High society

by Ben Elton

  It was at this point that Charlie Ansboro marched in unannounced, strode straight up to the Prime Minister and without a word put a photograph in front of him.

  ‘What’s this, Charlie?’ the PM enquired, furious at such a perfunctory interruption.

  ‘Ask — that — cunt — sitting — there,’ Ansboro replied with studied nastiness, pointing his finger at Peter Paget.

  The Prime Minister pushed the photograph across to where Peter was sitting. One glance and Peter knew exactly what the photograph was of. He recognized the tiny mole on the rim of the belly-button. He had kissed that small dot many times. The photograph was of his ex-lover’s stomach.

  With a sparkling jewel in its navel.

  Peter Paget could not reply. Speech had deserted him.

  ‘Well?’ the Prime Minister enquired once more. ‘What is this?’

  Til tell you what it is,’ Ansboro said. ‘It’s Samantha Spencer’s belly-button plus a jewel, a jewel for which Paula Wooldridge of the Daily Bastard now has the Mastercard receipt, a receipt signed by PETER LYING FUCKING BASTARD PAGET!’

  Never before had the Cabinet room been the scene of such puerile drama. This majestic apartment of state, the very room from which Neville Chamberlain had announced that Britain was at war with Nazi Germany, was now rocked by horrified protest as one minister after another stared at the photograph.

  ‘You promised, Peter,’ the Prime Minister said, his voice shaking with fury, ‘that you had not had sexual relations with this woman.’

  Peter spoke for the first time since Charlie Ansboro had entered the room.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said, and his voice almost croaked with the effort to keep it steady.

  ‘Then perhaps you would like to explain to us all what business a man who is not having sex with a woman has giving her a belly button jewel!’

  The eyes of the entire Cabinet were fixed on him.

  ‘I was…fond of Samantha, I admit I gave her the occasional gift…I intended this jewel for her ear…’

  ‘One ear?’ the Prime Minister enquired.

  A little of Peter’s strength was returning. Tough it out. Deny everything.

  ‘Single earrings are fashionable.’

  ‘The receipt,’ Charlie Ansboro shouted, banging his fist upon the table, ‘says belly-button ring! For Christ’s sake, you stupid bastard, why didn’t you just buy her a vibrating dildo and make it really obvious?’

  Peter Paget breathed deeply. Deny. Deny. Deny.

  They were not going to beat him. Make day night and night day, but deny everything.

  ‘I did not have sexual relations with Ms Spencer,’ he said firmly, ‘and the fact that I bought her a small and entirely innocently meant piece of body jewellery does not change that.’

  STARNSTEAD PRISON

  Ma name’s Jessie and Ah’m a heroin addict.’

  She was healthier now, still a gamine, but her face and figure were fuller. The colour had returned to her cheeks and although she had cut her hair quite short, the deep rich red that flashed from within the black was bright once more. For the first few months that Jessie had been in prison she had continued to take heroin regularly. It was easily available and to her surprise it had been of a rather higher quality than that which she had been used to at the hands of her pimps. It was supplied to her by way of a powerful fixer on her block, who had taken a liking to her. Jessie was not a lesbian but the sexual barter with which she fed her drug habit inside prison was considerably less arduous than that with which she had supplied it outside, and she succumbed to her lover/protector’s advances with the abstracted indifference of one who has long since lost any sense of the sanctity of their own body. Jessie shared her protector’s bunk and together they took their drugs until eventually they decided to try to kick the habit together. It was clear to them both that if by the time they were released from prison they were still junkies, Jessie at least would not survive. Therefore, having undergone a methadone programme that had simply left them addicted to methadone, they had formed their own private prison branch of Narcotics Anonymous.

  ‘As Ah ran out o’ Goldie’s house makin’ ma second escape from that hellhole in as many months Ah was formulating a radically different plan to the one Ah’d made on ma first bid for freedom. Ah had a long list that first time. Ah can remember going through it one morning with some weirdo who’d tried to nick ma coat. He was a strange one that. Funny how I remember him, though, probably because his thing was pretending tae be Tommy Hanson. I suppose that was how he got through his shitty little rentboy life. Fuck, I settled for just pretending tae be a human being.’

