What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  You ask if you can talk to the driver — yesterday I went again to the hospital, to see if he can have visits, but his room is empty. The nurses said two men took him away to hospital in Syria as he has so many injuries. I ask to see his doctor but an old mortar shell exploded in Ain-Al-Mraisse, on the site of the old St George Hotel, and he was called to treat the casualties.

  I do not know what is your budget, but there are some decent hotels in Hamra. Let me know when you are coming and for how long, and perhaps I can get a discount. I think you will need me for a week — the best thing is if your paper pays me by the day, plus expenses. Can you let me know what is the rate? I have not been paid yet for the work I did for Michael, but he says the system is slow.

  Best wishes,

  Ingrid

  Spring 1996 — Summer 1997

  The bedroom was on the top floor of the house, with a low ceiling and a single sash window overlooking the street. Both bedrooms in the flat had been decorated the year before and just about everything in the room was new: carpet, curtains, fancy blinds — which had been let down, although it was not yet dark — and a pair of Victorian watercolours Carolina had found at an auction. On the bed were half a dozen cushions, in various shades of yellow and green, chosen by the decorator whose final bill she had never dared show Stephen. Now she stood by the open door, forcing herself not to look again at her watch.

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ she said, sounding apologetic.

  Stephen was speaking into his mobile, buttoning a shirt with his free hand. He ended the call, let out a sigh and tossed the phone among the cushions.

  ‘Do we have to have those things on the bed?’ When he was here on his own, he swept them on to the floor, leaving them to be put back by Carolina or the cleaner. Tucking the shirt into his trousers and fastening his belt, he strode to the wardrobe, flung open the door and began rooting inside.

  ‘If one of us wants to read —’

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘Neither of us reads in bed. The light keeps you awake, and I never have time when I’m here on my own.’

  ‘I mean during the day.’

  He shook his head at this preposterous notion, which had been the decorator’s, not Carolina’s.

  ‘What are you looking for? You said you wanted the blue—’ She waved a hand towards a chair, where she had laid out a blue tie and a clean shirt before he arrived from the House.

  He glanced at it. ‘Not that one.’ A moment later he stepped back with a different tie in his hand, leaving the wardrobe door open and fumbling with his collar.

  ‘Let me.’ She moved towards him, her skirt rustling.

  ‘Thanks, Carolina, I’m perfectly capable.’ He straightened the knot and picked up his suit jacket. ‘Phone, phone — where did I put it?’

  ‘On the bed.’

  He retrieved it. ‘Did you order a cab?’

  ‘No, I thought we could pick one up outside.’

  ‘To Bermondsey? I suppose we might be lucky.’ He looked at her as though he had only just seen her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is it my dress?’ It was strapless, with a skirt made of layers of pink taffeta. Stephen had been downstairs in the living room when she changed, talking on the landline, and brushed past her on the stairs without a second glance when he came up to shower. Now he was staring at her, frown lines on his face, and all at once Carolina felt overdressed. The invitation did say ‘lounge suits’ but the party was at a new London gallery, a venue that had been mentioned in the latest issue of Tatler, and Carolina wanted to look her best.

  ‘Shall I change? I suppose I could wear the lavender suit, the one I bought for Daddy’s birthday.’ She looked anxiously at the open wardrobe. ‘I haven’t got much else here —’

  ‘You mean the mauve?’ he said instantly. ‘No, not that. Christ, look at the time, you’ll have to come as you are.’

  ‘Stephen.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Carolina, don’t start.’

  Her fingers curled in on her hands, the nails pressing into her palms. ‘You don’t want me there, do you? I’m an — an embarrassment to you.’

  He breathed out. ‘How many times have we been through this? You’re not an embarrassment, I expect you to come with me. I just wish you wouldn’t make these scenes. Are you wearing a coat? Where is it? It’ll be chilly later on.’

  She sat down on the bed, the skirt rising up around her. ‘I’m not coming. You can go on your own.’

  ‘Christ, how many times have I —’

  Tears slipped down her face, trembling for a few seconds on the lipstick she had chosen to match her dress, and plopped on to her skirt, making dark stains.

