“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...”
“I’ll bet.”
“You’ve just taken against him, Elizabeth.”
“I’m against anything that might in the long term harm your career, Simon. Struggle on but never sacrifice your integrity, as you’re so fond of reminding the people of Coventry.”
On Friday morning, two weeks later, Andrew and Louise set out for London airport with one suitcase between them. As Andrew locked the front door the phone rang.
“No one’s in,” he shouted at the doorknob, “but we’ll be back on Monday.”
He had booked a suite at the Colombe d’Or nestled in the hills of St. Paul in the south of France. He was determined to prize Louise away from London and see she had some sun and rest.
The famous old hotel was everything the brochure had promised. On the walls hung paintings by Picasso, Monet, Manet, Utrillo — all of which the patroness, Madame Reux, had accepted many years before in place of payment from artists who needed lodging and a square meal. On the way up the winding staircase Louise was nearly knocked out by a Calder mobile and a Courbet hung above the bed in their room. But it was the bed itself, a sixteenth-century four-poster, that they both coveted. They were soon to discover it possessed a mattress so comfortable that visitors always overslept.
The food was memorable and they walked through the green hills each day to be sure they could tackle another full dinner at night. Three days of no radio, no television, no papers, and no telephone ensured that by Monday morning they were ready to face London. They swore they would return again soon.
Once their plane had landed at Heathrow they were made aware that the holiday was over. Twenty minutes passed before someone pushed the waiting steps up to the Vanguard’s door. Then a crowded bus to the terminal that seemed miles away was followed by a route-march to customs. Despite their first-class tickets their bags were among the last off. By the time the taxi had crawled through the morning rush hour to their front door in Cheyne Walk all Louise could say was, “I need another holiday.” As Andrew put his latch key in the door the telephone started ringing.
“I hope they haven’t been trying all weekend,” Louise said.
Andrew put the phone to his ear as it went dead.
“Just missed whoever it was,” said Andrew, picking up several brown envelopes from the floor. “France already seems about a week ago.” He kissed his wife. “Must get changed and be off to the House,” he said, checking his watch.
“How has the nation managed to survive without you?” mocked Louise.
When the phone rang again Andrew was just stepping out of the bath.
“Can you take it, Louise?” he shouted. A moment later he heard her rushing up the stairs.
“Andrew, it’s the Prime Minister’s office.”
He ran dripping and naked to the bedroom phone and picked up the extension.
“Andrew Fraser,” he said.
“This is No. 10,” said an official-sounding voice, “the Prime Minister has been wanting to contact you since Friday morning.”
“I’m sorry, I took my wife to Provence for the weekend.”
“Really, sir?” said the voice, not sounding at all interested. “May I tell the Prime Minister you are now free to speak to him?”
“Of course,” said Andrew, frowning at his nude reflection in the mirror. He must have put on half a stone; it would have to be four games of squash this week and no more wine at lunch.
“Andrew.”
“Good morning, Prime Minister.”
“Sad news about Hugh McKenzie.”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew, automatically.
“They warned me about his heart before the last election but he insisted he wanted to carry on. I’ve asked Bruce to be the new Secretary of State and Angus to take his place as minister. They both want you to be the new Under-Secretary — how do you feel about it?”
“I’d be delighted, Prime Minister,” Andrew stammered, trying to take in the news.
“Good. And by the way, Andrew, when you open your first red box you won’t find any tickets for Colombe d’Or, so I do hope Louise is fully recovered.” The phone clicked.
They had tracked him down, but the Prime Minister had left him in peace.
The first official function Andrew Fraser attended as Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary of State at the Scottish Office was Hugh McKenzie’s funeral.
“Think about it, Simon,” said Ronnie, as they reached the boardroom door. “Two thousand pounds a year may be helpful but if you take shares in my property company it would give you a chance to make some capital.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Simon, doing up the middle button of his blazer and trying not to sound too excited.
“Well, you’ve proved damned useful to me. Some of those people who you bring to lunch wouldn’t have allowed me past their front doors. I’d let you buy in cheap... you could get hold of 50,000 shares at one pound so when we go public you’ll make a killing.”
“Raising £50,000 won’t be that easy, Ronnie.”
“When your bank manager has checked over my books he’ll be only too happy to lend you the money, you see.”
After the Midland Bank had studied the authorized accounts of Nethercote and Company and the area manager had interviewed Simon, they agreed to his request, on the condition that Simon lodge the shares with the bank.
How wrong Elizabeth was proving to be, Simon thought, and when Nethercote and Company went on to double their profits for the year he brought home a copy of the annual report for his wife to study.
“Looks good,” she had to admit. “But that still doesn’t mean I have to trust Ronnie Nethercote.”
When Charles Seymour’s drink-driving charge came up in front of the Reading Bench he listed himself as C. G. Seymour — no mention of MP. Under profession he entered “Banker.”