First Among Equals

“I have a file in front of me marked ‘Miss Amanda Wallace and if you wish all its contents to remain confidential I would advise you to avoid any repercussion of your antics. It’s packed with names Private Eye would wallow in for months.”

Charles said nothing.

Elizabeth’s confidence was growing. “You needn’t bother to inform me that such an action would get me struck off the medical register. That would be a small penalty for watching you have to suffer the way my husband has this week.” She paused. “Good day, Mr. Seymour.”

Charles still didn’t speak.

Elizabeth put the phone down and swallowed the remainder of the brandy. She prayed that she had sounded convincing because she knew she could never carry out such a threat.

Charles took Pimkin to dinner at White’s—where Alec had always wanted to be a member—and was escorted to a private room on the first floor.

Charles didn’t wait long to ask, “Why are you going through with this charade? Don’t you realize I would have won it in the first round, if you hadn’t stood?”

Pimkin bridled. “No doubt, but I haven’t had so much fun in years.”

“Who the hell got you your seat in the first place?”

“I well remember,” said Pimkin. “And I also remember the price you exacted for it. But now it’s my turn to call the tune, and this time I require something quite different.”

“What are you hoping for? Chancellor of the Exchequer in my first administration?” said Charles, barely able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“No, no,” said Pimkin, “I know my worth; I am not a complete fool.”

“So what do you want? Membership of White’s? Perhaps I could fix that.”

“Nothing as mundane. In return for putting you into Downing Street I expect to be translated to the House of Lords.”

Charles hesitated. He could always give Pimkin his word; and who other than Pimkin would notice if in three years’ time he didn’t carry it through?

“If you and your fifteen men vote for me next Tuesday I’ll put you in the Lords,” said Charles. “You have my word on it.”

“Good,” said Pimkin. “But one small thing, old chum,” he added as he closely folded his napkin.

“Christ—what do you want now?” asked Charles, exasperated.

“Like you, I want the agreement in writing.”

Charles hesitated again, but this time he knew he was beaten. “I agree,” he said.

“Good, then it’s a deal,” said Pimkin. Looking round for a waiter he added, “I rather think champagne is called for.”

When Pimkin put the same proposition two days later Simon Kerslake took some time before he answered. Then he said, “That’s a question I would have to consider on its merits at the time, if and when I became Prime Minister.”

“So bourgeois,” said Pimkin as he left Simon’s room. “I o

ffer him the keys to No. 10 and he treats me like a locksmith.”

Charles left the Commons that night having spent his time going round a large cross-section of his supporters, and he was reassured to discover they were standing firm. Wherever he went in the long Gothic corridors members singly or in groups came up to pledge their support. It was true that Kerslake’s windfall of £300,000 was fast becoming yesterday’s news, but Charles still felt enough blood had been let from that wound to ensure his final victory, even though he still cursed Pimkin for holding up the result. One anonymous note, with all the necessary details, sent to the right Labour member, had certainly proved most effective. Charles cursed as he realized Elizabeth Kerslake had successfully stopped any further covert attacks on his rival.

When he arrived home he was appalled to find Amanda waiting for him in the drawing room.

“I thought I told you to stay away until the middle of next week?”

“I changed my mind, Charlie,” said Amanda.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“I think I’ve earned a little reward for being such a good girl.”