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’ Stephen came and sat beside her, placing an arm round her shoulders. ‘Marcus wants me there when he arrives. The place will be crawling with hacks. You know what he’s like — anything could happen.’

  Marcus Grill, Stephen’s closest friend in the House, had become an arts minister in the latest reshuffle, to widespread astonishment. ‘No one else left, old boy,’ he told Stephen cheerily when he called from his home in Gloucestershire with the unexpected news. ‘Ran off with my s-secretary years ago and married her, so nothing to fear in that department. Too bloody expensive to do it again. S-s-sorry, joke, I won’t have a word said against Melanie.’ He had then invited Stephen to be his unpaid aide: ‘Come and be my p-parliamentary private secretary. May need a bit of minding. You know my talent for putting my foot in it.’ Not long after, a journalist with either a long memory or very good contacts in the Middle East dug out an article Marcus had once written for a liberal Israeli newspaper, forcefully condemning new settlements in the West Bank. For the last forty-eight hours Stephen had been involved in a damage limitation exercise, briefing political correspondents that the Prime Minister was actually very relaxed about the whole business; after all, it was no secret that Marcus was a long-standing member of the All Party Friends of Palestine, and Stephen even insinuated that, for once, it was a refreshing change to see a minister in trouble over good old-fashioned politics. The government was still reeling from a succession of embarrassments caused by the PM’s idiotic remarks about a return to Victorian values — principally adultery and fornication, judging by the example set by some of his backbenchers — and one or two jokes to this effect, dropped into carefully-selected ears in the lobby, had taken some of the heat out of the situation. Even so, Marcus was relying on Stephen to turn up this evening and repeat the trick at the private view: keep the beasts amused, as he put it.

  Stephen’s hand stroked his wife’s hair, thinner now, he noticed with a rush of tenderness, than it used to be. ‘It’s my job, darling, you of all people know that. Handkerchief?’

  She shook her head and he produced one, clean and ironed as always, uncurled her fingers and pushed it into her hand. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Better?’ He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. ‘Let’s go.’

  She took a breath. ‘Stephen —’

  ‘Not now, sweetheart. Up you get.’ He pulled her to her feet, looked round the room and spotted a shawl on the chair. ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’

  ‘My pashmina, yes.’

  He arranged it over her shoulders, keeping up a stream of inconsequential remarks about Marcus’s problems — so far no journalist had mentioned a trip he had made to the Middle East as the guest of a dodgy Jordanian businessman, recently indicted for fraud in the US, but no doubt it was only a matter of time — as he guided her down the stairs. On the landing outside the flat, Carolina waited like a well-behaved child as Stephen set the alarm and double-locked the front door, then allowed him to shepherd her down two more flights of stairs to the street. Forty minutes later, after battling through congested early-evening traffic, a black cab dropped them in a long, gloomy street overshadowed by monumental railway arches. The driver gestured towards a cube-like blue building on the left.


  ‘That’s it, mate.’

  Stephen gave him a generous tip. ‘Lucky you knew where it was. Ready, darling?’

  She nodded, throwing one corner of her shawl over her shoulder. She had read somewhere that pashminas were as warm as a winter coat — or maybe that was a shahtoosh? — but she couldn’t help shivering as she followed Stephen to the gallery entrance. He stepped aside to let her pass, his hand brushing her back, and a bored-looking photographer flashed off a couple of frames, just in case. Inside, Stephen signed in, already alert and assessing what was happening at the gathering. He was just in time: on the ground floor, overlooked by a wide mezzanine, Marcus Grill was good-naturedly trying to fend off three or four political correspondents while another photographer snapped away. He caught Stephen’s eye and a look of relief crossed his face, but the hacks were too absorbed to notice.

  ‘The Prime Minister —’

  ‘Isn’t it embarrassing —’

  Stephen pushed his way to Marcus’s side, acknowledging the reporters he knew by name: ‘Michael, Patrick, Marie. This isn’t your usual beat — I mean, south of the river?’ He addressed a young woman in a dark cardigan, skirt and thick tights. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.’

