by Prue Leith
But Ruth thought the whole idea of freebies for ministers distasteful, if not actually corrupt. She had not yet deigned to spend a single night there, and he could scarcely go without her, but it was early days and perhaps he could persuade her. To deny the girls those memories for the future would be mean-minded. They would never forget a housekeeper or maid making their beds, a cook in the kitchen, and maybe their first grownup dinner party in the dining room, waited on by a butler …
Oliver glanced at his watch and pulled his thoughts to the matter in hand. Tonight’s dinner. The guest list brought a return to reality. Grand surroundings and the best food and wine did not prevent these occasions being pretty dull. Interesting conversations with the wives of heads of state or of senior officials were rare as hens’ teeth. If Ruth only realised it, she would get the best of the bargain during his tenure as Her Majesty’s chief giver of posh parties. She might be sandwiched between such mavericks as Berlusconi, Sarkozy or Gaddafi. The people the government required him to do business with were sometimes unsavoury, but seldom boring. Which could not be said for their wives.
At least most of the Asian wives had been to university or school in England or America, and he could get along in French, Italian or German with most of the Europeans if, which was rare, they did not speak English. But of course you couldn’t talk to them of their country’s woes, or relations with Britain, or discuss their husbands’ chances of survival. The inevitable catalogue of their children’s achievements was seldom riveting.
Tonight’s guests, a pan-African delegation, had been here a week and he had already had one dinner with them in Downing Street, hosted by the Chancellor. It had been dire. Few of the wives of the potentates, despots, villains – and occasional honest politicians – who led that benighted continent spoke any English and talking through an interpreter whispering in your ear from behind was a nightmare. Tonight would be the same.
He pulled out his speech for after dinner, which he had not yet seen. It had been written by Sonia, who was good but as yet unfamiliar with his style. And he had never learnt the trick, mastered by nearly all his colleagues, of saying someone else’s words as if they were his own.
‘Sean, have you got a highlighter?’
He marked a few key words on each page, scribbled a couple more and said, ‘If you could find a card and jot these words down so I can read them, and get it to me before I have to stand up, I’d be grateful.’
He felt fleetingly sorry for Sonia, who had obviously tried hard. She had all the main points, properly marshalled into a coherent whole, and she knew he liked his speeches double spaced, in bold, font size 12, printed on half pages and fastened with a Treasury clip so he could easily handle them without a lectern. But he’d speak from a few words on a card.
Sean would almost certainly tell her he had not used her speech. Oliver resolved to make a point of congratulating her on the content and suggesting she read some of his published speeches to get his tone. He used, he thought, a more measured, musing style, as if he were proposing solutions or ideas rather than banging a soap box.
Oliver leaned forward to Sean. ‘Sean, wait for me, will you? I’ll just ring Ruth and the children. I won’t be long.’ He opened the car door and climbed out, followed by the detective. Jim was an old copper, a little slow, but reliable. And discreet. He stood just out of earshot as Oliver made his call, but Oliver knew his eyes would be constantly on the alert, with himself at the centre of Jim’s vision. Poor man, thought Oliver. Imagine having to be permanently on the look-out for something with almost no likelihood of happening. But someone had done the risk assessment and Foreign Secretaries were deemed a possible terrorist target.
Mattie answered the call. Ruth was out in the yard, talking to Ben, the man who mended their saddles, but both girls were there. Mattie was doing her homework and seemed distracted. Oliver wondered if she was watching a game or movie on her computer while talking to him, but he had the good sense not to ask.
Andrea was her usual uncomplicated self. He told her he was standing outside a grand house in London and just about to go and have dinner with a lot of prime ministers from lots of other countries. And that he had a detective keeping watch as he made this phone call. And all the guests would have detectives too because they were so important.
‘Is the detective like on the TV? Solving crimes and stuff?’
‘Well, mine is more like a policeman or a security guard.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Oliver could picture her face, bright with recognition. ‘Mum said that you have a policeman looking after you all the time. Like the one that comes to our house?’
