“It’s fascinating,” said Raymond. “Do you know—”
“No, I don’t. You haven’t spoken to me in the last three hours, and when you do it’s to tell me how you spend the day with your new mistress.”
“My new mistress?”
“The Secretary of State for Trade.”
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him.”
“What sort of day did you have at the bank?” asked Raymond, not looking up from his papers.
“I had a most fascinating day,” replied Kate.
“Why, what happened?”
“One of our customers required a loan,” said Kate.
“A loan,” repeated Raymond, still concentrating on the file in front of him. “How much?”
“‘How much do you want?’ I said. ‘How much have you got?’ they asked. ‘Four hundred and seventeen billion at the last count,’ I told them. That will do fine to start with,’ they said. ‘Sign here,’ I said. But I couldn’t close the deal because the lady concerned was only in possession of a £50 banking card.”
Raymond burst out laughing and slammed down the lid of the red box. “Do you know why I love you?”
“My taste in men’s clothes?” suggested Kate.
“No, no. Just your taste in men.”
“I always thought that mistresses were supposed to get fur coats, trips to the Bahamas, the odd solitaire diamond, yet all I ever get is to share you with your red box.”
Raymond opened the box once more, took out a small package, and handed it to Kate.
“What’s this?”
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
Kate slipped off the purple Asprey paper and found inside an exquisitely made miniature, a solid gold replica of a red box on a gold chain. The neat lettering on the side of the lid read, “For Your Eyes Only.”
“Although they don’t announce the birthdays of ministers’ mistresses in the Sunday Times, I can still remember the day we met.”
Andrew made a bid for the house in Pelham Crescent the day he was shown over it, and Louise’s mother came down to London immediately to organize the move.
“Let’s hope this does the trick,” she said.
Andrew prayed for nothing more. The move from Cheyne Walk took about a fortnight, and Louise could still walk only a few paces before she had to sit down. Louise’s mother rarely left the house and Andrew began to feel guilty about how much he was enjoying his new job at the Ministry of Defense. Each night and then again in the morning he would try a few words to Louise. She nodded occasionally, touched him once in a while and even began writing notes to him, but never spoke and never cried. The doctor became even more pessimistic. “The crucial time has passed,” he explained.
Andrew would sit with her for hours while he worked through the red boxes. Harrier jump jets for the RAF, Polaris missiles for the Royal Navy, Chieftain tanks for the Army, what should Labour’s attitude be to Trident when Polaris was phased out? Should we allow Cruise to be based on British soil? There was so much to learn before he could face the civil servants on their own ground or the members from the dispatch box. As the months passed Andrew was always asking questions; a year had gone by and he was beginning to know some of the answers.
He looked up at his wife once again. She was gazing at the portrait of Robert on the mantelpiece.
On the anniversary of his son’s sixth birthday Andrew stayed at Pelham Crescent all day with Louise. For the first time a tear lodged in her eye. As he held her, h
e kept remembering the lorry. He could see it so clearly now as if in slow motion. If only the phone hadn’t gone, if only the gate had been closed, if only he had turned earlier, if only he had run a little faster. “No goal, Dad, no goal.”
If only he had scored that goal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE