First Among Equals Read online

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You’ve just taken against him, Elizabeth.”

  “I’m against anything that might in the long term harm your career, Simon. Struggle on but never sacrifice your integrity, as you’re so fond of reminding the people of Coventry.”

  On Friday morning, two weeks later, Andrew and Louise set out for London airport with one suitcase between them. As Andrew locked the front door the phone rang.

  “No one’s in,” he shouted at the doorknob, “but we’ll be back on Monday.”

  He had booked a suite at the Colombe d’Or nestled in the hills of St. Paul in the south of France. He was determined to prize Louise away from London and see she had some sun and rest.

  The famous old hotel was everything the brochure had promised. On the walls hung paintings by Picasso, Monet, Manet, Utrillo—all of which the patroness, Madame Reux, had accepted many years before in place of payment from artists who needed lodging and a square meal. On the way up the winding staircase Louise was nearly knocked out by a Calder mobile and a Courbet hung above the bed in their room. But it was the bed itself, a sixteenth-century four-poster, that they both coveted. They were soon to discover it possessed a mattress so comfortable that visitors always overslept.

  The food was memorable and they walked through the green hills each day to be sure they could tackle another full dinner at night. Three days of no radio, no television, no papers, and no telephone ensured that by Monday morning they were ready to face London. They swore they would return again soon.

  Once their plane had landed at Heathrow they were made aware that the holiday was over. Twenty minutes passed before someone pushed the waiting steps up to the Vanguard’s door. Then a crowded bus to the terminal that seemed miles away was followed by a route-march to customs. Despite their first-class tickets their bags were among the last off. By the time the taxi had crawled through the morning rush hour to their front door in Cheyne Walk all Louise could say was, “I need another holiday.” As Andrew put his latch key in the door the telephone started ringing.

  “I hope they haven’t been trying all weekend,” Louise said.

  Andrew put the phone to his ear as it went dead.

  “Just missed whoever it was,” said Andrew, picking up several brown envelopes from the floor. “France already seems about a week ago.” He kissed his wife. “Must get changed and be off to the House,” he said, checking his watch.

  “How has the nation managed to survive without you?” mocked Louise.

  When the phone rang again Andrew was just stepping out of the bath.

  “Can you take it, Louise?” he shouted. A moment later he heard her rushing up the stairs.

  “Andrew, it’s the Prime Minister’s office.”

  He ran dripping and naked to the bedroom phone and picked up the extension.

  “Andrew Fraser,” he said.

  “This is No. 10,” said an official-sounding voice, “the Prime Minister has been wanting to contact you since Friday morning.”

  “I’m sorry, I took my wife to Provence for the weekend.”

  “Really, sir?” said the voice, not sounding at all interested. “May I tell the Prime Minister you are now free to speak to him?”

  “Of course,” said Andrew, frowning at his nude reflection in the mirror. He must have put on half a stone; it would have to be four games of squash this week and no more wine at lunch.

  “Andrew.”

  “Good morning, Prime Minister.”

  “Sad news about Hugh McKenzie.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Andrew, automatically.

  “They warned me about his heart before the last election but he insisted he wanted to carry on. I’ve asked Bruce to be the new Secretary of State and Angus to take his place as minister. They both want you to be the new Under-Secretary—how do you feel about it?”

  “I’d be delighted, Prime Minister,” Andrew stammered, trying to take in the news.

  “Good. And by the way, Andrew, when you open your first red box you won’t find any tickets for Colombe d’Or, so I do hope Louise is fully recovered.” The phone clicked.

  They had tracked him down, but the Prime Minister had left him in peace.

  The first official function Andrew Fraser attended as Her Majesty’s Under-Secretary of State at the Scottish Office was Hugh McKenzie’s funeral.

  “Think about it, Simon,” said Ronnie, as they reached the boardroom door. “Two thousand pounds a year may be helpful but if you take shares in my property company it would give you a chance to make some capital.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Simon, doing up the middle button of his blazer and trying not to sound too excited.

  “Well, you’ve proved damned useful to me. Some of those people who you bring to lunch wouldn’t have allowed me past their front doors. I’d let you buy in cheap … you could get hold of 50,000 shares at one pound so when we go public you’ll make a killing.”

  “Raising £50,000 won’t be that easy, Ronnie.”

  “When your bank manager has checked over my books he’ll be only too happy to lend you the money, you see.”

  After the Midland Bank had studied the authorized accounts of Nethercote and Company and the area manager had interviewed Simon, they agreed to his request, on the condition that Simon lodge the shares with the bank.

  How wrong Elizabeth was proving to be, Simon thought, and when Nethercote and Company went on to double their profits for the year he brought home a copy of the annual report for his wife to study.

  “Looks good,” she had to admit. “But that still doesn’t mean I have to trust Ronnie Nethercote.”

  When Charles Seymour’s drink-driving charge came up in front of the Reading Bench he listed himself as C. G. Seymour—no mention of MP. Under profession he entered “Banker.”

  He came sixth in the list that morning, and on behalf of his absent client lan Kimmins apologized to the Reading magistrates and assured them it would not happen again. Charles received a fifty-pound fine and was banned from driving for six months. The whole case was over in four minutes.

  When Charles was told the news by telephone later that day he was appreciative of Kimmins’s sensible advice and felt he had escaped lightly. He couldn’t help remembering how many column inches George Brown, the Labour Foreign Secretary, had endured after a similar incident outside the Hilton Hotel.

  Fiona kept her own counsel.

  At the time Fleet Street was in the middle of “the silly season,” that period in the summer when the press are desperate for news. There had only been one cub reporter in the court when Charles’s case came up, and even he was surprised by the interest the nationals took in his little scoop. The pictures of Charles taken so discreetly outside the Seymours’ country home were now glaring from the pages the following morning. Headlines ranged from “Six months’ ban for drink-drive son of earl” to “MP’s Ascot binge ends in heavy fine.” Even The Times mentioned the case on its home news page.

  By lunchtime the same day every Fleet Street newspaper had tried to contact Charles—and so had the Chief Whip. When he did track Charles down his advice was short and to the point. A junior Shadow minister can survive that sort of publicity once, not twice.

  “Whatever you do, don’t drive a car during the next six months and don’t ever drink and drive again.”

  Charles concurred, and after a quiet weekend hoped he had heard the last of the case. Then he caught the headline on the front page of the Sussex Gazette, “Member faces no confidence motion”: Mrs. Blenkinsop, the chairman of the Ladies’ Luncheon Club, was proposing the motion—not for the drunken driving but for deliberately misleading her about why he had been unable to fulfill a speaking engagement at their annual luncheon.

  Raymond had become so used to receiving files marked “Strictly Private,” “Top Secret,” or even “For Your Eyes Only” in his position as a Government Under-Secretary that he didn’t give a second thought to a letter marked “Confidential and