  One of the listening group stirred somewhat at this. It reminded her of something, something she’d heard or read.

  ‘Ma new plan was very simple. Sell Goldie’s bag o’ crack and fuck off tae a new town. That was it, the whole plan. Ah reckoned Ah had at least a grand’s worth but Ah decided Ah’d take seven fifty. And havin’ run for a while Ah literally went up t’the first derelict-lookin’ person Ah found an’ says where can I sell some crack? Who’s a big fuck-off dealer? Well, the fella sends me off down this street full o’ right tough-lookin’ bastards an’ Ah goes up t’the toughest lookin’ o’ the lot an’ says, Ah have a few rocks o’ crack t’sell. Fuck me, but the fella was a cop. Can you believe it? Ah’ve no had a lot o’ luck in my life, have Ah? An’ there’s me tryin’ tae sell crack cocaine tae a copper. Although as it happens, mebbe it was the luckiest break Ah’ve had in a while because he nicked me, o’ course, an’ dealing a grand’s worth o’ crack has got t’be custodial, hasn’t it? So that’s how Ah ended up here, clean for the longest period since first Ah had a taste. An determined tae stay clean for ever more.’

  THE PAGET HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON

  The tabloid newspaper with its banner single-word headline lay on the bed. ‘Gotcha!’ Underneath was a huge picture of Samantha’s stomach with its jewel and Paget’s credit-card signature superimposed across it. Not since the heady days of Tommy Hanson’s engagement to posh-totty Emily had a bellybutton so caught the attention of the nation.

  Angela Paget’s long-held and painfully suppressed anger now bubbled over. ‘You bought her a fucking jewel for her navel, you bastard! A couple of shags, you said it was…’

  ‘It was…’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Peter! Just stop lying! You bought her body jewellery! When was the last time you bought anything romantic for me! Admit it, you loved that girl and she loved you and when you dumped her she decided to destroy you!’

  ‘Angela, it wasn’t like that!’

  And it really hadn’t been. He hadn’t loved her. He knew that, and yet…he could no longer quite remember how it had been.

  ‘That poor girl obviously trusted you, Peter! Just like I trusted you.’

  ‘Angela, please!’

  ‘Peter, I know you, and I know that you wouldn’t buy such a gift for anyone you didn’t care for. This was no reckless one-off bang! You were having a full-scale affair! Admit it! And let me tell you, Peter, I’m only standing by you through this because of two things: the future of your bill, which is bigger and more important than you, and the fact that you’ve dragged our daughters into this. But I promise you this, when your bill is law and the papers have left us alone, then…well, then I just don’t know what I’ll do.’

  Downstairs Cathy tried not to listen to the row. She hated the way the pressure of these disgusting allegations and insinuations was affecting her mother. She wished her mum would be tougher, that she would stop looking so careworn, stop being such a pain. This was no time for scenes, this was a time for clear thinking and a united front. Her father was under attack. A nasty, puerile and premeditated attack. Her mother should be standing by him, not undermining him.

  Cathy certainly intended to stand by him.

  So he bought the girl a crappy bit of jewellery. So what? He said that he had not had an affair and that, in Cathy’s opinion, should be good enough for his family, particularly his
wife.

  Suzie Paget peeped through the curtains at the assembled journalists. The Pagets had promised yet another family news conference to explain away this latest embarrassing development. Well, Cathy at least was ready. She knew that she had won the day on that doorstep twice before and she intended to do so again.

  Peter and Angela Paget descended the stairs in silence and together the family went out to face the press for the last time.

  As soon as the front door started to open the questions began, or rather the question. For the only question that the press wanted answered was why had Peter Paget given so intimate a gift to a woman with whom he had claimed to have had an entirely proper professional relationship, which he had ended when the girl had begun to become overfamiliar?

  ‘Well…‘ Peter began weakly, squirming with embarrassment.

  ‘Because he’s a silly old git!’ Cathy Paget announced before her father could get any further.

  Once more all eyes turned to Cathy.

  ‘Because,’ she continued, ‘like lots of middle-aged men who work too hard and worry about their bald patches, he was just being a sad, silly old git!’

