First Among Equals

“Hi, Sylv. Is the room free?”

“Just,” said the blonde sourly.

Mandy pushed open the door and Raymond followed her in. The room was small and narrow. In one corner stood a tiny bed and a threadbare carpet. The faded yellow wallpaper was peeling in several places. There was a washbasin attached to the wall; a dripping tap had left a brown stain on the enamel.

Mandy put her hand out, and waited.

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Raymond, taking out his wallet to find he only had nine pounds on him.

She scowled. “Not going to get overtime tonight, am I, darling?” she said, tucking the money carefully away in the corner of her bag before matter-of-factly taking off all her clothes.

Although the act of undressing had been totally sexless he was still amazed by the beauty of her body. Raymond felt somehow detached from the real world. He watched, eager to feel the texture of her skin, but made no move. She lay down on the bed.

“Let’s get on with it, darling. I’ve got a living to earn.”

The minister undressed quickly, keeping his back to the bed. He folded his clothes in a neat pile on the floor as there was no chair. Then he lay down on top of her. It was all over in a few minutes.

“Come quickly, don’t you, darling?” said Mandy, grinning.

Raymond turned away from her and started washing himself as best he could in the little basin. He dressed hurriedly, realizing he must get out of the place as rapidly as possible.

“Can you drop me back at the petrol station?” Mandy asked.

“It’s exactly the opposite direction for me,” he said, trying not to sound anxious as he made a bolt for the door. He passed Sylv on the stairs accompanied by a man. She stared at him more closely the second time. Raymond was back in his car a few moments later. He drove home quickly but not before unwinding the windows in an attempt to get rid of the smell of stale tobacco and cheap perfume.

Back in Lansdowne Road he had a long shower before creeping into bed next to Joyce; she stirred only slightly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHARLES DROVE HIS wife down to Ascot early to be sure to avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic that always developed later in the day. With his height and bearing, Charles Seymour was made for tails and a topper and Fiona wore a hat which on anyone less self-assured would have looked ridiculous. They had been invited to join the McFarlands for the afternoon and when they arrived they found Sir Robert awaiting them in his private box.

“You must have left home early,” said Charles.

“About thirty minutes ago,” he said, laughing. Fiona looked politely incredulous.

“I always come here by helicopter,” he explained.

They lunched on lobster and strawberries accompanied by a fine vintage champagne which the waiter kept pouring and pouring. Charles might not have drunk quite as much had he not picked the winners of the first three races. He spent the fifth race slumped in a chair in the corner of the box and only the noise of the crowd kept him from nodding off.

If they hadn’t waited for a farewell drink after the last race Charles might have gotten away with it. He had forgotten that his host was returning by helicopter.

The long tail of cars across Windsor Great Park all the way back to the M4 made Charles very short-tempered. When he eventually reached the motorway he put his Daimler into fourth gear. He didn’t notice the police car until the siren sounded and he was directed to pull over.

“Do be sensible, Charles,” whispered Fiona.

“Don’t worry, old girl, I know exactly how to deal with the law,” he said, and wound down the window to address the policeman who stood by the car. “Do you realize who I am, officer?”

“No, sir, but I would like you to accompany me—”

“Certainly not, officer, I am a Member of …”

“Do be quiet,” said Fiona, “and stop making such a fool of yourself.”

“ … Parliament and I will not be treated …”

“Have you any idea how pompous you sound, Charles?”

“Perhaps you will be kind enough to accompany me to the station, sir?”