First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  That was before he met Ronnie Nethercote.

  Andrew Fraser had often read that the anger or jealousy of one man could block the advance of a political career but he still found it hard to accept that it could apply to him. What annoyed him even more was that Hugh McKenzie’s tentacles seemed to have spread through every other department.

  Andrew’s marriage to Louise Forsyth had been expansively covered in the national papers and the absence of the Secretary of State at the wedding did not escape the notice of the Daily Express’s William Hickey. They even published an out-of-date photograph of Alison McKenzie looking sorrowful.

  Sir Duncan reminded his son that politics was for long-distance runners, not sprinters, and that he still had a few more laps to complete yet. “An unfortunate analogy,” considered Andrew as he had been a member of the Edinburgh University 4 x 110 relay team. Nevertheless he prepared himself for the marathon.

  “Don’t forget, Harold Macmillan spent fourteen years on the back benches before holding office,” Sir Duncan added.

  Louise accompanied Andrew all over the country for his speeches “of major importance,” usually to an audience of less than twenty; she only stopped traveling to Scotland every week when she discovered she was pregnant.

  To Louise’s surprise, Andrew turned out to be a keen anticipatory father, determined his son would not think of him only as a politician. Single-handed, he converted one of the upstairs bedrooms in Cheyne Walk into a nursery and sought her approval for a variety of blue decorative schemes.

  Louise was anxious that Andrew should extend the same feelings to their unborn child, if they had a daughter.

  Raymond Could quickly gained a reputation at the Department of Employment. He was thought of as extremely bright, demanding, hard working and, not that it was ever reported to him, arrogant. His ability to cut a junior civil servant off in mid-sentence or to correct his principal Private Secretary on matters of detail did not endear him even to his closest staff, who always want to be loyal to their master.

  Raymond’s work load was prodigious and even the Permanent Secretary experienced Gould’s unrelenting “Don’t make excuses” when he tried to trim one of the minister’s private schemes. Soon senior civil servants were talking of when, not whether, he would be promoted. His Secretary of State, like all men who were expected to be in six places at once, often asked Raymond to stand in for him, but even Raymond was surprised when he was invited to represent the department as guest of honor at the annual CBI dinner.

  Joyce checked to see that her husband’s dinner jacket was well brushed, his shirt spotless, and his shoes shining like a guards officer’s. His carefully worded speech—a combination of civil-servant draftsmanship and a few more forceful phrases of his own to prove to the assembled capitalists that not every member of the Labour party was a “raving commie”—was safely lodged in his inside pocket. His driver ferried him from his Lansdowne Road home toward the West End.

  Raymond enjoyed the occasion; although he was nervous when he rose to represent the Government in reply to the toast of the guests. By the time he had resumed his seat he felt it had been one of his better efforts. The ovation that followed was certainly more than polite from what had to be classified as a naturally hostile audience.

  “That speech was dryer than the Chablis,” one guest whispered in the chairman’s ear but he had to agree that, with men like Gould in high office, it was going to be a lot easier to live with the Socialists.

  The man on Simon Kerslake’s left was far more blunt in voicing his opinion of Could. “Bloody man thinks like a Tory, talks like a Tory, so why isn’t he a Tory?” he demanded.

  Simon grinned at the prematurely balding man who had been expressing his equally vivid views throughout dinner. Corpulent and ruddy-faced, Ronnie Nethercote looked as if he was trying to escape from every part of his bulging dinner jacket.

  “I expect,” said Simon in reply, “that Gould would have found it hard to join the Young Conservatives, born in the thirties and living in Leeds.”

  “Balls,” said Ronnie. “I managed it and I was born in the East End of London without any of his advantages. Now tell me, Mr. Kerslake, what do you do when you’re not wasting your time in the House of Commons?”

  Raymond stayed on after dinner and chatted for some time to the captains of industry. A little after eleven he left to return to Lansdowne Road.

  As his chauffeur drove slowly away from Grosvenor House down Park Lane, the Under-Secretary waved expansively back to his host. Someone else waved in reply. At first Raymond only glanced across, assuming it was another dinner guest, until he saw her legs. Standing on the corner outside the petrol station on Park Lane stood a young girl smiling at him invitingly, her white leather miniskirt so short it might have been better described as a handkerchief. Her long legs reminded him of Joyce ten years before except that they were black. Her finely curled hair and the set of her hips remained firmly implanted in Raymond’s mind all the way home.

  When they reached Lansdowne Road Raymond climbed out of the official car and said “Good night” to his driver before walking slowly toward his front door, but he did not take out his latch key. He waited until he was sure the driver had turned the corner before looking up and checking the bedroom window. All the lights were out. Joyce must be asleep.

