Michael Dobbs - To play the king

'Sir, I would hope that in many years to come you and I, as Monarch and Prime Minister, will be able to look back on today's misunderstanding and laugh.' 'Spoken like a true politician.'

Urquhart was uncertain whether the words implied compliment or rebuke. 'We have our principles, too.'

'And so do I. You may silence me, Prime Minister, that is your right. But you will not get me to deny my principles.' 'Every man, even a monarch, is allowed his principles.'

The King smiled thinly. 'Sounds like an interesting new constitutional concept. I look forward to discussing it with you further.' The audience was over.

Urquhart sat in the back of his armoured Jaguar, trying vainly to scrape mud from his shoes. He remembered that George III, finished with the oak tree, had also made a general of his horse. His mind filled with visions of a countryside turned over once again to the yoke and plough and city streets smothered in decaying horse manure, By Royal Appointment. His feet were frozen, he thought he was developing a cold, his Environment Secretary was a complete dolt and it was scarcely nine weeks before he wanted to call an election. He could take no chances, there was no time for cock-ups. There could be no suggestion of a Two Nation debate with the Government inevitably on the receiving end. It was impossible; he couldn't take the risk. The King would have to be stopped.

The taxi picked her up from home seven minutes late, which made her furious. She decided it would be for the last time; they'd been late three times this week. Sally Quine didn't want to be mistaken for other women, the kind who arrive for client meetings habitually late, flash a leg in excuse and laugh a lot. She didn't mind showing off a leg but she hated having to offer excuses and always ensured she arrived anywhere five minutes before the rest so she would be fully prepared and in charge of proceedings. The early bird always hijacks the agenda. She would fire the taxi firm first thing in the morning.

She closed the door to her home behind her. It was a terraced house in a highly fashionable part of Islington with small rooms and reasonable overheads. It represented all that she'd been able to squeeze out of the wreckage she had left behind in Boston, but in the banks' view it was good collateral for the loans on her business and at the moment that was more important than running the sort of gin palace and entertainment lounge preferred by most of her larger competitors. It had two bedrooms, one of which had come set up as a nursery. It had been the first room to be ripped apart; she couldn't bear the sight of any more bears bouncing across the wallpaper and the memories they brought with them. The room was now covered in impersonal filing cabinets and shelves carrying thick piles of computer print-out rather than talcum powder and tubs of vaseline. She didn't think of her baby too often, she couldn't afford to. It hadn't been her fault, no one's fault really, but that hadn't dammed the flood of guilt. She had sat and watched the tiny hand clutching her little finger, the only part of her body small enough for him to cling to, his eyes closed, struggling for each breath, all but submerged beneath the impersonal tubes and anonymous surgical paraphernalia. She had sat and sat and watched, and watched, as the struggle was gradually lost and the strength and spirit of the tiny bundle had faded away, to nothing. Not her fault, everyone had said so. Everyone, that is, except that slimehound of a husband.

'Downing Street, you say,' commented the cab driver, ignoring a barbed rejoinder about his timing. 'You work there, do you?' He seemed relieved to discover she was simply another ordinary sufferer and began a steady monologue composed of complaints and observations about their political masters. It was not that he was ill-disposed towards the Government, which seemed one stage removed from his daily life since he took all his fares in cash and therefore paid practically no income tax. 'It's just the streets are looking grim, luv. A week before Christmas and it's not really happening. Shops half-empty, fewer people needing cabs and those what do're skimping on the tips. Dunno what your pals in Downing Street are saying, but tell 'em from me the tough times are right around the corner. Old Francis Urquhart better pull his socks up or he won't be long in following whatsisname… er, Collingridge.'

Less than a month out of office and already the memory was beginning to slip inexorably from the mind.

She ignored his chatter as they meandered through the dark, drizzly streets of Covent Garden, past the restored monument of Seven Dials which marked what had been some of the worst slums of Dickensian London with its typhoid and footpads, and which now presided over the heart of London's theatreland. They passed a theatre that stood dark and empty; the show had closed, in what should have been the busiest time of year. Straws in the wind, she thought, remembering Landless's warning, or maybe great armfuls of hay.

The taxi dropped her off at the top of Downing Street and in spite of his blunt hints she refused to sign for a tip. The policeman at the wrought-iron gate consulted the personal radio tucked away beneath his rain cape, there was a crackle in response and he let her through. A hundred yards away loomed the black door, which swung open even before she had put her foot on the step. She signed a visitors book in the entrance hall, which was deserted except for a couple of policemen. There was none of the bustle and activity she had expected and none of the crowds of the evening she had met Urquhart. It seemed as if Christmas had arrived early.

Within three minutes she had passed through as many sets of hands, each civil servant contriving to appear more important than the last, as she was led up stairs, through corridors, past display cases full of porcelain until she was shown into an inner office and the door closed behind her. They were on their own.

'Miss Quine. So good of you to come.' Francis Urquhart stubbed out a cigarette and held out his hand, guiding her towards the comfortable leather chairs placed in the corner of his first-floor study. The room was dark, book-lined and very masculine, with no overhead light and the sole illumination coming from a desk lamp and two side lights. It was reminiscent of the timeless, smoky atmosphere of the gentlemen's club on Pall Mall she had visited one ladies' night.

As he offered her a drink she studied him carefully. The prominent temples, the tired but defiant eyes which never seemed to rest. He was thirty years older than she. Why had he brought her here? What sort of research was he truly interested in? As he busied himself with two glasses of whisky she noted he had soft hands, perfectly formed, with slender fingers and nails which were carefully manicured. So unlike those of her former husband. She couldn't imagine those hands clenched and balled, thrusting into her face or pounding her belly into miscarriage, the final act of their matrimonial madness. Damn all men!

Her memories bothered her as she took the proffered crystal tumbler and sipped the whisky. She spat in distaste. 'Do you have any ice and soda?' 'It's a single malt,' he protested.

'And I'm a single girl. My mother always told me never to take it neat.'

He seemed amused by her outspokenness. 'Of course. But let me ask you to persevere, just for a little. It really is a very special whisky distilled near my birthplace in Perthshire, and would be ruined by anything other than a little water. Try a few sips to acquire the taste and, if not, I'll drown you in as many club sodas and ice cubes as I can find.'

She sipped again, it was a little less fiery. She nodded. 'That's something I've learned this evening.'

'One of the many benefits of getting older is that I have learned a lot about men and whisky. About women, however, it seems I am still quite ignorant. According to you.' 'I've brought some figures…' She stretched down for her bag. 'Before we look at that, I have another topic' He settled back in his chair, a reflective mood on his face as he held his glass in both hands, like a don quizzing one of his charges. 'Tell me, how much respect do you have for the Royal Family?'