  ‘Janine Brooks, Londoner’s Diary.’

  He shook her hand. ‘Stephen Massinger.’

  Marcus took a deep breath. ‘My PPS,’ he put in, enunciating each letter with care.

  Stephen slung an arm over Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Good to see you all taking an interest in modern art. I hope the minister hasn’t said anything he shouldn’t — I’m not sure he’s up to speed yet on Sarah Lucas.’ There was a ripple of slightly baffled laughter and Stephen took advantage of it to steer Marcus away, exclaiming: ‘Now, where’s the artist?’

  He scanned the guests, who were still arriving; most of them merely glanced at the paintings before greeting friends and acquaintances. On the other side of the room, a woman was propelling a dishevelled-looking young man towards them, and Stephen took the opportunity to speak quietly to Marcus.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. What did you tell them before I got here?’

  ‘Nothing. You got here before I put my foot in it.’ Marcus stepped forward and pumped the artist’s hand as the camera flashed again. ‘Congratulations, young man. It’s a very s-striking show. This Johnny over here, for instance...’ He steered the artist towards the nearest picture, a mass of coloured scribble inside the thick black outline of a man’s body. ‘Now wherever did you get the idea for that?’

  Stephen listened in amusement as the artist began to explain, talking earnestly about the artificiality of boundaries and the fragility of individual existence. Somehow Stephen didn’t think Marcus would be instructing his officials to acquire one of these daubs for the bare walls of his new office.

  ‘So you’re a minder these days? Not quite your style, is it?’

  Stephen glanced over his shoulder and recognised the political editor of one of the tabloids.

  ‘Nothing much here for you either — must be a quiet news night.’

  ‘Oh, you never know. How long d’you give him then, before he really drops one?’ He jerked his head in Marcus’s direction.

  ‘Les, Les. You should have more interesting things to write — have you heard the latest about the other lot?’ Stephen lowered his voice, passing on a juicy piece of gossip about an Opposition frontbencher. ‘Course, you didn’t get it from me.’

  ‘Course.’

  Stephen glanced around. ‘Excuse me, I’d better have a look at this stuff — you know, in case anyone wants to know what Marcus thinks about them.’

  The man grinned, acknowledging the game, and moved away. Stephen accepted a glass of white wine from a waiter, tasted it and was relieved to discover that it was quite drinkable, probably Australian.

  ‘Bloody awful, aren’t they?’ Marcus said in his ear, a broad social grin fixed on his face. ‘How long should I s-stay?’

  ‘Give it three-quarters of an hour. I don’t want anyone to think you’re running away from the press.’

  ‘Reptiles.’

  ‘Dangerous reptiles. If you want to hang on to your job.’

  ‘I like having the wheels. Not the driver, though. M-miserable bugger. Reads the Bible while he’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Christ, I thought The Sun was more in their line.’ In a more serious voice, Stephen went on: ‘You all right for Heritage questions tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s a stinker about VAT and admission charges. Hello, how are you?’ Marcus pumped someone’s hand. ‘And this is Donna, isn’t it? Dani, of course, I’m so s-sorry. Do you know my PPS, Stephen Massinger?’

  When the introductions were over and the couple walked away, Marcus added: ‘Frightful bore, but they have a weekend place in the next village.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we grab the girls, say at a quarter to eight, and get a bite to eat? Have to get back to civilisation first, of course. What do you make of the cab situation?’

  Stephen waved a hand towards the door. ‘They’ll call us one. Is Melanie here?’

  ‘She’s on her way; she called to say she’d be late.’ His expression darkened and he said wistfully: ‘You’re damned lucky to have Carolina, you know. You’ve got to admit she’s a t-trooper. Always there for you.’

  Stephen said something non-committal, guiltily realising that he had abandoned his wife at the door. Searching the room, expecting to spot that ghastly pink dress, he couldn’t see her and for a few awful seconds entertained the possibility that she had walked out into the urban wasteland beyond the door of the gallery. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he said, ‘Where is she? I can’t see her.’

