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 per cent 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 check-up 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 towards 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.’