  He crept down the path and back on to the pavement, then looked up and down the road, finally spotting the space where Joyce had parked the Sunbeam. He checked the spare key was on his key-ring and fumbled about, feeling like a car thief. It took three attempts before the car spluttered into life, and Raymond wondered if he would wake up the whole road as he moved off and headed back to Park Lane, not certain what to expect. When he reached Marble Arch he traveled slowly down in the center stream of traffic. A few dinner guests in evening dress were still spilling out of Grosvenor House. He passed the petrol station: she hadn’t moved. She smiled again and he accelerated, nearly running into the car in front of him. Raymond traveled back up to Marble Arch but, instead of turning toward home, he drove down Park Lane again, this time not as quickly and on the inside lane. He took his foot off the accelerator as he approached the petrol station and she waved again. He returned to Marble Arch before repeating his detour down Park Lane, this time even more slowly. As he passed Grosvenor House for a third time he checked to be sure that there were no stragglers still chatting on the pavement. It was clear. He touched the brakes and his car came to a stop just beyond the petrol station. He waited.

  The girl looked up and down the street before strolling over to the car, opening the passenger door and taking a seat next to the Under Secretary of State for Employment.

  “Looking for business?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Raymond hoarsely.

  “Come on, darling. You can’t imagine I was standing out there hoping to get a suntan.”

  Raymond turned to look at the girl more carefully and wanted to touch her despite the aura of cheap perfume. Her black blouse had three buttons undone; a fourth would have left nothing to the imagination.

  “It’s ten pounds at my place.”

  “Where’s your place?” he heard himself say.

  “I use a hotel in Paddington.”

  “How do we get there?” he asked, putting his hand nervously through his red hair.

  “Just head up to Marble Arch and I’ll direct you.”

  Raymond pulled out and went off toward Hyde Park Corner, and drove round before traveling on up toward Marble Arch once again.

  “I’m Mandy,” she-said, “what’s your name?”

  Raymond hesitated. “Malcolm.”

  “And what do you do, Malcolm, in these hard times?”

  “I … I sell secondhand cars.”

  “Haven’t picked out a very good one for yourself, have you?” She laughed.

  Raymond made no comment. It didn’t stop Mandy.

  “What’s a secondhand car salesman doing dressed up like a toff, then?”

/>   Raymond had quite forgotten he was still in evening dress.

  “I’ve … just been to a convention … at the … Hilton Hotel.”

  “Lucky for some,” she said, and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been standing outside Grosvenor House all night in the hope of getting some rich feller from that posh party.” Raymond’s cheeks nearly turned the color of his hair. “Slow down and take the second on the left.”

  He followed her instructions until they pulled up outside a small dingy hotel. “I’ll get out first, then you,” she said. “Just walk straight through reception and follow me up the stairs.” As she got out of the car he nearly drove off and might have done so if his eye hadn’t caught the sway of her hips as she walked back toward the hotel.

  He obeyed her instructions and climbed several flights of narrow stairs until he reached the top floor. As he approached the landing, a large bosomy blonde passed him on the way down.

  “Hi, Mandy,” she shouted back at her friend.

  “Hi, Sylv. Is the room free?”

  “Just,” said the blonde sourly.

  Mandy pushed open the door and Raymond followed her in. The room was small and narrow. In one corner stood a tiny bed and a threadbare carpet. The faded yellow wallpaper was peeling in several places. There was a washbasin attached to the wall; a dripping tap had left a brown stain on the enamel.

  Mandy put her hand out, and waited.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Raymond, taking out his wallet to find he only had nine pounds on him.

  She scowled. “Not going to get overtime tonight, am I, darling?” she said, tucking the money carefully away in the corner of her bag before matter-of-factly taking off all her clothes.

  Although the act of undressing had been totally sexless he was still amazed by the beauty of her body. Raymond felt somehow detached from the real world. He watched, eager to feel the texture of her skin, but made no move. She lay down on the bed.

  “Let’s get on with it, darling. I’ve got a living to earn.”

  The minister undressed quickly, keeping his back to the bed. He folded his clothes in a neat pile on the floor as there was no chair. Then he lay down on top of her. It was all over in a few minutes.

  “Come quickly, don’t you, darling?” said Mandy, grinning.

  Raymond turned away from her and started washing himself as best he could in the little basin. He dressed hurriedly, realizing he must get out of the place as rapidly as possible.

  “Can you drop me back at the petrol station?” Mandy asked.

  “It’s exactly the opposite direction for me,” he said, trying not to sound anxious as he made a bolt for the door. He passed Sylv on the stairs accompanied by a man. She stared at him more closely the second time. Raymond was back in his car a few moments later. He drove home quickly but not before unwinding the windows in an attempt to get rid of the smell of stale tobacco and cheap perfume.

  Back in Lansdowne Road he had a long shower before creeping into bed next to Joyce; she stirred only slightly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHARLES DROVE HIS wife down to Ascot early to be sure to avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic that always developed later in the day. With his height and bearing, Charles Seymour was made for tails and a topper and Fiona wore a hat which on anyone less self-assured would have looked ridiculous. They had been invited to join the McFarlands for the afternoon and when they arrived they found Sir Robert awaiting them in his private box.

  “You must have left home early,” said Charles.

  “About thirty minutes ago,” he said, laughing. Fiona looked politely incredulous.

  “I always come here by helicopter,” he explained.

