The following morning, Maynard’s cleaner arrived as he was leaving. By eight fifteen he was at Claridge’s — William’s regular haunt for breakfast meetings. This morning when Maynard joined him he had every newspaper piled on the table and some stacked by his chair.
‘I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you,’ Maynard said, and flushed as he sat down.
They discussed the news coverage. The rival Labour candidate had expressed concern at beating Maynard by such a narrow margin. ‘But he still won,’ Maynard said, buttering his toast.
‘Listen,’ said William, ‘I’m going to give you some advice. Take no favours, you’ll have no debts. Show respect. A friend is useful, an enemy takes up your time. With that in mind, I have forgotten what you said to me last night.’ Before Maynard could respond, he took out a pocket calculator, and a computer no larger than a wallet. Intent on the screen, he tapped away. Then he turned it to face Maynard. ‘Is that up to date?’
On the tiny screen were Maynard’s private bank statements, details of his mortgage, life assurance policies, the accounts for his office and staff during the campaign, lists of queries on personal expenses, claims, then details of tax and VAT payments, and sums owing to him.
‘I pay my cleaner twenty quid a week,’ Maynard said. It was the one item not listed. But he was angry, confused and dismayed by all the information William had amassed. He continued to scroll through the personal details: his school, his scholarships, university degrees, even the odd payments for speeches he had written for various MPs. He had been so engrossed he had not really listened to what William had been saying. But now it dawned on him. Had he heard correctly? He was not withdrawing any further donations? ‘You will be in financial difficulties within months,’ William said. ‘You’ve taken out a second mortgage, you’ve no collateral left, and no fairy godmother in the wings to leave you a big inheritance. You need me, Andrew, more now than ever, and I’m offering you the deal of a lifetime. I’m going to back you to the hilt, all the way. Just you.’
William scraped back his chair and Maynard looked up. William needed a smoke, and it was not allowed in the dining room.
Maynard joined William in the foyer where he sat with his cigar. He was unsure what William had meant by ‘just you’. He felt as if he might be walking into a trap. What was the deal? What strings were attached?
William puffed until a halo of smoke formed round his head. He suggested that Maynard should go for a good long holiday to recharge his batteries and think clearly about what he should do. William was certain that his election campaign had got him noticed; it would be up to him now to approach the Tory leader to discuss his future.
Maynard leaned forward. ‘Why are you doing this?’
William stubbed out his cigar, only partially smoked, in the big silver ashtray on a stand by his chair. ‘I have my reasons.’
‘I need to know, sir. Please, you’re offering me so much — why?’
William frowned. Then after a long pause he cocked his head to one side. ‘Okay. It was just before lunch, a few years back, at the Party conference. Margaret Thatcher was sitting next to me. I watched her watching you. I saw her backbone stiffen. She never took her eyes off you until the end of your speech. You impressed me, and I saw that you had impressed her. That’s it, really. Now, I have to go, old chap. You think about it. Call me tonight, or whenever.’ He grinned at the confused young man, stood up and walked into the foyer.
William had to go only five paces across the pavement to reach his car. The passenger door was already open, his chauffeur standing by. He touched his cap when he saw Maynard.
Maynard stood rooted to the pavement, his heart thudding. William was getting into the car. ‘Can I come with you? Could you drop me wherever you’re going? Please?’
William shrugged, a little irritated: he wanted to get on with the day, but Maynard was fast off the mark, leaped in beside him and slammed the door.
‘This is a Rolls Royce,’ remarked William as the car glided away. ‘The doors are perfectly balanced and hinged. They do not require a heavy-handed slam. You should learn that. One day, perhaps, you’ll have one of your own, if we play our cards right.’
Maynard swallowed. His throat was bone dry.
William continued, leaning back against the soft leather seat. ‘You need a makeover. It’s all about image — get a professional. Lose those bloody glasses for a start. And you need a red hot PR person.’
Maynard felt as if he was hyperventilating. William leaned forward and opened a small compartment built into the back of the seat in front of him. Maynard saw that the compartment was stocked with all kinds of drinks, a cut-glass ice bucket, cigar boxes and cutters and cut-glass decanters with silver tops designed by Dunhill. William took out one of the decanters, poured a glass of water, and passed it to Maynard, who sipped it gratefully.
At last Maynard had pulled himself together. ‘I have never done anything illegal in my life,’ he said. ‘As a politician I have to be scrupulously honest — and everything you’re offering might be a potential trap — might ruin my career prospects. I’ll get there the hard way, if I have to, no matter how long it takes. I have no interest in personal wealth — or a “makeover”.’ He took a deep breath. ‘All those things are insignificant in comparison to the kind of changes I want to make to this country. Our current system is corrupt, we need to—’
‘Stop the car, please.’ William cut Maynard off before he could finish his sentence. He’d heard Maynard’s speeches repeatedly during the campaign, and applauded the radical ideas he had urged on his supporters. But now he was trying William’s patience. He leaned over and opened the young man’s door. ‘Get out, I’ve heard enough. Some people like to spend two million on a racehorse, but they never place a bet. It’s not the money they want, it’s not the winnings that excite them, it’s the enjoyment of watching the horse race, and the thrill of when — if — it wins. That’s all there is to it. That’s all you are to me. Now go home.’
‘Your racehorse? I jump when you say so?’
William shook his head in exasperation. All he wanted, he said, was to see Maynard win his seat in the next election and to be there to watch him do it. Then he took pity on him. ‘No strings, no traps. I believe in you, you dumb bastard!’
William held out his hand for Maynard to shake. ‘I mean it, I believe in you, son. You shine brightly, and you’re right to be cautious. This is a career you’ve wanted since you were a kid. Well, I’ll give it to you, with no ulterior motive. Now push off, I have work to do.’
Maynard walked away, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He must have looked such a wimp, but in fact he was highly ambitious and, at times, aggressive. Nevertheless, he would not allow himself to be treated like a commodity: he was not for sale. His career could not be compared with a racehorse. He had suffered too much already to get to where he was. Then he stopped and gave a humourless laugh. What career? In the cold light of morning, after all the hype, he knew he was still low on the political ladder. But maybe he had just stepped up a rung.
It took him three further days to contact William Benedict. His excuse for not calling earlier was that he had been busy with post-campaign work. In reality he had taken legal advice. He told William that he had decided to accept his offer and made it clear there must be no possibility of any backlash against him. Then he relaxed. He had a benefactor whom most ambitious men would give their right arm for.