‘Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,’ Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails. ‘Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.’
Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. ‘You miserable little sh—’
Suddenly, the door opened and in walked Mortima Urquhart in full flow. ‘Francis, it’s impossible, completely impossible. The apartment’s appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there’s not enough money left in the budget…’ She trailed off as she noted Landless’s fists trembling six inches above the table.
‘You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.’
‘Spare me the sermon.’
‘Ben, think it through. Put this one behind you. There will be other deals, other interests you will want to pursue, in which I can help. It would be useful to have a friend in Downing Street.’
‘That’s what I thought when I backed you for Prime Minister. My mistake.’ Landless was once again in control of himself, his hands steady, his gaze glacial and fixed upon Urquhart, only the quivering of his jowls revealing the tension within.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted,’ Mortima said awkwardly.
‘Mr Landless was just about to leave, I think,’ Stamper cut in from his guard post beside the radiator.
‘I am sorry,’ Mortima repeated.
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Landless, eyes still on her husband. ‘I can’t stay. I just learned of a funeral I have to attend.’
A Monarch lives in a gilded cage. Happiness depends on whether he spends more time looking at the depth of the gilding or the size of the bars.
‘I won’t hear of it, David.’
It was ludicrous. Mycroft was in turmoil; there were so many unformed doubts, half-fears that he could not or dared not realize, which he needed to talk through with the King, for both their sakes. Yet he was reduced to snatching a few words along with mouthfuls of chlorinated water as they ploughed through the waves of the Palace swimming pool. The King’s only concession to the interruption in his daily exercise schedule was to switch from the crawl to the breaststroke, enabling Mycroft more easily to match his pace. It was his rigid discipline that enabled the King to maintain his excellent physical shape, and kept all those who served him struggling to keep up.
The King was a fierce defender of the forms of marriage – it came with the job, he would say – and Mycroft had felt it necessary to make the offer. ‘It’s for the best, Sir,’ he persisted. ‘I can’t afford to let you become embroiled in my personal difficulties. I need some time to sort myself out. Better for all of us if I resign.’
‘I disagree.’ The King spat out a mouthful of water, finally resolving to finish the conversation on dry land, and headed for the marbled poolside. ‘We’ve been friends since university and I’m not going to throw away the last thirty years simply because some reptilian gossip columnist might hear of your private problems. I’m surprised you should think I would consider it.’ He ducked his shiny head one last time beneath the water as he reached for the steps. ‘You’re part of the management board of this firm, and that’s how it’s going to stay.’
Mycroft shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his vision. It wasn’t just the marriage, of course, it was all the other pressures he felt crowding in on him which made him feel so apprehensive and wretched. If he couldn’t be completely honest even with himself, how could he expect the King to understand? But he had to try.
‘Suddenly, everything looks different. The house. The street. My friends. Even I look different, to myself. It’s as if my marriage was a lens which gave the world a particular perspective over all these years, and now that it’s gone nothing seems quite the same. It’s a little frightening…’
‘I’m sorry, truly, about Fiona. After all, I’m godfather to your eldest, I’m involved.’ The King reached for his towel. ‘But, dammit, women have their own extraordinary ways and I can’t profess to understand them. What I do know, David, is that it would make no sense for you to try to get through your problems on your own, to cut yourself off not only from your marriage but also from what you have here.’ He placed a hand on Mycroft’s dripping shoulder. The contact was very close, his voice concerned. ‘You understand me, David, you always have. I am known by the whole world yet understood by so few. You do, you understand. I need you. I will not allow you to resign.’
Mycroft stared into his friend’s angular face. He found himself thinking the King’s leanness made him look drawn and older than his years, particularly with his hair grown so thin. It was as if a furnace inside was burning the King up too quickly. Perhaps he cared too much.
Care too much – was it possible? Fiona had tossed Mycroft back into the pool and he was struggling in the deep waters, unable to touch bottom. It dawned on him that he had never touched bottom, not once in his life. Far from caring too much, he realized he had never really cared at all and the sudden understanding made him panic, want to escape before he drowned. His emotional life had been shapeless, without substance or roots. Except here at the Palace, which now provided his only support. The man he had once tossed fully clothed through the ice of the college fountain and who had come up spitting bindweed and clutching a lavatory seat was saying, in the only way a lifetime of self-control allowed, that he cared. Suddenly it mattered, very much.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I don’t know a single marriage, Royal, common or just plain vulgar, which hasn’t been through the wringer; it’s so easy to think you’re on your own, to forget that practically everyone you know has jumped through the same hoops.’
Mycroft remembered just how many nights of their marriage he and Fiona had spent apart, and imagined what she had been up to on every one of those nights. There really had been a lot of hoops. He didn’t care, not even about that. So what did he care about?
‘I need you, David. I’ve waited all my life to be where I am today. Don’t you remember the endless nights at university when we would sit either side of a bottle of college port and discuss what we would do when we had the opportunity? We, David, you and me. Now the opportunity has arrived, we can’t throw it away.’ He paused while a liveried footman deposited a silver tray with two mugs of herbal tea on the poolside table. ‘If it’s really over with Fiona, try to put it behind you. Look ahead, with me. I can’t start on the most important period of my life by losing one of my oldest and most trusted friends. There’s so much to do, for us both.’ He began towelling himself vigorously as though determined to start that very minute. ‘Don’t make any decisions now. Stick with it for a couple of months and, if you still feel you need a break, we’ll sort it out. But trust me, stay with me. All will be fine, I promise.’
Mycroft was unconvinced. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere and no one he wanted to run to. And the thought of what he might find if he ran too far overwhelmed him. After so many years he was free, and he didn’t know if he could handle freedom. He stood, water dripping from the end of his nose and through his moustache, weighing his doubts against the Sovereign’s certainty. He could find no sense of direction, only his sense of duty.
‘So, what do you