‘Similar. He’s also a policeman but more senior. You’ve met him. The big fellow, Jim. He came home with me last Friday, remember? He had tea with you in the kitchen and then went and looked at the horses.’
‘He wasn’t a policeman.’ Andrea’s voice was loud with scorn. ‘He was just ordinary. In ordinary clothes. Like a school teacher. He didn’t have proper policeman’s clothes.’
Oliver rang home every evening between six and eight if he possibly could. Sometimes, when the children were tired and didn’t want to be asked boring questions about school or their ponies, or Ruth was busy and brisk, he wondered why he was so religious about it. But he knew the dangers of being away from home and he did his best to remain part of their lives, a proper father. Though sometimes he felt he was more like a weekend visitor.
But tonight Andrea had been lovely. He snapped his phone shut with a smile and set off for the front door of Lancaster House, closely followed by Sean and, more discreetly, by Jim. Debbie would wait in the car, or park it and join the other drivers for a gossip. Three public servants to look after one politician. It seemed a little ridiculous, but at the same time (though he’d never have said it) he did think it was somehow his due.
In spite of his dread of incomprehensible dinner neighbours, Oliver walked into the cavernous hall of Lancaster House feeling a sense of ownership, or at least boss-ship, and cool satisfaction at the sheer grandeur of it. He mounted the wide, shallow stairs with his straight-backed easy stride, walked along the balustraded gallery and into the Gold Room.
Tonight he would entertain the group of sixteen delegates and their wives to pre-dinner drinks in this room, and then they would dine in the State Dining Room. Both rooms were far larger than the number of guests strictly warranted, but the intention was to flatter, certainly to impress, maybe even overawe them. The splendour of the high ceilings, heavy paintings and rich carpets, and the views onto the garden, Mall and park were a treat, even in the dark.
The Foreign Office head butler greeted him with a formal dip of his head. Not quite a bow, but almost. ‘Good evening, Secretary of State.’
‘Hello, Dennis. All in order?’
‘But of course, Sir.’
‘Are the caterers here? Are they any good?’
‘I hope so, Sir. Mr Hobhouse, the head of Government Hospitality, engaged the young woman you told me to suggest. She did that little lunch at Carlton Gardens, you remember?’
For a moment Oliver was baffled. Then his face cleared and, pleased, he said, ‘Oh, yes, of course. Kate something. She did an excellent private dinner for me too. But that was for six people, this is for thirty something.’
Dennis’s face was not reassuring. There was a hint of a shrug, and his mouth went down.
‘You said to tell him you wanted her for your next official dinner, Sir, so I did. I confess I had my doubts, but I believe Mr Hobhouse checked her out and she has done some bigger jobs. She’s an amateur, of course—’
Oliver cut in coldly, ‘And what is a professional, do you think?’ It irritated him that Dennis was hedging his bets, making sure that the decision to use Kate could be all his if it was a triumph and all someone else’s if it was a disaster. He went on, ‘Some of the food I eat in government departments is unspeakable, presumably made by professionals. She makes her living at it, doesn’t she? Does that not make her a
professional?’
Dennis knew when to back off. ‘Yes, Sir, I am sure it does.’
Oliver checked the placement in the dining room, Dennis respectfully at his heels.
‘I would be glad if you would hurry things along, Dennis. I don’t want to be here a minute beyond ten o’clock if I can help it.’
‘I will do my best, Sir. Of course the kitchen …’
‘Yes, I know. You can’t help it if Kate is slow. Just make sure she isn’t, then.’ He looked at his watch, turned on his heel, and walked out to greet his guests.
He was in luck. The wife of the Prime Minister of Zaire, on his right, had been to Cape Town University, was a practising lawyer, and delightful. On his left was the very large but beautiful wife of the Nigerian Prime Minister. She was in national dress, lime green cotton swathed over a glittering headdress of green and orange, both stylish and jaunty. Her great arms and shoulders rose bare out of the matching wrappings of her ample body. She was as loud and jolly as she was fat, and her cackling laugh alone banished any pretension and formality.