  The press were thrilled. They always expected good copy from Cathy Paget, and once more this inspired and talented sixteen year-old was delivering.

  ‘Hello-o? Excuse me. Anybody home?’ Cathy continued. ‘You’ve seen the pictures! Samantha Spencer is gorgeous! God, her knockers have been in just about every publication under the sun! And they are fit. What’s more, by her own admission she was in love with Dad! How would a situation like that affect some of you blokes standing here right now? You’d be flattered, wouldn’t you? You’d get a little thrill, am I right? Of course I am. A few of you might even try to get a shag. Oh yes, you would! But not my dad. My dad loves his family and he loves his work and there is no way he would ever put that at risk.’

  Cathy put her arm through her father’s before continuing.

  ‘So what does he do, eh? Faced with this giggling little prick tease? This little ray of office sunshine who unbeknownst to him is actually a deeply disturbed psycho? He’s flattered, he’s a little bit thrilled and one stupid morning, burdened with the usual measure of middle-aged male sexual frustration, he buys her a saucy gift. He can’t touch her, can he? He doesn’t want to touch her…Well, of course he does want to touch her, like any of you men here today would, he’s desperate to touch her, but the point is he isn’t going to do it…So instead he flirts a little bit, he lets her tell him his ties are boring or whatever, he shares his KitKat with her and in a moment of madness he even gets her a special birthday present. Yes, like the silly old git he is, he buys her an entirely inappropriate gift. A jewel to hang on the belly-button ring that she has no doubt been making a point of flashing at him for months. Blimey, the way she seems to flash her tits at every opportunity I’m surprised he didn’t buy her a nipple ring! And why shouldn’t he buy her a gift? It makes him feel young, romantic, it’s a laugh, he needs a bit of fun after spending day after day trying to convince a bunch of brain-dead MPs that seeing as how they’re surrounded by trees they’d better start noticing the wood! But that’s it. End of story. He doesn’t kiss her, he doesn’t pat her arse, he buys her a little gift and it feels good.’

  The media mob were smiling, laughing. Some even applauded Cathy yet again. The girl’s honesty was so refreshing.

  ‘Now leap forward a few months to when my dad is the bravest, most celebrated politician in the country. To when this sad woman decides to accuse him of an affair because he’s told her to back off. Is he going to mention that gift at this point? Is he going to say, ‘I didn’t shag her, but I did buy her a belly button jewel’? No. He is so not going to do that. Because if he does, then somebody like Paula No Life Sodding Wooldridge — yes, I can see you skulking there, Paula, in our garden — someone like Paula Wooldridge is going to twist that gift into something dirty, which is exactly what she’s done, because when she was scrabbling about in Samantha Spencer’s dustbins she found a Mastercard slip. Well, congratulations, Paula. I hope you’re proud of yourself. It’s not exactly the Watergate tapes, but hey, you aren’t exactly Bob Woodward, are you?’

  It was another joyous bravura performance and once more it charmed a besotted press corps completely. Gorgeous teenaged ingenues who wrote their own copy were few and far between. Instinctively other journalists moved away from Paula Wooldridge, who was as usual looking isolated, alone.

  But then Paula smiled. A big broad smile. ‘What a lovely speech, Cathy,’ she said. ‘So your daddy is a man of courage and integrity?’

  ‘Yes, he is. Not that I would expect you to be able to recognize such qualities.’

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty good at recognizing certain qualities, Cathy. How about yourself, by the way? How’s your integrity?’

  ‘I sleep well at nights.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really? Tell me, then, that evening you went to see Mission Impossible 3 with your father. The night the much vilified Samantha Spencer claims your father was taking cocaine in Islington with her and her friends prior to spending the night in her bed. What were you actually doing, Cathy?’

  ‘Watching Mission Impossible 3 with my father.’

