This Was a Man Read online

  At eleven a.m., she was driven across Westminster Bridge to the Cabinet Office to attend a meeting to consider the financial implications for the government of keeping to pledges the party had made in the last election manifesto. Some of her colleagues would have to make sacrifices when it came to their pet projects, and each minister knew that just promising to cut costs in their department by being more efficient wouldn’t suffice. The public had heard the paperclips solution once too often.

  Lunch with Lars van Hassel, the Dutch minister for health, in the privacy of her office; no civil servants in attendance. A pompous and arrogant man, who was quite brilliant, and knew it. Emma accepted that she would learn more in an hour over a sandwich and a glass of wine with Lars than she would from most of her colleagues in a month.

  In the afternoon, it was her department’s turn to answer questions in the Lords, and although her brother landed the occasional blow, no blood was spilt. But then, Emma knew he was saving his heavy artillery for when the NHS bill came before the House.

  Questions were followed by a meeting with Bertie Denham, the chief whip, to discuss those members who sat on the government benches but had voiced misgivings when the white paper on the bill was first published. Some sincere, some ill-informed, while others who had sworn undying loyalty to the party if they were offered a peerage suddenly discovered they had minds of their own if it resulted in favorable coverage in the national press.

  Emma and the chief whip discussed which of them could be bullied, cajoled, flattered, and in one or two cases bribed with the promise of a place on a parliamentary delegation to some exotic land around the day of the vote. Bertie had warned her that the numbers were looking too close to call.

  Emma left the chief whip’s office to return to the ministry and be brought up to date on any problems that had arisen during the day. Norman Berkinshaw, the general secretary of the Royal College of Nursing—Emma could only wonder how much longer it would be before a woman held that post—was demanding a 14 percent pay rise for his members. She had agreed to a meeting with him, when she would point out that if the government gave way to his demands, it would bankrupt the NHS. But she knew only too well that her words would fall on deaf ears.

  At 6:30 p.m.—but by then she would probably be running late—Emma would attend a drinks party at the Carlton Club in St. James’s, where she would press the flesh of the faithful and listen intently to their views on how the government should be run, a smile never leaving her face. Then she would be whisked off to the Royal College of Surgeons, with just about enough time to check over her speech in the car. More emendations, more crossings out, then finally underlining the key words that needed to be emphasized.

  Unlike Harry, Emma needed to be at her best in the evening, however exhausted she felt. She’d once read that Margaret Thatcher survived on only four hours’ sleep a night, and was always at her desk by five o’clock in the morning, writing notes to ministers, constituency chairmen, civil servants, and old friends. She never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, or, as Emma had recently experienced, a card of congratulations on the birth of a great-granddaughter.

  “Never forget,” the prime minister had added as a postscript, “your dedication and hard work can only benefit Lucy’s generation.”

  Emma arrived home at Smith Square just after midnight. She would have phoned Harry, but she didn’t want to wake him, aware that he would be up at six in the morning, working on chapter two. She retired to the study to open another red box, delivered while she was having dinner with the president of the Royal College of Surgeons. She sat down and began working on the first draft of a speech that she knew might well define her entire political career.

  “My lords, it is my privilege to present to the House for its consideration, the second reading of the government’s NHS bill. Let me begin by saying…”

  45

  “WHAT BROUGHT THIS ON?” Emma asked as they left the house for their evening walk into Chew Magna.

  “You know I had my annual checkup recently,” said Harry. “Well, I received the results this morning.”

  “Nothing to worry about, I hope?” said Emma, trying not to sound anxious.

  “All clear. It seems I ticked all the boxes except one, and although I’ve stopped jogging, Dr. Richards is pleased that I’m still walking for an hour every morning.”

  “I only wish I could say the same,” said Emma.

  “Your diary secretary would make sure it was never possible. But at least you try to make up for it at the weekend.”

  “You said every box except one,” Emma said as they walked along the driveway toward the main road.

  “He says I have a couple of small lumps on my prostate. Nothing to worry about, but it might be wise to deal with it in the not-too-distant future.”

  “I agree with him. After all, you can have an operation nowadays, or a course of radiotherapy, and be back to normal in a few weeks.”

  “I only need another year.”

  “What do you mean?” said Emma, stopping in her tracks.

  “By then I should have finished Heads You Win, and fulfilled the terms of my contract.”

  “But knowing you, my darling, by then you’ll have another half a dozen ideas racing around in your head. Dare I ask how this one’s going?”

  “Every author believes their latest work is the best thing they’ve ever done, and I’m no exception. But you don’t really have a clue until you read the reviews or, as Aaron Guinzburg says, three weeks later, when you find out if the tills are still ringing up sales once the initial hype is over and you only have word of mouth to rely on.”

  “To hell with Aaron Guinzburg. How do you feel?” pressed Emma.

  “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,” said Harry, beating his chest with bravado, only to add, “Who knows? But then, are you able to be realistic about how your speech is coming along?”

  “There’s only one thing I can be sure about. My colleagues will let me know how I’ve done the moment I sit down. They won’t wait three weeks to tell me.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You could get hold of a copy of Giles’s speech so I can find out what I’ll be up against.”

  “Have a word with Karin. I’m sure she could lay her hands on a copy.”

  “That’s exactly what Seb suggested, and I told him that if Giles ever found out, I wouldn’t be the only person he wasn’t speaking to.”

  “Giles’s speech,” said Harry, “will be like Falstaff in full flow, lots of grandiose ideas, most of them impractical, and certainly unaffordable, along with one or two golden nuggets that you’ll be able to steal, and possibly even implement before the next election.”

  “You’re a crafty old thing, Harry Clifton. You would have made a formidable politician.”

  “I would have made a dreadful politician. To start with, I’m not altogether sure which party I support. It’s usually the one in opposition. And the thought of having to expose myself to the press, let alone the electorate, would be enough to make me become a hermit.”

  “What guilty secret are you hiding?” mocked Emma, as they walked on toward the village.

  “All I’m willing to admit is that I intend to go on writing until I drop, and frankly there are enough politicians in this family already. In any case, like a typical politician, you haven’t answered my question. How’s your speech coming on?”

  “Well enough, but I’m worried it’s a bit dull and workmanlike at the moment. I think I’ve dealt with most of my colleagues’ reservations, even if one or two of them still remain unresolved. Frankly the speech needs a big idea that will keep Giles in his place, and I’ve been hoping you might find the time to read it and give me your honest opinion.”

  “Of course I will. Though I suspect Giles is every bit as anxious as you are and would like nothing better than to get his hands on a copy of your speech. So I wouldn’t be too worried.”

  “Can I ask another favor?”