  They lunched on lobster and strawberries accompanied by a fine vintage champagne which the waiter kept pouring and pouring. Charles might not have drunk quite as much had he not picked the winners of the first three races. He spent the fifth race slumped in a chair in the corner of the box and only the noise of the crowd kept him from nodding off.

  If they hadn’t waited for a farewell drink after the last race Charles might have gotten away with it. He had forgotten that his host was returning by helicopter.

  The long tail of cars across Windsor Great Park all the way back to the M4 made Charles very short-tempered. When he eventually reached the motorway he put his Daimler into fourth gear. He didn’t notice the police car until the siren sounded and he was directed to pull over.

  “Do be sensible, Charles,” whispered Fiona.

  “Don’t worry, old girl, I know exactly how to deal with the law,” he said, and wound down the window to address the policeman who stood by the car. “Do you realize who I am, officer?”

  “No, sir, but I would like you to accompany me—”

  “Certainly not, officer, I am a Member of …”

  “Do be quiet,” said Fiona, “and stop making such a fool of yourself.”

  “ … Parliament and I will not be treated …”

  “Have you any idea how pompous you sound, Charles?”

  “Perhaps you will be kind enough to accompany me to the station, sir?”

  “I want to speak to my solicitor.”

  “Of course, sir. As soon as we reach the station.”

  When Charles arrived at the constabulary he proved quite incapable of walking in a straight line and refused to provide a blood sample.

  “I am the Conservative MP for Sussex Downs.”

  Which will not help you, Fiona thought, but he was past listening and only demanded that she phone the family solicitor at Speechly, Bircham and Soames.

  After lan Kimmins had spoken first gently, then firmly to Charles his client eventually cooperated with the police.

  Once Charles had completed his written statement Fiona drove him home, praying that his stupidity would pass unnoticed by the press the following day.

  Andrew even bought a football but hid it from Louise.

  As the months passed Louise’s slight frame expanded alarmingly. Andrew would rest his head on the bulge and listen for the heartbeat. “It’s a scrum-half,” he declared.

  “Perhaps she’s a center forward,” Louise suggested, “and will want to emulate the distaff side of the family.”

  “If he has to be a center forward he will play for Hearts,” Andrew assured her.

  “Male chauvinist pig,” she called to his back as he headed off to the Commons that morning. Andrew toyed with the names of Jamie, Robert, Hector, and lain and had settled on Robert before he had reached Westminster. On arrival at New Palace Yard he hailed the policeman on the gate and was surprised to see the familiar figure immediately rush toward him.

  Andrew wound down the window. “What’s the problem, officer?”

  “Your wife’s been taken to St. Mary’s, Paddington, sir. Emergency wing.”

  Andrew would have broken the speed limit all the way to Marble Arch if it hadn’t been for the traffic. He kept praying he would be there in time, but he couldn’t help remembering that Louise was only six months pregnant. When he arrived the doctor on duty would not allow him to see her.

  “How is Louise?” were Andrew’s first words.

  The young doctor hesitated, then said, “Your wife’s fine, but I’m afraid she’s lost the baby.”

  Andrew felt his whole body go limp. “Thank God she’s all right,” he said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you see her until she has come out of sedation.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Andrew, glancing at the lapel badge on her white coat.

  “But I can see no reason why you shouldn’t have more children in the future,” she added gently, before he had the chance to ask the question.

  Andrew smiled with relief and began pacing up and down the corridor, unaware of the passing of time, until the doctor returned and said it would now be all right for him to see his wife.

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed?” were Louise’s first words when eventually he was allowed to see her.

  “Don’t be
silly—we’ll have a dozen before we’re through,” he said, taking her hand.

  She tried to laugh. “Do you know my doctor’s husband?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Andrew.

  “Simon Kerslake.”

  “Good heavens, yes. Very capable fellow. Look aye, lass,” said Andrew, putting on a deep brogue, “you’ll be a new woman after a couple of days’ rest, I’ll guarantee it.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “I’ll stick with the old one. And I’ll tell you what: as soon as they let you out of this place we’ll go down to the south of France for the weekend.”

  “You don’t like him because he comes from the East End,” said Simon, after she had read the letter.

  “That’s not true,” replied Elizabeth. “I don’t like him because I don’t trust him.”

  “But you’ve only met him twice.”

  “Once would have been quite enough.”

  “Well, I can tell you I’m impressed by the not inconsiderable empire he’s built up over the last ten years, and frankly it’s an offer I can’t refuse,” said Simon, pocketing the letter.

  “I know we could do with a little more money,” said Elizabeth, “but surely not at any cost.”

  “I won’t be offered many chances like this,” continued Simon, “and frankly we could use the money. The belief people have that every Tory MP has some lucrative sinecure and two or three non-executive directorships is plain baloney and you know it. Not one other serious proposition has been put to me since I’ve been in the House, and another £2,000 a year for a monthly board meeting would come in very handy.”

  “And what else?”

  “What do you mean, what else?”

  “What else does Mr. Nethercote expect for his £2,000? Don’t be naive, Simon, he’s not offering you that kind of money on a plate unless he’s hoping to receive some scraps back.”

  “Well, maybe I have a few contacts and a little influence with one or two people …”