  ‘Really? Were you? You see, I’ve checked the time of the screening and it started at seven forty-five.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can explain to me how the Minister of Drugs was able, while watching a film in Dalston, to buy four bottles of Moet and Chandon champagne in Islington at precisely that time. At an off-licence which happens to be just one hundred metres from Samantha Spencer’s flat, that same flat where she has always claimed he spent the evening and the night.’ Paula produced the second of the receipts that Samantha had found at the bottom of her swingbin. Or at least a blown-up copy of it. It was a National Westminster Bank Switch card till slip, which carried the date, the location and Peter Paget’s signature for all to see.

  ‘I…well…‘ For the first time almost since she had learned to talk, Cathy Paget was lost for words.

  ‘I can’t show you the original of this receipt, Cathy, because it is currently in the hands of the police, to whom both you and your father lied while they were investigating the taking of Grade A drugs.’

  The sensation was absolute. The questions came in one great roar.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Did you lie?’

  ‘Did he put you up to it?’

  ‘Oh Peter,’ Angela Paget murmured almost to herself ‘Four bottles of champagne?’

  Cathy Paget was strong, she was clever, very clever, and witty, too. But she was only sixteen, and she had believed in her father utterly. Now…now…As the cameras closed in on her she burst into tears.

  Angela Paget led her family back into the house.

  THE HOUSE OF COMMONS

  The Shadow Home Secretary could scarcely conceal his glee. ‘Madam Speaker, for many months now I have been forced to sit with growing dismay while this house began to resemble nothing so much as an asylum over which the lunatics had taken.’

  This rather convoluted image met with some slightly confused muttering, but the house knew what he was getting at.

  ‘Last week’s State Opening represented what in my opinion was an all-time low for British democracy. Like many of my colleagues, I sat dismayed and dumbfounded at the sight of Her Majesty being forced to align herself with criminals, pushers and junkies while announcing what must now go down as the most ill-conceived and -considered piece of legislation in history — the insane, irresponsible and utterly unworkable plan to legalize and make readily available some of the most insidious poisons known to man. And where is the architect of this madness? Where is the loathsome Peter Paget? Is he here today?’

  The government front bench could only sit in stony silence. Everybody knew where Peter Paget was.

  ‘No, the Right Honourable Member for Dalston North West is not here today. Her Majesty’s Minister for Drugs i
s nowhere to be seen, and why? Why? The whole world knows why. Every news organization on the planet is speaking of nothing else but the excruciating embarrassment that this government has allowed Britain to be dragged into. For, as I speak, the Minister for Drugs is being interviewed by the police! Interviewed in connection with his own drug-taking! His cavorting with known dealers and cocaine-fuelled sexpots! He is being interviewed about the fact that he, a Minister of the Crown, lied to the police in the course of what was potentially a criminal investigation. And what is even more astonishing and disgusting is that he corrupted his own sixteen-year-old daughter into lying also, into making false entries in her student diary no less!’

  The Shadow Home Secretary’s voice rang round a chamber in which no other member felt minded to comment. Peter Paget had let them all down comprehensively. They felt like complete fools. That appalling man and his smug, irritating daughter had bamboozled them and the nation into a sort of collective madness, a madness from which they had been saved in the nick of time by the tireless efforts of an investigative journalist.

  For who could support the Paget bill now? With its architect exposed as a criminal liar and cocaine user? The whole business had been based on the people’s trust that Paget knew what he was talking about. Now the common assumption was that even his famous needle prick accident and subsequent miraculous recovery had been a put-up job. Paget had betrayed the nation.

  Finally the Prime Minister rose to speak.

  Tn reply to my Right Honourable Friend the Shadow Home Secretary, of course we must await the outcome of the police’s investigation, but in the light of what is already known, Peter Paget is clearly an unfit person to be a Minister of the Crown or indeed a member of this house. I have therefore relieved him of all Cabinet duties as of this morning.’

  ‘And what of his foul theories!’ the Shadow Home Secretary shouted.

  The Prime Minister had read that morning’s polls; he had seen summaries of the mood of the radio phone-ins and morning chat shows. He knew that the public saw Paget and his bill as one and the same thing. They had come quickly to despise the former and hence had no stomach for the latter. He bowed to the inevitable. ‘I wish also to make it clear to this house that for the time being the bill on which Peter Paget had been working will be withdrawn from our legislative programme pending a full review.’