‘Right. And you’re staying at home because . . .?’
‘For God’s sake, Josh, because the other children have to be looked after. Because I want to be near Kit just in case he has a relapse. Because I want to support Alice. Is that so extraordinary?’
‘Knowing you, a bit extraordinary. You’re fighting for your political life, Tom. Every hand you shake this weekend, every door you knock on, every word exchanged in every street, could make a difference, get you another vote. You must know that. You’ve waited and worked for this all your life. I can see why you wanted to be near Kit yesterday and today, but if he’s recovering, why not at least give some interviews? Maybe at the hospital? Which hospital is he in, by the way? Why couldn’t Alice give an interview?’
‘She’d think it was a totally inappropriate thing to ask,’ said Tom, ignoring the question about the hospital. ‘She was terrified yesterday, we both were. Our child could have died. What’s an election, compared to that?’
‘Nothing, of course,’ said Josh. ‘And I’m playing devil’s advocate to a degree. But I can’t see why you don’t give an interview. It would buy you lots of sympathy, and probably votes; people would understand why you weren’t there, instead of thinking you just couldn’t be bothered. Look, I’ll write it and you can vet it. God knows, you should be able to trust me by now. It’ll go in the paper tomorrow – thousands of your supporters will read it.’
‘I – can’t,’ said Tom. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Josh. ‘Well, don’t blame me if you get the whole bloody pack on your tail. Because you probably will, you know.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because you’re being so bloody mysterious. People will think you’ve got something to hide, if you go on refusing to talk about it to anyone. I mean, I’ll do my best but a bald statement about your son being ill in a London hospital – which one is it, by the way, Great Ormond Street?’
‘I wish to God it was,’ said Tom. It came out, unbidden; he would have given anything to take it back.
Josh didn’t miss the intensity in his voice.
‘OK, so where then? Where is he?’
‘Oh – he’s – Josh, look, just – just fuck off, will you? Leave me alone.’
Josh suddenly felt violently angry with him. Angry and hurt. To be addressed in those terms by Tom, who he had done so much for over the years, been his best man purely because Tom couldn’t think of anyone else, written what had felt like endless articles to further his career, kept quiet about his affair with Diana – and now he seemed to be implying that he would splash any information he could elicit across the front page of his paper in twelve-point. In which case, he deserved precisely that.
‘Tom,’ he said, ‘I really don’t appreciate being treated like this. I’ve done a lot for you – including, I might say, not mentioning to anyone that I saw you arriving at Diana Southcott’s house the night I was there doing an interview. I’m beginning to regret that discretion.’
He put the phone down; it rang again almost immediately. But it wasn’t Tom, as he had expected, it was Clive Bedford.
‘Well? Got anything yet?’
‘Not yet,’ he said, and then added, ‘But give me a bit more time.’
By lunchtime, every National Health hospital, large and small, in the Greater London area had confirmed that they had no child called Kit Knelston in any of their wards. It was very odd. And then he thought of the agony in Tom’s voice when he had asked him about Great Ormond Street.
In a moment of absolute clarity, he knew. Kit was in a private hospital: that would explain everything. And almost certainly, he thought, the one where Ned Welles worked. Josh hesitated a moment or two and then rang Tom.
Tom sounded panicky to put it mildly. ‘Josh,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I – well, I can explain about – about Diana.’
‘Really? I can’t think how.’
‘Well – not explain. But make it look better.’
‘I don’t see how it could. Fucking about with her, when Alice was at home, trusting you, needing you. She’s just had a baby, for Christ’s sake. You really are a bastard, Tom Knelston.’
‘I know. Why – why didn’t you say anything before?’
‘Because I couldn’t bear to, to be honest. I couldn’t think of anything to say to you. I’m very fond of Alice, and she’s struggling to cope. The only reason I didn’t spill the beans is because I didn’t want her to know about it. It would have been a terrible thing to do to her. So I hope, for rather nobler reasons than yours, that she never needs to. But some other journalist might get on to it. You’re pretty high profile in a minor way at the moment, you know. Anyway, perhaps you’d like to tell me how it’s better than it looks. I’m fascinated.’
‘It’s over,’ said Tom. ‘I went there that evening to finish it. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Well, that’s extremely good of you. And are you so sure she won’t say anything?’
‘No, I’m not. But she hasn’t so far. I can only hope that continues.’
‘I wouldn’t put money on it. She won’t like being dumped. Why did you finish it anyway? I wonder. Were you just taking the moral high ground? It couldn’t have had anything to do with an election coming up, I suppose? Adultery – not a vote winner.’
Tom was silent.
‘You’ve turned out a pretty poor example of a human being, Tom Knelston,’ said Josh. ‘I used to quite like you, admire you even. Not any more. Bye then.’
He put the phone down. He had meant what he said: he wouldn’t go public on Tom’s adultery, for Alice’s sake. But the hospital he had chosen for the treatment of his child, if it was a private one, that would also be quite damaging . . .
Ricky Barnes, a young mustard-keen trainee reporter on the Daily Sketch, having been given nothing to do so far that day, decided to find a story for himself. He flipped through various notes lying on the desk, and saw one scribbled from the PR department at Transport House. It was almost indecipherable but the subject matter was one Tom Knelston. Would-be MP, sick son, interview?