'Shit, Roger, don't you ever bloody knock?' She threw a pillow at the intruder. 'And what the hell are you doing up so early? You don't normally surface until lunchtime.'
She did not bother to cover herself as O'Neill sat down at the end of the bed. There was an ease between them suggesting an absence of any sexual threat which would have startled most people. O'Neill constantly flirted with her, particularly in public, but on the two occasions when Penny had offered, O'Neill had been very affectionate and warm but had complained of being too exhausted. She guessed he had a deep streak of sexual insecurity
running
through him, which he hid beneath flattery and innuendo. Penny had heard from other women who had spent time with O'Neill that he was frequently too exhausted - attentive, Very forward, suggestive, but rarely able to commit himself fully. She was very fond of him, and longed to ease the insecurities out of him with her long, electric fingers, but she knew he would not drop his guard long enough to let her weave her magic. She had worked for O'Neill for nearly three years and had seen him slowly change as he found the pressures of political and public life increasingly infatuating, yet steadily more difficult to cope with.
To those who did not know him well he was extrovert, amusing, full of charm, ideas and energy. But Penny had watched him become increasingly erratic. He rarely came into the office nowadays before noon,
’
he had started making many private phone calls, getting agitated, disappearing suddenly. His constant hay fever and sneezing were unpleasant, but Penny was devoted to him. She did not understand many of the odd ways he had developed -particularly why he would not sleep with her. She had that strange blindness for him which comes with daily familiarity and strong affections. But she knew he depended on her. If he didn't need her in bed, he needed her practically every other moment of his day. It wasn't the same as love, but her warm heart responded anyway. She would do
almost anything for him.
‘
You got up
this
early just to come and woo me, didn't you? You can't resist me after all,' she teased.
'Shut up, you little tart, and cover up those gorgeous tits. That's not fair.'
Smiling wickedly, she lifted her breasts up towards him, goading him. 'Can't resist them after all. Well, who am I to refuse an order from the boss?'
Playfully she threw the bedclothes off her naked body and moved over on the mattress to make room for him. O'Neill's eyes couldn't help but follow the line of her long legs, and for the first time since Penny had known him he began to blush. She giggled as she noticed him staring hypnotically at her body, and he made a grab for the bedclothes to try and cover her up but instead succeeded only in losing his balance and getting tangled up in her long brown arms. As he lifted his head off the mattress, he found a rigid dark nipple staring at him from less than three inches away, and he had to use all of his strength to tear himself free. He retreated to the other side of the small room, visibly shaking.
‘P
en, please! You know I'm not at my best this early in the morning.'
'OK, Roger. Don't worry. I'm not going to rape you.' She was laughing playfully as she pulled the sheets loosely around her.
‘
But what are you doing up so early?'
I've just left this incredibly beautiful Brazilian gymnast who has spent all night teaching me a whole series of new exercises. We didn't have any gymnastic rings, so we used the chandelier. OK?'
She shook her head firmly.
'How could one so young and beautiful be so cynical?' he protested. 'All right. I had to make a delivery in the vicinity and I thought I'd come and say good morning.'
He didn't bother to add that Mattie Storin had nearly caught him as he was placing the document amongst the newspapers, and he welcomed the chance to lie low in his secretary's room for a while. He was still elated at the trouble which the leaked poll would cause the Party Chairman, who had been openly hostile to him in the last few weeks. Through his paranoia, worked on by Urquhart, he had failed to notice that the hard-pressed Williams had been short with most of his colleagues as well.
Penny tried to bring him back down to earth.
'Yeah,
but next time you come to say good morning, try knocking first. And make it after 8.30
’
'Don't give me a hard time. You know I can't live without you.'
'Enough passion, Roger. What do you want? You have to want something, don't you, even if not my body?'
'Actually, I did come to ask you something. It's a bit delicate really
...'
'Go ahead, Roger. You can be frank. You've already seen there's no one else in the bed!' She started laughing again.
O'Neill began to recover his salesman's charms, and started upon the story which Urquhart had drummed into him me previous evening.
'Pen, you remember Patrick Woolton, the Foreign Secretary. You typed a couple of his speeches during the election, and he certainly remembers you. He asked after you when I saw him last night and I think he's rather smitten with you. Anyway, he wondered if you would be interested in dinner with him but he didn't want to upset or offend you by asking direct, so I sort of offered to have a quiet word as it might be easier for you to say no to me rather than to him personally, you see
’
'OK, Roger
’
'OK what, Pen?'
'OK. I'll have dinner with him. What's the big deal?' 'Nothing. Except
...
Woolton's got a bit of a reputation with the ladies. He might just want more than - dinner.' Hoger, every man I've ever been out with since the age of fourteen has always wanted more than dinner. I can handle it. Might be interesting. He could improve my French!' She burst into fits of giggles once again, and threw her last pillow at him. O'Neill retreated through the door as Penny was looking around for something else to throw.
Five minutes later he was back in his own room and on the phone to Urquhart.
'Delivery made and dinner fixed.'
'Splendid, Roger. You've been most helpful. I hope the Foreign Secretary will be grateful too.'
'But I still don't see how you are going to get him to invite Penny to dinner. What's the point of all this?'
The point, dear Roger, is that he will not have to invite her to dinner at all. He is coming to my reception this evening. You will bring Penny, who you have established is more than willing to meet and spend some time with him. I shall introduce them over a glass of champagne or two, and see what develops. If I know Patrick Woolton - which as Chief Whip I do - it won't take more than twenty minutes before he's suggesting that they go to his room to discuss -how does
Private Eye
put it - Ugandan affairs?'
