Children of the Master. Andrew Marr

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СКАЧАТЬ munched, however, she allowed herself some quiet reminiscing. The soft side of Angela’s breast; her tight tummy muscles; pushing her down onto a bed. Flushing slightly, Caro concentrated on John Humphrys, who was interrogating her Tory opposite number about the speech she’d given yesterday in the House of Commons. The poor chap couldn’t decide whether he was for it or against it; whether it was an outrageous betrayal or a moral stand. Humphrys was having gentle fun with him, batting him around like a cat whose claws were still sheathed.

      ‘Wa- wa- well, John,’ went the south London MP, ‘we’ve given Miss Caroline Phillips the benefit of the doubt, haven’t we … We have to ask what she’s wa- wa- wa- up to, don’t we?’

      ‘Yes, Mr Porter, we do, and that’s why we asked you to come on the programme this morning, and that’s why I have to press you for a clear answer.’

      ‘Wa- wa- wight. Absolutely wight, John …’

      ‘Have you any idea what you think, Mr Porter? Or perhaps, you haven’t been told what to think yet?’

      This was all too easy: the old Welshman wasn’t even trying. Perhaps things were going to be all right after all.

      Caro leafed through the Guardian. There was a poll showing the Labour lead down to five points. She scanned the news pages, but there was no mention of her. She knew she needed to get a move on, but still she lingered. She flicked over from Today to Radio 3, and struck lucky: a Mozart piano sonata, one of the B-flat majors; almost certainly Uchida. Yes, today would be a good day.

      Before she left the kitchen table, Caro flicked her laptop open to check Twitter, her alerts, and Buzzfeed. Lots of below-the-line chatter from the usual racists, homophobes and sad-sacks; but from the party, nothing but bland approval.

      The pre-agreed statement by the outgoing prime minister, Alwyn Grimaldi, was still running, unchanged.

      The Rome conference, apparently, was still grinding on. The Mail Online had a picture of David there, looking lean and dashing in a white suit, with the vice president of the United States. They were speaking from behind lecterns set up in a conference room of the hotel, with their national flags behind them. The usual old bollocks, no doubt.

      Rome had been … transformational. But that was not something Caro could allow herself to think about this morning. She put Rome into a small mother-of-pearl box to be opened later on, when there was quietness.

      Caroline went downstairs, still listening to the radio: she’d had speakers positioned up and down the narrow townhouse so that she could follow a radio interview or, more often, music, from room to room. Then her train of thought was rudely derailed by the phone. That wasn’t unusual at 7.32, but it was the house phone, not either of her mobiles. Who had that number? She couldn’t bear to speak to her parents yet – the anxious bleating, tinged with disapproval. Still, curious, she picked up the receiver.

      ‘That was magnificent. Magnificent. I told the editor. He wasn’t sure. But I told him. Magnificent, I said. Absolutely magnificent. Speaking for the common people. Giving us all, in the Westminster bubble, a bit of a lesson, bit of a kicking. Magnificent. I’m saying so in my column today, and I’ve got them to put it on the front. They do what I say. I wanted you to hear it first.’ Caro automatically moved the receiver just a little further away from her ear.

      It was Peter Quint. Whenever she spoke to Quint, she had the sensation of being just a little dirtied; already she felt that there was greasy plug of something in her ear.

      ‘Peter! How lovely to hear your voice. But I’m a little surprised, so early in the morning. We haven’t spoken for a while. I thought you were very much a David Petrie man. Didn’t you call him “the future of socialism” only last week?’

      ‘Yes, yes, mock away. Now I’m calling you “the future of Britain”, which I think trumps that, doesn’t it?’

      There was definitely something in her ear. Itchy.

      ‘Peter, it’s early. I’m heading off for a busy day. How can I help you?’

      ‘Not just a busy day. This is a momentous day, Caroline – I can still call you Caroline, I hope – and I just wanted to know exactly how momentous. We’re bidding for the first proper interview after you’ve moved into Number 10. I’d talk to your press people, but I wanted to give you a heads-up myself.’

      ‘I’ll get somebody to call you later, Peter, I promise. I’m all at sea myself, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’

      ‘Have you spoken to Angela? In your position, with all the resources of the Home Office, you must …’

      ‘Goodbye, Peter.’

      Loathsome man. But if Peter Quint was fawning on her to that extent, she must be home free.

      The house phone began to warble again. Caro glanced at the number, and let it ring. She allowed herself to think properly about David Petrie, his Scottish joking and his dark, long-lashed, girlish eyes. Gay men, she knew, tended to like him. In all truth, before the past twenty-four hours he had hardly even looked at her, and had probably hated her on principle. But he’d made her heart race, long before they’d spoken properly, because of his naked, contemptuous and threatening ambition. Well, that was another unopenable door safely closed. And, after all, neither of them was free. He was married, and untainted by scandal. And she was famous for the other thing. No, it was completely impossible at every level. It couldn’t be happening.

      As she opened the front door, Caro drained the last of her coffee, and smiled briefly to herself. She would need David Petrie in the months ahead. That last little undefined crack of possibility kept her cheerful. The car was waiting. The office had sent the Rover, she hoped with Paul inside.

      There was just one photographer outside on the pavement. She couldn’t see any camera crews. Good. Fixing her face into a smile, she walked through the door and into the midst of half a dozen men who’d presumably been crouching behind the low brick front wall, and who now leapt into the air like a ragged rugby lineout. She reeled back slightly to avoid being hit in the face by a camera, and closed her ears to the sudden hubbub of questions, spittle-flecked lobs of sound – ‘Oi, wha’ say, Caroline?’ – ‘Arter a job?’ – ‘Oo’s ya boss?’ – ‘Yah-yah-yah?’

      She remembered what the Master always advised: ‘Whatever they say, keep smiling. Wave at them. Smile, smile, smile. They’re looking for a guilty or an angry face – that’s what sells a photo to the picture desk. Smiles are small change.’

      So that was what she did, not even flinching when one snapper, scurrying to get the best angle, banged against the wing mirror of the waiting car and knocked it off.

      All the paps had their own personal tricks: one of them specialised in walking backwards in front of his target, and then appearing to trip and fall. The innocent victim would automatically reach forward, with a look of concern or shock, to catch him; and that was the picture the snapper had been waiting for – that grimace, that moment of shock. The snapper snapped fast, even as he was going down. More Westminster careers had started to slide downwards, the Master had told her, after a distorted face appeared in the papers, than had ever been destroyed by parliamentary inquiries.

      Once she was inside the car, buckling up, Caro held her smile. Paul was driving. As the car pulled off, with hands banging on the roof, she closed her eyes and tried to remember her last peaceful moment that morning.

      Leaving the house, СКАЧАТЬ