‘The photographers on the Daily News are hugely homophobic, most of them.’
‘Here’s an idea, then. That model, Diana something, the one you had photographed on the big wheel at Battersea with Tom Knelston. God, Alice was so angry – anyway, I bet she’d be a good source. And she owes you a favour. You could say you gave her her big break, put her on the front page of your paper –’
‘Hardly. But she’s a good idea. Thank you, Jillie. Now – pudding?’
‘I couldn’t. But it’s been a lovely evening, exactly what I needed, thank you.’
She arrived at Scott’s looking amazing, in a mink coat and Cossack hat to match. She ordered a gin fizz, one of the specialities of the house, and sat sipping at it, waiting for the questions to come. After about ten minutes, her dark eyes brilliant with amusement, she said, ‘Josh, you’ll have to ask me soon, whatever it is, or I’ll have to go. I’ve got a photographic session in half an hour. The photographer will not be amused if I’m late, nor the client. So come on, what is it?’
And shocked into directness, Josh asked her whether she had any queer friends or acquaintances amongst her fashion connections who would talk to him openly about their lives in London today. ‘What I’m looking for is gossipy stuff.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I should think so. They’d have to trust you, though. Could they?’
‘Of course. Absolute anonymity.’
‘I mean, I couldn’t be more in sympathy with what your paper’s doing, I have to say. The whole thing makes me sick with rage. Poor people, turned into criminals for just – well, just being themselves. Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can do. Now I must dash. Lovely drink, thank you. And if you want a safe place to talk, you can use my house. Nice neutral territory and they’ll be more relaxed. I’ll do some ironing or something in the kitchen.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Josh, trying and failing to imagine Diana ironing.
‘Well, darling, I could say you gave me my big break.’
He laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘That’s what Jillie – my cousin – said. I thought she was mad.’
‘Jillie who? Do I know her?’
‘Jillie Curtis.’
‘Is she your cousin?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Diana.
Tom was being much nicer suddenly. Alice couldn’t quite believe the difference. The angry, resentful man she had been living with for months had been replaced by someone cheerful, helpful and best of all affectionate – although he didn’t seem to want sex, which was a relief. With her eight-month stomach between them, it would have been pretty difficult anyway. She really was very big. Delilah, the large midwife who had been assigned to her at Acton General, and who she loved, had assured her it was not the twins Alice so desperately feared, simply her third pregnancy in as many years, and her stomach muscles had more or less given up the struggle.
Tom’s only thought these days, apart from his chances in winning his seat, was how he could end the relationship with Diana. It was a nightmare; he woke to it, worked with it, talked to his constituents with it and went to sleep with it. Twice, he had arrived at her house, resolved to tell her, and twice he hadn’t got half a sentence out before she was at him, her lovely mouth on his, her perfume surrounding him, her desire driving his – and twice he had left again, desperately remorseful. The election had not yet been called – but he knew it couldn’t be long and he had to be free of her by then.
He was also distracted over the political shenanigans of his idol, Nye Bevan. The Health Service long set aside, Bevan had a new obsession, his involvement with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. He was tearing the party apart, defying his own leader, as well as the bulk of its members, to such an extent that he was, in that pre-election spring, expelled.
Tom, naturally peace loving, had gone twice to some of the great CND rallies and stood with his like-minded colleagues, feeling a profound sense of pride and commitment to be part of them.
The whole thing had inspired some of Bevan’s greatest speeches in the House aimed directly against many of the most powerful members of his party, which included his leader. Tom managed to get into a few of the speeches and sat entranced, listening to what was to him music, watching the famous gestures, the arm waving, the sweeping hand movements.
Donald Herbert, half amused, half anxious, begged Tom to keep his opinions to himself. ‘Most of the party is against him,’ he said, ‘and much of the country. You cannot afford to be a rebel, Tom, not at this stage; you must give people what they want.’
Which did not include an adulterous MP, Tom thought; and rang Diana from his office next morning, to tell her he needed to see her urgently.
The Knightsbridge evening with Josh had been fixed for the session in Diana’s smart little house; ‘I’ve got a photographer’s assistant for you,’ she said on the phone to Josh. ‘Feisty little sod, quite prepared to spill the beans, and if that doesn’t work, a young actor. Who, actually, you can see anyway, another evening, if you like.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘We agreed it was safer for him if you didn’t know it.’
‘But I would never, ever use it.’
‘I know that and you know that but he doesn’t. You’re to call him Nick.’
‘Right. So – which evening?’
‘Thursday,’ said Diana.
‘I’m going to be very late this evening,’ Tom said. ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. I’m whizzing down to Purbridge for a meeting.’
‘It’s all right, I understand, you know I do. But don’t expect me to be awake and all agog to hear about it, because I’ll be well into the Land of Nod.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Tom, giving her a kiss. The Judas kiss, he thought, shame reaching deep into him.
‘Nick’ did indeed excel on the gossip: meeting places Josh was amazed by, clubs that looked like ordinary houses, a coffee bar, the Mousehole in Swallow Street, the Spanish Bar in the depths of Fortnum & Mason.
‘You should visit it, Josh, it’s wonderful, all embossed leather. And the Grenadier Pub, behind Hyde Park Corner, it’s near Knightsbridge Barracks, of course, which is an absolute hotbed. The police are dreadful, of course, they set up honey traps in pubs and so on; and then fix their prey. I had one friend who was living with someone very quietly, and he had some drunken maniac driving through his front garden. He called the police, but before that they had to make up the spare-room bed; they knew they’d be checking for such things. Your trade behaves pretty badly, I might add. If you are going to do something for us, it’s none too soon.’
He picked up the vodka Martini Diana had made him.