'Or French lessons,' muttered O'Neill. 'But I still don't see where that gets us.'
'Whatever happens, Roger, you and I will know about it. And knowledge is always useful.'
‘I
still don't see how.'
Trust me, Roger. You must trust me.'
‘I
do. I have to: I don't really get much choice, do I?'
That's righ
t, Roger. Now you are beginning to
see. Knowledge is power
’
The phone went dead. O'Neill thought he understood but wasn't absolutely sure. He still often struggled to figure out whether he was Urquhart's partner or prisoner, but could never really decide. He rummaged in his bedside cabinet and took out a small carton. He swallowed a couple of sleeping pills and collapsed fully clothed on the bed.
‘P
atrick. Thanks for the time
’
‘You
sounded quite serious on the phone. When Chief Whips say they want an urgent private word with you, they usually mean they've got the photographs under lock and key but unfortunately the News
of the World
has got the negatives!
’
Urquhart smiled and slipped through the open door into the Foreign Secretary's room. He had not come far, indeed only a few yards from his own bungalow next door in what the local constabulary had named 'Overtime Alley
’
the row of luxury private bungalows in the grounds of the conference hotel which housed leading Ministers, all of whom had a 24-hour rota of police guards running up huge overtime bills for the hapless local ratepayers.
'Drink?' the genial Lancastrian offered.
Thanks, Patrick. Scotch.'
The Right Honourable Patrick Woolton, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and one of Merseyside's many successful
emigres,
busied himself at a small drinks cabinet which quite obviously had already been used that afternoon, while Urquhart placed the Ministerial red box he was carrying in the corner of the room beside the four belonging to his overworked host. The brightly coloured leather-clad boxes are provided to all Ministers to house their official papers, speeches and other items which they require to keep secure. Red boxes go wherever Ministers go, even on holiday, and the Foreign Secretary was habitually followed around by a host of the small suitcase-sized containers carrying telexes and despatches, briefing papers and the other paraphernalia of diplomacy. The Chief Whip, with no conference speech to make and no foreign crises to handle, had arrived in Bournemouth with his box filled with three bottles of twelve-year-old malt whisky. Hotel drink prices are always staggering, he explained to his wife, even when you can find the brand you want.
He faced Woolton across a paper-strewn coffee table, and dispensed with the small talk.
‘
Patrick, I need to take your mind. In the strictest confidence. As far as I am concerned, this has to be one of those meetings which never took place.'
'Christ, you do have some photographs!' exclaimed Woolton, now only half joking. His eye for attractive young women was much discussed, but he was usually highly discreet, especially when he travelled abroad. Ten years earlier when he was just starting his Ministerial career, he had spent several painful hours answering questions from the Louisiana State Police about a weekend he had spent in a New Orleans motel with a young American girl who looked twenty, acted as if she were thirty and turned out to be just a few days over sixteen. The incident had been brushed over, but Woolton had never forgotten the tiny difference between a glittering political future and a charge of statutory rape.
'Something which could be rather more serious. I've been picking up some unhealthy vibrations in the last few weeks about Henry. You've sensed some of the irritation with him around the Cabinet table, and the media seem to be falling out of love with him in a very big way. There was no reason to expect an extended honeymoon after the election, but it's in danger of getting out of hand. I have just been approached by two of the most influential grass-roots party members saying that feeling at local level is getting very bad. We lost two more important local council by-elections last week in what should have been very safe seats, and we are going to lose quite a few more in the weeks ahead. Our majority in the Dorset by-election tomorrow is likely to be hit badly. To put no finer point on it, Patrick, the PM's unpopularity is dragging the whole Party down and we would have trouble winning an election for local dogcatcher at the moment. We seem to have blown it rather badly
’
Urquhart paused for a sip of whisky.
The problem is,' he continued, 'there's a view around that this is not just a passing phase. If we are to win yet another election, we will have to show plenty of vigour and life otherwise the electorate will want a change simply out of boredom. Quite a few of our backbenchers in
marginal
seats are already beginning to get nervous, and with a majority of just 24 we may not have as much time as we would like. A few lost by-elections and we could be forced into an early election.
7
He took another sip of whisky, cupping his hands around the tumbler as if to draw reassurance for his difficult task from the warm, peaty liquid.
I
’
ll come to the point, Patrick. I've been asked as Chief Whip
...'
- notice the formality, nothing personal in this, old chap -
'...
by one or two of our senior colleagues to take some gentle soundings about how deep the problem actually goes. In short, Patrick, and you will appreciate this is
not
easy
...'
- it never is, but it never seems to stop or even slow the inevitable thrust -
'...
I've been asked to find out how much trouble you personally think we are in. Is Henry any longer the right leader for us?
’
He took a deep draught and settled back in his chair.
The silence settled around the Foreign Secretary, impaling
him
on the point of the question. It took him more than a minute to respond. A pipe appeared out of his pocket, followed by a tobacco pouch and a box of Swan Vestas. He patiently filled the bowl, tamping down the fresh tobacco with his thumb, and took out a match. The striking of the match seemed very loud in the silence, and Urquhart shifted uneasily in his chair. Smoke began to rise from around Woolton as he drew on the pipe stem, until the sweet smelling tobacco was well alight and his face was almost hidden from view by a clinging blue fog. He waved his hand to disperse it and through the clearing air he looked directly at Urquhart, and chuckled. -