“No, no,” said Pimkin, “I know my worth; I am not a complete fool.”
“So what do you want? Membership of White’s? Perhaps I could fix that.”
“Nothing as mundane. In return for putting you into Downing Street I expect to be translated to the House of Lords.”
Charles hesitated. He could always give Pimkin his word; and who other than Pimkin would notice if in three years’ time he didn’t carry it through?
“If you and your fifteen men vote for me next Tuesday I’ll put you in the Lords,” said Charles. “You have my word on it.”
“Good,” said Pimkin. “But one small thing, old chum,” he added as he closely folded his napkin.
“Christ — what do you want now?” asked Charles, exasperated.
“Like you, I want the agreement in writing.”
Charles hesitated again, but this time he knew he was beaten. “I agree,” he said.
“Good, then it’s a deal,” said Pimkin. Looking round for a waiter he added, “I rather think champagne is called for.”
When Pimkin put the same proposition two days later Simon Kerslake took some time before he answered. Then he said, “That’s a question I would have to consider on its merits at the time, if and when I became Prime Minister.”
“So bourgeois,” said Pimkin as he left Simon’s room. “I offer him the keys to No. 10 and he treats me like a locksmith.”
Charles left the Commons that night having spent his time going round a large cross-section of his supporters, and he was reassured to discover they were standing firm. Wherever he went in the long Gothic corridors members singly or in groups came up to pledge their support. It was true that Kerslake’s windfall of £300,000 was fast becoming yesterday’s news, but Charles still felt enough blood had been let from that wound to ensure his final victory, even though he still cursed Pimkin for holding up the result. One anonymous note, with all the necessary details, sent to the right Labour member, had certainly proved most effective. Charles cursed as he realized Elizabeth Kerslake had successfully stopped any further covert attacks on his rival.
When he arrived home he was appalled to find Amanda waiting for him in the drawing room.
“I thought I told you to stay away until the middle of next week?”
“I changed my mind, Charlie,” said Amanda.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“I think I’ve earned a little reward for being such a good girl.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asked as he stood by the mantelpiece.
“Fair exchange.”
“For what?”
“For the world rights to my life story.”
“Your what?” said Charles in disbelief. “Who is going to be the slightest bit interested in you?”
“It’s not me they’re interested in, Charlie, it’s you. The News of the World have offered me £100,000 for the unexpurgated story of life with Charles Seymour.” She added dramatically, “Or what it’s like to live with the second son of an earl who will go to any lengths to become Prime Minister.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Charles.
“Deadly serious. I’ve made quite a few notes over the years. How you got rid of Derek Spencer but failed to pull the same trick on Clive Reynolds. The extremes you went to trying to keep Simon Kerslake out of the House. How your first wife swapped the famous Holbein picture of the first Earl of Bridgwater. But the story which will cause the most interest is the one in which the real father of young Harry Seymour is revealed because his dad’s life story was serialized in the People a couple of years ago, and that seems to be one episode they missed out.”
“You bitch. You know Harry is my son,” said Charles, advancing toward her. But Amanda stood her ground.
“And perhaps I should include a chapter on how you assault your wife behind the closed doors of your peaceful Eaton Square mansion.”
Charles came to a halt. “What’s the deal?”
“I keep quiet for the rest of my life and you present me with £50,000 now and a further £50,000 when you become leader.”
“You’ve gone mad.”
“Not me, Charlie, I’ve always been sane. You see, I don’t have a paranoia to work out on dear harmless brother Rupert. The News of the World will love that part now that he’s the fifteenth Earl. I can just see the picture of him wearing his coronet and decked out in his ermine robes.”
“They wouldn’t print it.”
“They would when they learn that he’s as queer as a two-pound note, and therefore our only son will collect the earldom when he’s not entitled to it.”
“No one would believe it, and by the time they print the story it will be too late, said Charles.
“Not a bit,” said Amanda. “I am assured by my agent that the true reason behind the resignation of the leader of the Conservative party would be an even bigger scoop than that of a one-time contestant.”
Charles sank down in the nearest armchair.
“Twenty-five thousand,” he said.
“Fifty thousand,” replied his wife. “It’s only fair. After all, it’s a double deaclass="underline" no story to the press and you become leader of the Conservative party.”
“All right,” whispered Charles, rising to leave the room.
“Wait a minute, Charlie. Don’t forget I’ve dealt with you in the past.”
“What else are you hoping for?” said Charles, swinging round.
“Just the autograph of the next Tory leader,” she replied producing a check.
“Where the hell did you get hold of that?” asked Charles, pointing to the slip of paper.
“From your checkbook,” said Amanda innocently.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“From the top drawer of your desk.”
Charles snatched it from her and nearly changed his mind. Then he thought of his brother in the House of Lords, his only son not inheriting the title, and having to give up the leadership. He took out his pen and scribbled his name on the check before leaving his wife in the drawing room holding £50,000. She was checking the date and the signature carefully.
Simon and Elizabeth spent a quiet weekend in their country cottage while the photographers pitched camp in Eaton Square. They had received a leak from an “authoritative” source that Pimkin would come out in support of his old school chum.
“A brilliant move,” said Elizabeth over breakfast on the Sunday morning admiring the picture on the front page of the Observer.
“Another photo of Seymour telling us what he will do when he’s Prime Minister?” said Simon, not looking up from the Sunday Times.
“No,” said Elizabeth, and passed her paper across the table. Simon stared at the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater under the headline “A gift to the nation.”
“Good God,” said Simon. Are there no depths he will not sink to, to win this election?”
“My dear, by any standards you have delivered the coup de grace,” said Pimkin to Fiona over lunch that Sunday.
“I thought you would appreciate it,” said Fiona, pouring him another glass of his own wine.
“I certainly did and I particularly enjoyed the director of the National Gallery’s comments — ‘that Charles’s gesture of presenting the priceless painting to the nation was the act of a selfless man.’”
“Of course, once the story had been leaked to the press Charles was left with no choice,” said Alexander Dalglish.
“I realize that,” said Pimkin, leaning back, “and I would have given a dozen bottles of my finest claret to have seen Charles’s face the moment he realized the first Earl of Bridgwater had escaped his clutches forever. If he had denied giving the earl to the nation the publicity that would have followed would have certainly ensured defeat in the election on Tuesday.”