Giles wondered if there was any truth in the rumours being whispered in the corridors that if the Conservatives won the next election, Margaret Thatcher would appoint her as leader of the House of Lords. Frankly, if that were to happen, he didn’t think any of his colleagues in the Upper House would be surprised. However, another rumour that had recently been echoing around the corridors of power was that a Tory backbencher was preparing to challenge Thatcher for the leadership of the party. Giles dismissed the idea as speculation, because although the lady’s methods were considered by some in her party to be draconian, even dictatorial, Giles couldn’t imagine that the Tories would even consider removing a sitting prime minister who had never lost an election.
‘I can only tell the noble lord,’ said Emma, when she stood to answer the final question on the order paper, ‘that my department will continue to sanction the sale of generic drugs, but not before they have undergone the most rigorous testing. It remains our aim to ensure that patients will not have to pay exorbitant prices to drug companies whose priority often seems to be profit, and not patients.’
Emma sat down to loud ‘Hear, hear!’s, and when a Foreign Office minister rose to take her place in order to open a debate on the Falkland Islands, she gathered up her papers and hurried out of the chamber, as she did not wish to be late for her next appointment with the gay rights campaigner Ian McKellen, who she knew held strong views on how the government should be handling the Aids crisis. She was looking forward to telling him how much she’d enjoyed his recent performance as Richard III at the National Theatre.
As she left the chamber, she stumbled and dropped some papers, which a passing whip picked up and handed back to her. She thanked him, and was about to hurry on when a voice behind her called out, ‘Minister, I wonder if I might have a word with you?’
Emma turned to see Lord Samuels, the president of the Royal College of Physicians, chasing after her. If she had made a blunder during question time, he wasn’t the kind of man who would have embarrassed her in the chamber. Not his style.
‘Of course, Lord Samuels. I hope I didn’t make some horrendous gaffe this afternoon?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Samuels, giving her a warm smile. ‘It’s just that there is a subject I would like to discuss with you, and wondered if you could spare a moment.’
‘Of course,’ repeated Emma. ‘I’ll ask my private secretary to give your office a call and arrange a meeting.’
‘I’m afraid the matter is more urgent than that, minister.’
‘Then perhaps you could join me in my office at eight tomorrow morning?’
‘I’d prefer to see you privately, away from the prying eyes of civil servants.’
‘Then I’ll come to you. Just tell me when and where.’
‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in my consulting rooms at 47A Harley Street.’
Emma was well aware of the unpleasant and, some suggested, personal antagonism between the president of the Royal College of Physicians and the president of the Royal College of Surgeons, concerning the merger of Guy’s, St Thomas’s and King’s into one NHS trust. The physicians were in favour, the surgeons against. Both declaring, ‘Over my dead body.’
Emma had been careful not to take sides, and asked the department to prepare a brief that she could consider overnight, before her meeting with Lord Samuels. However, back-to-back meetings, some of which overran, prevented her from reading the brief before she climbed into bed just after midnight. Harry was snoring, which she hoped would keep her awake. But she was so tired she found it hard to concentrate on the details, and soon fell into a deep sleep.
The following morning, Emma reopened the red box even before she’d made herself a cup of tea.
The ‘Tommy’s, Guy’s, King’s’ brief still rested on top of a dozen other urgent files, including a confidential DNA report by two distinguished American academics. She already knew the results of their initial findings, and now at last she felt able to share the good news with Harry.
Emma jumped up, grabbed the phone on the sideboard and dialled Harry at the Manor House.
‘This better be good,’ he said, ‘because Alexander is just about to decide whether to jump in the crate going to America or the one going to England.’
‘It’s good, better than good,’ said Emma. ‘The DNA report shows that Arthur Clifton was without doubt your father.’
There was a long silence before Harry shouted, ‘Alleluia, that is indeed good news. I’ll put a bottle of champagne on ice so we can celebrate when you get home this evening.’
‘America,’ said Emma, and put the phone down. After taking several phone calls during breakfast, she still hadn’t had a chance to consider the arguments for and against Lord Samuels’ proposal before her driver pulled up outside the front door at 7.25 a.m. It was going to be another back-to-back day.
Emma read the detailed submissions from both presidents during her journey across London, but hadn’t come down in favour of either side by the time her car pulled into Harley Street. She placed the file back in the red box and checked her watch: 7.57. She hoped the discussion wouldn’t go on for too long, as she needed to be back at the department for a meeting with the new chairman of the BMA, a firebrand, who she had been warned by her Permanent Secretary considered all Tories should be drowned at birth. What Pauline described as the King Herod solution.
Emma was about to press the bell of No. 47A when the door was opened by a young woman.