Ten Days. Gillian Slovo

at his driver and his bodyguards, and by the way she sat beside him in the car, poker straight, and pushed an errant blonde hair firmly back into place, he could tell that something was bothering her.

      ‘Dog been playing up?’

      ‘Why would she be?’ Her tone was pinched. She was definitely annoyed.

      Perhaps she was feeling unacknowledged.

      ‘I tried to ring you back this morning,’ he said, ‘but you didn’t answer.’

      She shrugged.

      Yes, that was most likely it. And he had been remiss. ‘Would I be right in thinking you had something to do with the Today item?’

      ‘Nobody tells Today what to run.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘Except perhaps the DG – and it’s doubtful, even in his case, that he can.’

      ‘Well, thank you for your efforts in the aftermath.’

      Her nod was curt, giving nothing away.

      Oh, Lord – looked to be a day of sulks. All he needed.

      ‘I think I struck the right balance between giving the PM support and also representing the mainstream view of the Party,’ he tried. ‘Don’t you?’

      ‘Yes, Peter.’ She sounded dutiful. And clearly bored.

      He looked away and in doing so caught his driver’s eye. He pressed a button and the glass screen that divided front from back went gliding up.

      ‘There’s been an incident involving the police in Rockham,’ he said, ‘resulting in the death of a member of the public. Timothy Parsons is planning to ask a question in the House.’

      ‘That dreadful man.’ He had hoped that her annoyance, whatever its cause, might fade in the face of the thing that really engaged her – the intricacies of politics – and so it proved. ‘Bitter as well: resents the fact that he was passed over in the last reshuffle. Not that he deserved another chance after the mess he made in Transport. And now he’s asking questions to catch you out – and from our side of the House.’

      ‘It is odd, especially since he’s not exactly known for his social conscience. Rumour is he does his best to steer clear of surgeries: too many needy people.’

      Frances frowned. Good – a sign she had her thinking cap on. ‘The PM has Parsons up to it,’ she said. ‘Despite the reshuffle, Parsons remains his man.’

      She was, as ever, right. Parsons’ name had been top of the list of those who would never in a million years vote for Peter. ‘But why would the PM set his dogs on this death?’

      ‘He has gone out on a limb on the drugs issue,’ Frances said, ‘throwing the party into uproar. The opposition are jumping on the bandwagon, quoting police resistance to the measure. So if he can provoke the country into concern about the police, he thinks he might be able to turn the tide. He can’t do it himself, so he’s recruited Parsons.’

      Which put a new complexion on Yares’s phone call: ‘Of course that must be it. How clever of you.’

      She smiled. Not so much the ice queen now. ‘We should talk about the lunch. Our table is close to some fairly influential Party funders. We will not be sitting with them, I’ve made sure of that. We don’t want to give too much away until we are sure we have all our ducks in a row. All we need at the moment is to meet and greet, with a word or two in relevant ears. I’ll make the running. You follow.’

      ‘Don’t I always, darling?’

      Too frivolous. She turned her head and looked at him. Sharply.

      Knowing that it always took her a while to come out of one of her glooms, he should have been more careful. ‘I depend on you,’ he said.

      ‘Do you?’

      That acid tone again.

      Irritation rising, he thought, that’s it, I give up. She, of all people, should know how burdened he was by work and responsibility. She certainly did know that the Home Office was the most perilous of all the great ministries of state, never mind the dangers attached to trying to unseat his Leader. And yet here she was playing her own petulant games. He had no patience for it. Not any more. If she wanted to tell him what was bothering her, she should come out with it. In the meantime, he would hold his tongue. He turned his head away from her to look out of the window.

      Uniform blue sky. Women in skimpy clothes lying on brown grass. Roses that had flowered and withered before their time. Bloody heat. He found himself wishing for the end of summer even before the real summer was properly underway.

      ‘Are you having an affair?’

      ‘What?’ Of all the things that might be bothering her, this was one that had never occurred to him. ‘An affair?’ Ridiculous echo. Must do better.

      ‘Just answer the question, Peter.’

      ‘I will. If that’s what you want. But before I do, do you happen to have a suggestion as to who I might be having this supposed affair with?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I’d say it was your Special Adviser.’

      ‘With Patricia?’ Incredulity hyped up his voice.

      She was in contrast very calm: ‘Do you have another Special Adviser?’ When he didn’t say anything, she continued: ‘I thought not. So, Peter, tell me, are you having an affair with your Special Adviser, Patricia Diaz?’

      ‘Is that why you phoned Patricia this morning? Were you checking up on me?’

      He caught his driver’s eye again. He hoped the soundproofing worked, especially when Frances raised her voice to say, ‘Answer the question. Are you and Patricia Diaz having an affair?’

      ‘No.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We are not.’

      ‘Is that the truth?’ She was looking at him fiercely, as only Frances could.

      ‘Yes, it is the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He did it. He crossed his heart. ‘There. Does that satisfy?’

      He could see, by the softening of her expression, that it did.

      He reached across for her hand. Thank goodness she gave it to him. ‘Whatever made you think I was having an affair?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. Your early rising. Your late returns. The way she looked at me when you both stepped out of the lift.’

      ‘The way she looked at you.’ Echo again, but needs must. ‘Come on, darling, that’s absurd. As for the hours I keep: the House is your second home and has been for most of your life. You know how extreme the demands are, especially when one becomes a minister, never mind a secretary of state.’

      ‘Yes, I do know. And I also know many MPs play away from home. Daddy led the hunt, if you remember.’

      Not that he or, come to that, most of the country could forget. Her father (thankfully now deceased) had been a notorious philanderer. His womanising, played out in public, had caused his wife, and his four daughters, awful misery.

      ‘I would never do that to you.’

      ‘You had better not.’

      He squeezed her hand. ‘I need you, Frances, by my side. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.’

      ‘Wouldn’t you?’

      So plaintively asked, her question both warmed and annoyed him. ‘You have to trust me.’

      ‘I do. I will. But if you betray my trust . . .’

      She didn’t complete her threat because by then they had arrived.

       3 p.m.

      The Lovelace was subdued. Doors open and people outside on the landings to escape the heat, but even the smallest of children, who couldn’t know what had happened,