First Among Equals Read online

  The library clock inched toward the hour that he could no longer put off. Simon heaved himself out of the deep leather chair like an old man and walked slowly toward the Chief Whip’s office.

  Miss Norse, the Chiefs ancient secretary, smiled benignly as he came in.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kerslake,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid the Chief is still with Mrs. Thatcher but I did remind him of your appointment so I don’t expect him to be long. Would you care to have a seat?”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Alec Pimkin always claimed that Miss Norse had a set patter for every occasion. His imitation of her saying, “I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Pimkin,” had brought chuckles to the Members’ Dining Room on many occasions. He must have exaggerated, thought Simon.

  “I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Kerslake,” said Miss Norse, not looking up from her typing. Simon choked back a laugh.

  “Very rude, thank you,” he said, wondering how many tragic stories or tales of lost opportunities Miss Norse had had to listen to over the years. She stopped suddenly and looked at her note pad.

  “I should have mentioned it to you before, Mr, Kerslake, a Mr. Nethercote rang.”

  “Thank you, I’ve spoken to him already.”

  Simon was leafing through an out-of-date copy of Punch when the Chief Whip strode in.

  “I can spare you one minute, Simon, one and a half if you are going to resign,” he said, laughing, and marched off toward his office. As Simon followed him down the corridor the phone by Miss Norse’s side rang. “It’s for you, Mr. Kerslake,” she shouted to their retreating backs.

  Simon turned and said, “Can you take the number?”

  “He says it’s urgent.”

  Simon stopped, hesitating. “With you in a moment,” he said to the Chief Whip, who disappeared into his office. Simon walked back and took the phone from Miss Norse’s outstretched hand.

  “Simon Kerslake here. Who is it?”

  “It’s Ronnie.”

  “Ronnie,” said Simon flatly.

  “I’ve just had a call from Morgan Grenfell. One of their clients has made an offer of one pound twenty-five a share for the company and they’re willing to take over the current liabilities.”

  Simon was trying to do the sums in his head.

  “Don’t bother working it out,” Ronnie said. “At one pound twenty-five your shares would be worth £75,000.”

  “It won’t be enough,” said Simon, as he recalled his overdraft of £108,712, a figure etched in his memory.

  “Don’t panic. I’ve told them I won’t settle for anything less than one pound fifty a share and it has to be within seven days, which will give them ample time to check the books. That would bring you in £90,000 but you would still be £18,000 down the Swanee, which you’ll have to team to live with. If you sell the wife as well as the second car you should just about survive.”

  Simon could tell by the way his friend was speaking that Ronnie already had a cigar between his lips.

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Not me—Morgan Grenfell. And I bet they’ll make a handsome profit in the long run for their unnamed client who seemed to have all the inside information. If you’re still on for lunch next Tuesday, don’t bring your luncheon vouchers. It’s on me.”

  Simon put the phone down and kissed Miss Norse on the forehead. She was completely taken aback by a situation for which she had no set reply. She remained silent as the Chief Whip put his head round the door. “An orgy in the Chief Whip’s office? You’ll be on page three of the Sun next, Miss Norse.” Simon laughed. “I’ve got a crisis on over tonight’s vote. The Government are reneging on our agreement for pairing, and I have to get a delegation back from Brussels in time for the ten o’clock division. Whatever it is, can it wait, Simon?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you come to my office, Miss Norse—if I can drag you away from James Double-O-Seven Kerslake?”

  Simon left and almost bounced to the nearest phone. First he called Elizabeth and then Archie Millburn at his office. Archie didn’t sound all that surprised.

  “Don’t you think it might be wise for us to stop seeing each other?”

  “Why?” said Raymond. “Palmerston had a mistress when he was seventy, and he still beat Disraeli come the election.”

  “Yes, but that was before the days of a dozen national newspapers and investigative journalism. Frankly it wouldn’t take a Woodward or Bernstein more than a few hours to discover our little secret.”

  “We’ll be all right. I’ve destroyed all the tapes.”

  “Do be serious.”

  “You’re always telling me I’m far too serious.”

  “Well, I want you to be now. Very.”

  Raymond turned to face Kate. “I love you, Kate, and I know I always will. Why don’t we stop this charade and get married?”

  She sighed. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I’ll want to return to America eventually, and in any case I wouldn’t make a very good Prime Minister’s wife.”

  “Three American women have in the past,” said Raymond sulkily.

  “To hell with your historical precedents—and what’s more, I hate Leeds.”

  “You’ve never been there.”

  “I don’t need to if it’s colder than London.”

  “Then you’ll have to be satisfied with being my mistress.” Raymond took Kate in his arms. “You know, I used to think being Prime Minister was worth every sacrifice, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “It’s still worth the sacrifice,” said Kate, “as you’ll discover when you live at No. 10. Come on, or my dinner will be burned to a cinder.”

  “You haven’t noticed these,” said Raymond smugly, pointing down at his feet.

  Kate stared at the fashionable new slip-ons.

  “I never thought the day would come,” she said. “Pity you’re starting to go bald.”

  When Simon returned home his first words were “We’ll survive.”

  “Thank God for that,” Elizabeth said. “But what have you done about your resignation letter?”

  “Archie said he would return it the day I became Prime Minister.”

  “If that’s ever to be true I want you to promise me just one thing.”

  “Anything,” said Simon.

  “You’ll never speak to Ronnie Nethercote again.”

  For a moment Simon hesitated before saying, “That’s not completely fair, Elizabeth, because I haven’t been totally straight with you from the beginning.” He then sat his wife down on the sofa and told her the whole truth.

  It was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.

  “Oh, hell,” she said, looking up at Simon. “I do hope Ronnie can forgive me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I phoned him back soon after you had left for the Commons and I spent at least ten minutes telling him why he was the biggest two-faced bastard I’d ever come across, and I didn’t want to hear from him again in my life.”

  It was Simon’s turn to collapse on to the sofa. “How did he respond?” he asked anxiously. Elizabeth faced her husband. “That’s the strange thing, he didn’t even protest. He just apologized.”

  “Do you think she will ever speak again?”

  “God knows, I hope so,” said his father, staring at the picture of his grandchild on the mantelpiece. “She’s still young enough to have another child.”

  Andrew shook his head. “No, that’s out of the question. The doctor warned me a long time ago that could be dangerous.”

  He had returned home from hospital ten days after the accident. The first thing he and Louise did was to attend Robert’s funeral. With Andrew on crutches, Sir Duncan had to support Louise during the short service. As soon as the burial was over Andrew took his wife back to Cheyne Walk and put her to bed, before returning downstairs to join his parents.

  Andrew mother bowed her head. “Whatever happens, you must move from this place a