The African women were either very thin, chic and dressed in Western designer fashions, or simply enormous and in African costume. But all the men, with the single exception of the Prime Minister of Nigeria, were big. Not necessarily obese, though some were, but tall and heavy, with enormous arms and big hands. Interesting, thought Oliver, does the weight come as a result of the power, or the power as a result of the intimidating size?
The first course was the same beetroot and goats’ cheese salad that he had had for lunch in his office. He remembered now. When Sean had shown him Kate’s suggested menus, this was not on any of them, so he had specially requested it.
They had a Montrachet with the starter, and it was perfect. Enough power to hold its own with the garlicky beetroot, the little kick of acidity at the end, the full flavour still filling his mouth long after he had swallowed it.
The Nigerian wife, whose name he knew he would never master, liked it too. She drank it like Coca-Cola, in long draughts that quickly emptied her glass, which was promptly refilled, but with no visible effect.
He asked her about her children and was astonished to hear her describe her two boys as villains.
‘One has a taxi business in Czechoslovakia. In Prague. They drive tourists all around the town instead of straight to where they want to go, and when they can’t pay, they take them to a cash point to extract all their money. Aiyeee! He was always a bad boy, that one.’ And she cackled with affectionate pride.
Oliver, amused and, in spite of himself, impressed by her insouciant attitude, asked, ‘And the other boy?’
‘He’s in jail.’ Her great round shoulders moved up and down: whether laughing or shrugging with indifference, he couldn’t decide. ‘Embezzlement,’ she said. ‘Very stupid boy. You do not try to steal from your father’s company, do you? Especially if your father is a clever, clever’ – she strung out the word: cle-e-e-e-ever – ‘old hyena and he will catch you.’
Oliver was enjoying himself. He looked across the enormous and elaborately laid table at the said ‘old hyena’, the one small man in the room. He was talking to Margaret, one of his senior officials who was standing in for Ruth. He looked more like a clerk than a prime minister.
‘And did he catch him?’
‘Sure. Of course. He just tell the police, and they put poor boy in jail.’
‘That must have been hard for your husband, shopping his own son. And for you.’
‘No, no, he’s safer in jail.’ She laughed with her head back and Oliver had a good view of perfect white teeth in a large deep pink mouth. It made him think of a hippopotamus. He quickly banished the thought which was unkind, probably racist.
‘Fathers always afraid of the young sons. Or nephews,’ she said. ‘They so ambitious. And in big, big hurry.’
Oliver did not think this a time for a discussion on the rule of law. ‘Well, I am sure he did the right thing,’ he said, and changed the subject.
Well trained by years in politics, Oliver politely divided his attentions equally between his two neighbours. The time went fast. The sea trout with braised fennel was delicious and quickly eaten.
This was followed by a champagne sorbet, to Oliver’s slight irritation. He did not remember ordering it and he hated being given things he had not ordered: things that came with ‘Chef’s compliments’ – ‘amuse bouches’ or extra little courses.
He assumed this sorbet was a trou Normand, that archaic interlude meant to aid digestion and ready the stomach for more food to come. Oliver looked at his watch. God, if we still have the main course, pud and coffee to go, we’ll be here till midnight. Maybe Dennis was right to have doubts about Kate.
There followed an unconscionably long wait. When both his neighbours were engaged with their neighbours and turned away from him, he caught Dennis’s eye, and was rewarded with an almost imperceptible shrug. I told you so, it said.
This angered Oliver, who at once signalled for Dennis to come to him. Dennis did so, walking swiftly and bending obediently to his ear.
‘What the hell is happening out there?’
‘I had a little contretemps with the young lady because she wanted to serve something that was not on the agreed menu, and we cannot have that, can we? But it is all sorted now, and coffee will be right out.’ Dennis’s voice was intending to be soothing, but the emollient tone irritated him further.
‘Coffee?’ Oliver was having difficulty keeping his voice down. ‘What about the main course and the pudding?’
Dennis put his lips close to Oliver’s ear, and whispered, ‘The sea trout was the main course and the sorbet is the dessert.’
