He was silent.
‘Well, I’ll be brief. I wondered if I could have Jamie to stay for half term, rather than him coming up to you. There’s a new production of Over the Rainbow, which I wanted him to see, and some lovely children’s concerts at the Festival Hall.’
‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’
‘Catherine and I are getting married that week.’
‘Goodness. Well – congratulations.’
‘Thank you. I’m surprised you haven’t seen the announcement or Jamie didn’t mention it.’
‘No, he said nothing. Obviously he didn’t think it was very important,’ she added, her voice edged with malice.
‘I doubt it. He’s very excited about it and playing a big part in the ceremony.’
‘How nice. Well, it’s been a long time coming, we’ve been divorced for quite some time.’
‘Yes, indeed. But Catherine’s mother’s been very ill, and we wanted to wait until that was resolved. Fortunately she’s much better. And now we want to be married as soon as possible, as Catherine desperately wants to have children.’
‘How delightful. Well, congratulations, Johnathan. I hope it all goes very well.’
‘Thank you. And I’m sorry I can’t oblige over Jamie.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
But it did.
She went for a walk, made for the Bayswater Road, and down to Selfridges. She didn’t quite have the heart for buying clothes, but she needed some cosmetics, and she could have lunch there. That should cheer her up. She bought a copy of the Daily Mail to read over lunch and then, having purchased rather more Coty powder, Elizabeth Arden lipsticks and Revlon eyeliner than she would get through in a year, settled down to a chicken salad, and opened the paper.
It was predictably full of election news; Mr Eden was putting into his busy schedule three live television broadcasts, where members of the press would question him. It was, the Daily Mail informed her, the first election to be fought on television. She studied the picture of Eden; he was an extraordinarily good-looking man. He left poor Attlee looking like an elderly hobgoblin. She wondered idly if Josh would be one of the press; then decided he was clearly too junior. But his boss, Clive Bedford, might. She would watch the programme, see what he was like. It was a good paper, the Daily News; she liked it. It treated you as if you were intelligent. The leader they had run about homosexuals had been very good; Josh said they were considering turning it into a campaign now. That reminded her of Ned; he was a good dinner companion, she would phone him and see if he was free tonight. That would be fun. Better than an election broadcast.
There was a paper boy outside Selfridges; on an impulse, to see if Josh had any stories in it, she bought a copy of the Daily News and caught a taxi home to Knightsbridge.
Ned’s secretary at his private rooms said she wasn’t expecting him back that day as he was operating. She would leave a message for him to ring Diana back. ‘But he’s got a very long list, Miss Southcott, I doubt if he’ll be able to ring you before eight.’
Diana sighed. This wasn’t her day. She made herself a cup of coffee, and leafed through the Daily News; more of the election. She was about to close it when an item intruded on her consciousness.
LABOUR CANDIDATE RESISTS PRESSURE TO SWITCH CONSTITUENCIES, page 5.
Very slowly, very carefully, as if it was some priceless silk blouse she was dealing with, Diana opened the paper at page 5. There, occupying almost a quarter of the page, was the story, byline Josh Curtis.
Labour Party hopeful, Tom Knelston, considered by many insiders to have a bright future in politics, has shown that all too rare quality in the business, loyalty. Offered what is known as a safe seat to contest in the imminent election, he has refused, in order to remain with Purbridge, a Tory-held seat, where he was selected as Labour candidate some time ago.
‘I feel I belong in Purbridge,’ he said. ‘I have made many good friends there with whom I share values and enjoy working. And we will continue to work together for the better, fairer future that only Labour can bring this country.’
Mr Knelston is well known for his admiration of Aneurin Bevan and is passionate about the National Health Service and its ideals. He is very much a family man, and his wife Alice recently gave birth to their third child.
There was a photograph of the family man and his wife and children sitting on a sofa. Diana, feeling oddly calm, studied it closely. Alice was pretty, she noticed, with blonde – albeit extremely badly cut – curly hair, and a wide smile; she was cradling the baby, while the two older children sat between their parents, their father’s arm around them. It was a charming photograph.
Slowly, the calm left Diana, to be replaced by a twisting fury of rage and jealousy. Loyal, was he? A family man? She had a very clear vision suddenly of Tom, standing naked in front of her in her bedroom, grinning joyfully post-sex, holding the bottle of champagne she had just sent him to fetch from the kitchen. Very loyal. She wondered what the paper would make of that side of his story – his many friends in his constituency might well feel differently about his values – and, as she sat there, a conviction began to grow in her that they really did deserve to know.
Ned had indeed had a long list; had it not been so long, had he not been so tired, things might all have been very different. He would have simply walked home, had a large whisky and fallen asleep in his chair to the strains of La Bohème, the eight-record version of which Persephone had just given him.
However, he was very tired; his judgement was thus slightly impaired and his temper short. As he removed his scrubs and dressed, he realised that he could hear loud crying coming from the direction of the children’s ward, urgent, desperate, terrified crying. Disturbed, Ned hurried to the entrance of the ward, where he found a young child, the source of the screaming, clinging to his mother; a hapless nurse, clearly responsible for him, was trying to calm him, while Sister endeavoured to prise him away.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he said, more sharply than he would normally have done. ‘You’ll have the whole ward awake at this rate.’ Indeed, several small people were already sitting up in bed, clearly fascinated by the ruckus.
Sister turned to Ned and said impatiently, ‘It’s nothing serious, Mr Welles. Billy’s in pain, and he keeps being sick, he’s been sent up from casualty, and he won’t let his mother go and she more or less refuses to go. He’ll settle in a while if we all leave him alone.’
‘Of course you can’t leave him alone,’ said Ned, the word ‘settle’ unsettling him almost to violence. ‘Poor little chap. He’s obviously frightened out of his wits. God Almighty, I would be. What’s he been brought in for?’