Claire Carlsen turned and smiled, her face lighting up in recognition. She was also an MP, at thirty-eight a dozen years younger than Makepeace and the editor.
‘And what have you done to earn your place amidst this glittering herd?’ Brynford-Jones enquired. ‘I thought nobody below the rank of Earl or Archbishop was allowed at this trough. Certainly not a humble backbencher.’
‘It’s called tokenism, Bryan. Apparently professional middle-aged moralizers like you like to have a bit of skirt around to remind them of lost youth. You know, slobber a bit and go away happy. That’s the plan.’ The smile was warm but the autumn-blue eyes searching. She was tall, almost eye-to-eye with the rotund editor who enjoyed the glint of evening sunlight shining through her blonde hair.
Brynford-Jones laughed loudly. ‘You’re too late for confession. I’ve already owned up to being a voyeur and in your case I’ll happily plead guilty. If ever that husband of yours throws you out, you’d be more than welcome to come and stir my evening cocoa.’
‘If ever I throw that husband of mine out,’ she corrected, ‘I’d hope to be stirring more than cocoa in the evenings. Anyway, what have you two been plotting? Stripper-grams to the Synod, or something frivolous?’
‘I was enquiring whether our friend here has what it takes to succeed in politics, the necessary qualities of energy and ambition to become the next Prime Minister. Would you lay money on him, Claire?’
She arched an eyebrow – she possessed a highly expressive face and, when relaxed, an aura of refreshing mischief. In response to Brynford-Jones’ invitation, she examined Makepeace as though for the first time, the end of her nose puckered in scepticism, seeming to reach some conclusion before deliberately throwing their attention in an entirely different direction.
‘If energy and ambition were all, then our next leader is surely standing over there by the window.’
‘Not our Geoff? I’d rather emigrate,’ the editor chuckled, irreverent though not entirely incredulous.
They turned to follow her gaze. In the bay of a grand Georgian window overlooking the garden, the Transport Secretary had pinned the Governor of the Bank of England against the elegant drape.
‘Liquid engineering,’ Claire continued. ‘He handles it so smoothly the Governor won’t even realize when he’s been set aside for the next name on the list.’
‘Our Geoff’s got a list?’ the editor enquired.
‘Surely. Typed on a card in his breast pocket. He has an hour here, so he asks for a copy of the invitation list beforehand, sees how many people he wants to impress or to harangue, then splits his time. Six minutes each. Digital precision.’
In silence they watched as Booza-Pitt, without pause for breath or apparent reference to his watch, took the Governor’s hand and bade farewell. Then he was moving across the room, shaking hands and offering salutations as he passed, but not stopping.
‘Chances are he’ll end the programme with somebody’s bored wife,’ Claire continued. ‘It’s a regular routine, particularly since he separated from his own wife.’
‘His second wife,’ Makepeace corrected.
‘Fascinating. The man goes up in my estimation,’ Brynford-Jones admitted. ‘Which, I’m forced to admit, still doesn’t take him very far. But how do you come by all this delicious and wicked information?’
She pursed her lips. ‘You know how we girls like to gossip. And you don’t think he types his own list, do you?’
The editor knew she was mocking more than Booza-Pitt. He noticed how steady the blue eyes remained throughout her conversation, examining, judging. She didn’t miss much. He suspected she used men much more than was used by them. Her clothes were expensively discreet from some of Knightsbridge’s most fashionable couturiers, her sexuality unobtrusive but apparent and all her own, his desire for her growing by the minute. But he suspected she was not a woman to cross, or to fall for one of his customary ‘would you like to discuss your profile over supper’ ploys. It would be a mistake to miss the woman within by merely tracing over the superficial packaging.
‘I believe I should talk to you more often, Claire,’ he offered.
‘I believe you should.’
‘Aren’t you the Booza’s parliamentary twin?’ he continued. ‘I seem to remember reading somewhere. You both came into the House together, what – seven years ago? Same age. Both wealthy, darlings of the party conference. Both tipped to go far.’
‘If only I had his talent.’
‘Foreign Secretary, d’you think, in a Makepeace Cabinet?’ He turned back to his original target.
Makepeace paused, as though to emphasize his words with elaborate consideration. ‘Not in a million dawns,’ he replied softly. ‘The man wouldn’t recognize a political principle or an original idea if it were served up en croûte with oysters.’
‘Ah, at last! A breach in your famous collective Ministerial loyalty, Tom. There’s hope for you yet,’ the editor said, beaming, delighted to have discovered a point of such obvious antipathy. He turned to Claire. ‘I feel an editorial coming on. Although to tell you the truth, my dear, I’m a little worried by all his talk about principles and original ideas. It’s not good for an ambitious man. We’re going to have to work on him.’
She laughed, a genuine expression full of white teeth and pleasure. ‘You know, Bryan, I think we are.’
Great men are usually bad men. I intend to be a very great man.
Civilian Area, Dhekelia Army Base, British Sovereign Territory, Cyprus
‘Greetings, my Greek friend. Welcome to a humble carpenter’s workshop. What part of Allah’s bounty may His servant share with you?’
‘Sheep. Seven of them. A week on Friday. And not all fat and sinews like your wife.’
‘Seven?’ the Turk mused. ‘One for every night of your week, Glafko. For you, I shall endeavour to find the most beautiful sheep in the whole of Turkish Cyprus.’
‘It’s Easter, you son of Saladin,’ Glafkos the Plumber spat. ‘And my daughter’s getting married. A big feast.’
‘A thousand blessings on the daughter of Glafkos.’
The Greek, an undersized man with a hunched shoulder and the expression of a cooked vine leaf, remained unimpressed. ‘Chew on your thousand blessings, Uluç. Why was I five shirts short on last week’s delivery?’
The Turk, a carpenter, put aside the plane with which he was repairing a broken door and brushed his hands on the apron spread across his prominent stomach. The sports shirts, complete with skilfully counterfeited Lacoste and Adidas logos, were manufactured within the Turkish sector by his mother’s second cousin, who was obviously ‘taking the chisel’ to them both. But the Greek made a huge mark-up on the smuggled fakes which were sold through one of the many sportswear outlets in the village of Pyla, in a shop owned by his nephew. He could afford a minor slicing. Anyway, he didn’t want a damned Greek to know he was being cheated by one of his own family.
‘Shrinkage,’ he exclaimed finally, after considerable deliberation.
‘You mean you’ve been pulling the sheet over to your side again.’
‘But my dear Greek friend, according to our leaders we are soon to be brothers. One family.’ His huge hand closed around