  ‘Up there.’ Marcus gestured towards the mezzanine floor, which was bounded by a white railing. He grinned. ‘Can’t miss that f-frock.’

  ‘Where? Oh—’ With the relief came irritation: ‘Who’s she talking to?’

  ‘Search me. Good-looking woman, though.’

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d better go and see if she’s all right.’

  ‘Course she’s all right.’ As Stephen walked away, he heard Marcus mutter: ‘Wouldn’t mind meeting her friend myself.’

  Ascending the wide staircase, Stephen thought there was something familiar about the woman talking to Carolina. He paused at the top, watching as the two heads, one dark, one fair, moved towards and away from each other in what appeared to be an animated conversation. The unknown woman was facing away from him, a mass of black hair loosely caught up to expose her slender white neck, the rest of her body covered by a dress that seemed to have been made from shimmering silver scales. She was slender, her waist so small that Stephen felt he could reach out and span it with his hands, but when she half-turned, presenting him a glance of her profile, he saw that she had an hourglass figure. He found himself clenching his fists by his sides, so strong was the urge to touch her.

  ‘Darling!’ Carolina had spotted him. ‘Come and meet—’

  He strode forward, saying in a contrite voice: ‘Carolina, forgive me, I shouldn’t have left you.’

  She laughed away the apology. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been having the most fascinating conversation with Aisha!’ She reached out a hand and drew him closer, seeming to glow with pride. ‘This is my husband. He’s an MP, did I say? I hardly ever see him when the House is sitting, so tonight’s rather special.’ She glanced up, flushed with pleasure.

  The woman, Aisha, looked directly at Stephen. Her eyes were almost black, glinting with pinpoints of light. She held out a hand, the nails shining in an echo of her dress. ‘Hello, I’m Aisha Lincoln.’

  Stephen took it, feeling the fleeting pressure of her fingers. His mouth was dry and he swallowed. ‘Stephen — Stephen Massinger.’

  ‘Your wife was just telling me about her sister.’

  ‘Her sister?’ He had forgotten Mercedes’s existence.

  ‘Mercedes, isn’t that her name?’ She glanced at Carolina for confirmation, her voice neutral but amusement danci
ng in her eyes. ‘I’m interested because I gather she runs a charity.’

  ‘Aisha’s set up her own charity — I mean trust.’ Carolina explained. ‘Don’t you remember reading about it, darling? She used to be a model but she’s given it all up to work with children.’

  ‘Aisha pulled a face. ‘Well, that isn’t quite —’

  ‘A model?’ Stephen repeated incredulously.

  This time she laughed out loud. ‘It not a job for grown-ups, is it? Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘I’m not disappointed,’ Carolina protested.

  ‘And I haven’t given it up entirely. When I’m asked to do thermal underwear catalogues, that’s when I’ll draw the line.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! You’re not — I mean, isn’t forty the new thirty?’ Carolina appealed to Stephen to back her up. ‘I’m sure I read it somewhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aisha, ‘and brown’s the new black.’

  ‘What?’

  She touched Carolina’s arm. ‘Take no notice, just me being cynical.’ She turned to Stephen. ‘Carolina says you’re just back from Pakistan.’

  ‘Pakistan? Oh, with the FAC. We’re producing a report. On foreign aid. Where the money goes. You know. Whether people are driving round in brand new cars.’

  Aisha lifted her eyebrows. ‘Really? Is that what interests you?’

  ‘Um. Public money has to be accounted for.’

  ‘Does it have to be like that? You can’t get rid of corruption overnight, and people need to be helped now.’

  Stephen stared at her, then seemed to remember where he was. ‘Let me — I’ll give you my card.’

  ‘Yes! Why don’t you invite Aisha to the House?’ Carolina put her hands together. ‘We could have tea and talk properly. Stephen isn’t as unsympathetic as he sounds, he works really hard and I’m sure he could give you lots of help. Couldn’t you, darling? You’ve got so much in common.’