Oliver could not believe it. It was ridiculous. The UK Government could not serve short rations to the largest collection of men ever seen together in a Mayfair dining room. These men could eat an ox single-handed. Besides, in his short experience, African politicians were even touchier than Arab ones. They could make a diplomatic incident out of this.
He glanced to right and left but his guests were all enjoying themselves, apparently unaware of the long wait for more food. He leant first to left, then to right, murmuring ‘I’m so sorry, I won’t be a minute.’ And he walked quietly into the kitchen, followed by Dennis.
Two butlers were lined up with coffee cups and saucers ready laid out on trays, waiting for the waiters to slip into place behind them with the pots of coffee, the cream and sugar.
Oliver put a hand up and said to them, ‘Hold it a second, will you?’ He looked across the still-room section to the kitchen proper where Kate was busy tipping biscuits from a serving basket into a biscuit tin. She had her head down and did not see him.
Oliver strode round the pass. ‘Kate, what on earth is going on? You cannot feed full-blooded Africans like Kensington ladies at lunch! It’s a bloody disaster.’
She looked up and he saw at once that she had been crying. But she brought her chin up and said, ‘I know. I told everyone. Hobhouse, your office, Dennis. No one would listen.’
‘But for God’s sake, Kate. You are the one who proposed the menu. You knew what the occasion was. Why on earth did you come up with a salad, a piece of fish and a sorbet? They are all sitting out there expecting two more courses!’
To Oliver’s astonishment, the woman took a step towards him, eyes shiny, face flushed, her chin up. ‘Foreign Secretary, I did not choose that menu. You did. I sent you three menus, and you insisted on the beetroot, which wasn’t on any of them, and you picked the sea trout which I had proposed for a starter, not as a main course, and the sorbet which I had as a light ending to the heaviest of the menus, the butternut soup and roast beef of old England …’ Her voice was rising as she said, ‘I knew it was all wrong. I told everyone, and I tried to change it.’ Her voice was near a shout now. ‘But everyone is so fucking frightened of you they didn’t dare tell you.’
She met his eyes. Her plump round cheeks were red and her eyes were flashing, whether from cr
ying or anger, he could not tell. ‘Sorry about the “fucking”, Sir. But it is so frustrating. Your officials haven’t the guts to challenge you, and of course they wouldn’t let me speak to your secretary or to Sean, never mind to you! Only your immediate underlings are allowed to speak to the Secretary of State!’
Absolute silence followed this. Kate put her hand up to her mouth and kept it there, her eyes wide and shiny above it. She looked as though she might weep again and was holding her lip steady with her fist.
Oliver took a breath and said, icily calm, ‘Let’s do the postmortem later. Right now, is there anything we can do?’
Kate looked across at Dennis, and gestured to the biscuit box in front of her. ‘I wanted to serve some cheese and fruit. I brought some just in case but Dennis refused …’
‘We cannot serve things that have not been agreed and that are not on the menu. It’s printed,’ said Dennis.
But Kate was already tipping the biscuits back into the silver basket, and reaching for the cheeses.
‘Dennis,’ said Oliver quietly, ‘I think it more important that the guests don’t go home hungry, don’t you?’
‘And while they’re eating,’ said Kate, ‘I could do Scotch Woodcock for everyone. I brought the eggs and anchovies too – in the hopes I could get you guys to see sense.’
Oliver did not like being lumped with Dennis in the ‘you guys’ and he was generally taken aback by Kate’s tone. No one spoke to secretaries of state like that. He turned on his heel and went back into the dining room.
Later that evening, while Oliver was being driven home, he put his head back against the leather and surveyed the evening. In the end it had all been rather good. And, warmed by the Montrachet and an excellent Volnay, he could see the funny side of the menu drama. That feisty little Kate had certainly stood her corner – and saved the day.
Maybe cheese followed by a savoury was not the most balanced end to a meal, but at least they didn’t go home hungry, and it was all satisfyingly British and old fashioned.
