“It’s the third time in five years,” said Elizabeth Kerslake, leafing through the confidential file and trying not to sound accusing.
“I may as well book into the same clinic as before,” said Amanda, matter-of-factly.
Elizabeth was determined to make her reconsider the consequences. “Is there any chance that the father would want you to have this child?”
“I can’t be certain who the father is,” said Amanda, looking shame-faced for the first time. “You see, it was the end of one relationship and the beginning of another.”
Elizabeth made no comment other than to say, “I estimate that you are at least eight weeks pregnant, but it could be as much as twelve.” She looked back down at the file. “Have you considered giving birth to the child and then bringing it up yourself?”
“Good heavens, no,” said Amanda. “I make my living as a model, not as a mother.”
“So be it,” Elizabeth sighed, closing the file. “I’ll make all the” — she avoided saying usual — “necessary arrangements. You must see your GP immediately and ask him to sign the required clearance forms. Then phone me in about a week, rather than make the trip down to Pucklebridge again.”
Amanda nodded her agreement. “Could you let me know what the clinic is going to charge this time? I’m sure they are suffering from inflation like the rest of us.”
“Yes, I will look into that, Miss Wallace,” said Elizabeth, just managing to keep her temper as she showed Amanda to the door. Once her patient had left Elizabeth picked up the confidential file from her desk, walked over to the cabinet, and flicked through S, T, U, until she found the right slot. Perhaps she should have been sterner with her but she was convinced that it would have made little difference. She paused, wondering if having the child might change the woman’s cavalier attitude to life.
Charles returned home after the debate feeling pleased with himself. He had received praise for his latest speech from every wing of the party, and the Chief Whip had made it quite clear that his efforts on the Finance Bill had not gone unnoticed.
As he drove back to Eaton Square he wound down the car window and let the fresh air rush in and the cigarette smoke out. His smile widened at the thought of Amanda sitting at home waiting for him. It had been a glorious couple of months. At forty-eight he was experiencing realities he had never even dreamed of in fantasy. As each day passed he expected the infatuation to wear off, but instead it only grew more intense. Even the memory the day after was better than anything he had experienced in the past.
Once the Holbein had been restored to his dining room wall Charles planned to talk to Amanda about their future; if she said “Yes” he would even be willing to grant Fiona a divorce. He parked the car and took out his latch key, but she was already there opening the front door to throw her arms around him.
“Why don’t we go straight to bed?” she greeted him.
Charles would have been shocked had Fiona uttered such feelings even once in their fifteen years of married life, but Amanda made it appear quite natural. She was already lying naked on the bed before Charles could get his waistcoat off. After they had made love and she was settled in his arms Amanda told him she would have to go away for a few days.
“Why?” said Charles, puzzled.
“I’m pregnant,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve already booked myself into a clinic. Don’t worry. I’ll be as right as rain in no time.”
“But why don’t we have the baby?” said a delighted Charles, looking down into her gray eyes. “I’ve always wanted a son.”
“Don’t be silly, Charlie. There’s years ahead of me for that.”
“But if we were married?”
“You’re already married. Besides, I’m only twenty-six.”
“I can get a divorce in a moment and life wouldn’t be so bad with me, would it?”
“Of course not, Charlie. You’re the first man I’ve ever really cared for.”
Charles smiled hopefully. “So you’ll think about the idea?”
Amanda looked into Charles’s eyes anxiously. “If I were to have a child I do hope he’d have blue eyes like yours.”
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“I’ll think about it. In any case, you may have changed your mind by morning.”
Raymond drove Kate to Heathrow. He was wearing the pink shirt she had chosen for him; she was wearing the little red box. He had so much to tell her on the way to the airport that she hardly spoke at all. The last four weeks had gone by in a flash. It was the first time he had been grateful for being in Opposition.
“It’s all right, Carrot Top. Don’t fuss. We’ll see each other whenever you come to New York.”
“I’ve only been to America twice in my life,” he said. She tried to smile.
Once she had checked her eleven bags in at the counter, a process that seemed to take forever, she was allocated a seat.
“Flight BA 107, gate number fourteen, boarding in ten minutes,” she was informed.
“Thank you,” she said and rejoined Raymond, who was sitting on the end of an already crowded tubular settee. He had bought two plastic cups of coffee while Kate had been checking in. They were both already cold. They sat and held hands like children who had met on a summer holiday and had now to return to separate schools.
“Promise me you won’t start wearing contact lenses the moment I’ve gone.”
“Yes, I can promise you that,” said Raymond, touching the bridge of his glasses.
“I’ve so much I still want to tell you,” she said.
He turned toward her. “Vice-presidents of banks shouldn’t cry,” he said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “The customers will realize you’re a soft touch.”
“Neither should Cabinet ministers,” she replied. “All I wanted to say, is that if you really feel...” she began.
“Hello, Mr. Gould.”
They both looked up to see a broad smile spread across the face of someone whose tan proved that he had just arrived from a sunnier climate.
“I’m Bert Cox,” he said, thrusting out his hand, “I don’t suppose you remember me.” Raymond let go of Kate’s hand and shook Mr. Cox’s.
“We were at the same primary school in Leeds, Ray. Mind you, that was a million light years ago. You’ve come a long way since then.”
How can I get rid of him? wondered Raymond desperately.
“This is the missus,” Bert Cox continued obliviously, gesturing at the silent woman in a flowery dress by his side. She smiled but didn’t speak. “She sits on some committee with Joyce, don’t you, love?” he said, not waiting for her reply.
“This is the final call for Flight BA 107, now boarding at gate number fourteen.”
“We always vote for you, of course,” continued Bert Cox. “The missus” — he pointed to the lady in the flowered dress again — “thinks you’ll be Prime Minister. I always say—”
“I must go, Raymond,” said Kate, “or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Can you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Cox?” said Raymond.
“Delighted. I’ll wait. I don’t often get a chance to have a word with my MP.”
Raymond walked with Kate toward the barrier. “I am sorry about this. I’m afraid they’re all like that in Leeds — hearts of gold, but never stop talking. What were you going to say?”
“Only that I would have been happy to live in Leeds, however cold it is. I never envied anyone in my life, but I do envy Joyce.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and walked toward the barrier before he could reply. She didn’t look back.
“Are you feeling all right, madam?” asked an airport official as she went through the security barrier.