First Among Equals

“Black?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Black,” she said.

“Sugar?”

“For a man who has served as a minister of the Crown and who, it’s rumored, is about to become the youngest QC in the country, you’re still very unsure of yourself with women.”

Raymond blushed, but raised his head and stared into her eyes.

In the silence he caught Aznavour’s words, “You’ve let yourself go …”

“Would my Honorable friend care to dance?” she said quietly.

Raymond could still remember the last occasion he had danced. This time he was determined it would be different. He held Stephanie so that their bodies touched and they swayed rather than danced to the music of Marcel Stellman. She didn’t notice Raymond slipping off his glasses and putting them into his jacket pocket. He bent over and kissed her neck. She gave a long sigh, and when they parted, she said, “Let’s hope this is between times.”

Charles studied his chart of 330 Conservatives. He felt confident of 217, not sure about fifty-four, and had almost given up on fifty-nine. On the Labour side the best information he could glean was that fifty Socialists were expected to defy the Whip and join the Government’s ranks when the great vote took place.

“The main fly in the ointment,” Charles reported to the Chief Whip, “is still the Trade Union Reform Bill. The left are trying to convince those Socialists who still support the bill that there is no cause so important for which they should enter the same lobby as those Tory trade union bashers.” He went on to explain his fear that unless the Government were willing to modify the Trade Union Bill they might lose Europe on the back of it. “Alec Pimkin doesn’t help matters by trying to gather the waverers in our party round him.”

“There’s no chance of the Prime Minister modifying one sentence of the Trade Union Bill,” said the Chief Whip, draining his gin and tonic. “He promised it in his speech at the party conference, and he intends to deliver by the time he goes to Blackpool at the end of this year. I can also tell you he isn’t going to like your conclusions on Pimkin, Charles. He cares almost as passionately about trade union reform as he does about Europe.” Charles was about to protest. “I’m not complaining, you’ve done damn well so far. Just keep working on the fifty waverers. Threaten, cajole, bully, bribe. Try anything, but get them in the right lobby come the night, Pimkin included.”

“How about sex?” asked Charles.

“You’ve been seeing too many American films,” said the Chief Whip, laughing. “In any case I don’t think we’ve got anyone other than Miss Norse to offer them.”

Charles returned to his office and went over the list once again. His forefinger stopped at the letter “P.” Charles strolled out into the corridor and looked around; his quarry wasn’t there. He checked the Chamber: no sign of him. He passed the library. No need to look in there, he thought, and moved on to the smoking room where he found his man, about to order another gin.

“Alec,” said Charles expansively.

The rotund figure of Pimkin looked round.

May as well try bribery first, thought Charles. “Let me get you a drink.”

“That’s good of you, old fellow,” said Pimkin, nervously fingering his bow tie.

“Now, Alec, what’s this about your voting against the European Bill?”

Simon was horrified when he read the initial document. Its implications were all too evident.

The report of the new Boundary Commission had been left in the red box for him to study over the weekend. He had agreed at a meeting of Home Office officials that he would steer it through the House as quickly as possible so that it would make the basis for the seats to be contested at the next election. As the Secretary of State reminded him: there must be no hold-ups.

Simon had read the document carefully. In essence the changes made sense and, because of the movement of families from urban to rural areas, it would undoubtedly create more winnable seats for the Conservatives overall. No wonder the party wanted no hold-ups. But what could he do about the decision the Commission had come to on his own constituency, Coventry Central? His hands were tied. If he suggested any change from the Boundary Commission’s recommendations he would rightly be accused of gerrymandering.

Because of the city’s dwindling population the Commission had recommended that the four constituencies of Coventry become three. Coventry Central was to be the one to disappear, its voters distributed among Coventry West, Coventry East, and Coventry North. Simon realized this would leave one safe seat for his sitting colleague and two safe Labour seats. It had never been far from his mind how marginal a constituency he represented. Now he was on the verge of being without one at all. He would have to traips

e around the country all over again looking for a new seat to fight at the next election, while at the same time taking care of his constituents in the moribund one; and at the stroke of a pen—bis pen—they would pass on their loyalties to someone else. If only he had remained in Housing and Local Government he could have put up a case for keeping all four seats.

Elizabeth was sympathetic when he explained the problem but told him not to concern himself too much until he had spoken to the vice-chairman of the party, who advised candidates which constituencies were likely to become available.

“It may even work out to your advantage,” she added.

“What do you mean?” said Simon.

“You could get a safer seat nearer London.”

“With my luck I’ll end up with a marginal in Newcastle.”

Elizabeth prepared his favorite meal and spent the evening trying to keep up his spirits. After three portions of shepherd’s pie Simon fell asleep almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow. But she stayed awake long into the night.