take years. It's a middle-class mugging.'
'Not in my house, I trust.' Claire had returned to usher them to the dining room. As they followed her bidding, Urquhart found himself alone with Thresher.
'So what are you going to do, Mr Thresher?'
'Happen I'll take my money away, put it in some Caribbean bank and buy myself a pair of sunglasses.'
'A great pity for you. A loss for the country, too.'
'What's Government going to do about it then, Prime Minister?'
'Mr Thresher, I'm surprised that a man of your worldly experience should think the Government is capable of doing anything to help.' Urquhart had a habit of talking about his colleagues in the manner of a world-weary headmaster confronted with irresponsible schoolboys who deserved a thrashing.
'So it's off t'Caribbean.'
'Perhaps the answer might lie a little closer.'
'How close?'
'Brixton, perhaps?'
'You interest me.'
'I was merely wondering why, if the protesters want a cinema, you don't give them a cinema.'
'But that's not the game. Anyway, nobody comes.'
'You're obviously showing the wrong films. What do you think would occur if, for instance, you started showing cult films with a strong ethnic flavour? You know, Rasta and dreadlocks?'
'I'd have to start giving the tickets away.' 'Lots of them. Around the black community, I'd suggest.'
'God, the place'd start swarming with 'em. But what would be the point?'
Urquhart plucked the other's sleeve to delay him at the entrance to the dining room, lowering his voice. 'The point, Mr Thresher, is that after four weeks of Bob Marley and ju-ju, it wouldn't surprise me if the good burghers of Wandsworth changed their minds about your cinema; indeed, I harbour the strongest suspicion they'd crawl to you on hands and knees, begging you to bring in the bulldozers.' He raised a suggestive eyebrow. 'It's a pathetic fact of middle-class life that liberalism somehow fades with the nightfall.'
Thresher's jaw had dropped; Claire had appeared once more at their side to organize them. 'This is a decent house. So whatever you two are plotting had better stop,' she instructed genially. 'Otherwise no pudding.'
'I think I've just 'ad that, pet. You know, your boss is a most remarkable man.' Thresher's voice vibrated with unaccustomed admiration.
'I'm glad you agree. Does my feminine intuition sense a substantial cheque being written out to party headquarters?' she enquired, twisting his arm as she led him to his place.
'For the first time in my life, I think I might.'
Claire found her own seat at the head of the table, flanked by Urquhart and Nures. 'I'm impressed, Francis. I've been trying for five years to get him to open his wallet, yet you did it in five minutes. Did you sell the whole party, or just a few principles?'
'I merely reminded him that amongst the grass roots of politics are to be found many weeds.'
'And in the bazaar there are many deals to be done,' Nures added.
'A touch cynical for someone who's off-duty, Mehmet,' she suggested.
'Not at all. For what is the point of going to the market if you are not intending to deal?' he smiled.
'Window shopping?'
His eyes brushed appreciatively over her, taking in the subtle twists of silk - she had no need of excessive ornamentation - not lingering to give offence, before running around the dining room, where modern art and soft pastel had given way to Victorian classic displayed upon bleached oak panelling. 'You do not leave the impression of one who spends her life with her nose pressed up against the window, Claire.'
'That's true. But at least it enables me to lay my hand on my heart and deny any ambition of grabbing your job, Francis.'
'How so?' he enquired, in a tone which suggested he wouldn't believe a word.
She puckered her nose in distaste. 'I couldn't possibly live in Downing Street. It's much too far from Harrods.'
And the evening had been a great success.
It was as Urquhart and his wife were preparing to leave that Nures took him to one side.
'I wanted to thank you, Prime Minister, for everything you have done to help bring about peace in my island. I want you to know we shall always be in your debt.'
'Speaking entirely privately, Mr President, I can say how much I have admired your tenacity. As we both know to our cost, the Greeks have never been the easiest of people to deal with. Do you know, the Acropolis is falling down around their ears yet still
they demand the return of the Elgin Marbles? Intemperate vandalism.'
'The Greek Cypriots are different, of course.'
'Accepted. But Balkan blood runs thicker than water. Or logic, at times.'
'And oil.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You know the seismic report of the offshore waters has been published?'
'Yes, but it didn't show any oil, did it?'
'Precisely.' Nures paused, a silence hung between them. 'But I wanted you to know that if there were any oil, and if that oil were under my control, I would very much want my British friends to help us exploit it.'
'All this talk of oil, you sound as if you expect it. But there was nothing in the report.'
'Instinct?'
'I hope for your sake those instincts are right. But it would then depend upon the outcome of the boundary arbitration.'
'Precisely.'
'Oh, I think I begin to see.'
'I have very strong instincts in this matter, Mr Urquhart. About the oil.'
Urquhart was clear that his feet were now standing directly in the middle of the bazaar. 'I cannot interfere, even if I wanted to,' he replied softly. 'The arbitration is a judicial process. Out of my hands.'
'I understand that completely. But it would be such a pity if my instincts were right yet the arbitration went wrong, and the Greeks gave all the exploitation rights to their good friends the French.'
'A tragedy.'
'Great riches for both your country and mine . . .' - why did Urquhart feel he really meant 'for both you and me'? Instinct, that was it - 'great riches lost. And I would lose most. Imagine what would happen to me if my people discovered that I had given away a fortune in oil? I would be dragged through the streets of Nicosia.'
'Then we must hope that fortune smiles on you, and wisdom upon the judges.'
'I would have so many reasons to be exceptionally grateful, Mr Urquhart.'
Their confidences balanced carefully on a narrow ledge; any move too swift or aggressive, and they would both fall - would Urquhart attempt to run, or would he push? They spoke in whispers, taking care to maintain their poise, when suddenly they were joined by a new and uninhibited voice. 'Such a rare commodity in politics, don't you think, gratitude?' It was Elizabeth who, farewells indulged, had been hove
ring. 'You'd rather be flayed alive than let the French run off with anything, Francis. You really must find a way of helping Mr Nures.'
'I shall keep my fingers crossed for him.' And, nodding farewell to the Turk, Urquhart crept back off the ledge.
Claire was waiting for him by the front door. 'A truly exceptional evening,' he offered in thanks, taking her hand. 'If only I could organize my Government the way you organize your dinner parties.'
'But you can, Francis. It's exactly the same. You invite the guests, arrange the menu, decide who sits where. The secret is to get a couple of good helpers in the kitchen.'
'As it happens I've been thinking of rearranging the table, playing a bit of musical chairs. But you make a good point about the backstage staff. What do you think?'
'You want me to be indiscreet.'
'Of course. Drabble, for instance?' 'A disaster.'
'Agreed. And Barry Crumb?' 'So aptly named.'