Michael Dobbs - Whispers of betrayal

Some months after the incident, Goodfellowe found he could no longer resist the temptation to discover what had become of Amadeus. His enquiries revealed that his old schoolfriend had long since left both the Barbican and his wife. There was a report that a senior British Para officer had been killed fighting in Chechnya against the Russians, but it came from a source that had also tracked down Lord Lucan to a cave in Scotland. Yet it might have been true, for no one ever heard of Peter Amadeus again.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= He didn't call her for several days afterwards.

'You didn't call,' she said when at last Goodfellowe came round.

'No, neither did you.'

'But, darling, I never do. You know me.'

'Yes, I guess I do.'

They were both circling, already sparring. How typical, he thought.

'Good trip?'

'Excellent. Although I was half expecting you to try and head me off at the railway station.'

'Funny enough, so was I. But I got distracted.'

'Something wrong? You sound… different.'

'Things are different, Elizabeth.'

'Why, because of Paris?'

'Not just because of Paris.'

'What, more of your silly jealousy? Bloody men!'

'No, not jealousy – at least, not just jealousy. You knew how much it would hurt me, but I could deal with that. I always have. The point is that I could have stopped you going to Paris, yet I didn't. I was on the way to Waterloo, it seemed the most important thing in my life, yet… I got distracted. I suppose I'm always going to get distracted. And what with your distractions…' He took a long look around The Kremlin.

'This is an insurance policy, not a distraction,' she insisted. Her voice was beginning to catch with apprehension. He was preparing the ground for something, she wasn't sure what. For once she wasn't in control. 'Anyway, it's all sorted. I got the loan.'

'You didn't need the loan. You didn't need to go to Paris.' A raised voice, a touch of irritation. 'In truth, the only reason you went to Paris is because you insisted on doing it your way. Throughout all this I've been an irrelevance. You wouldn't let me be involved.'

'There was no other way! Come on, Tom, you know you don't have seventy thousand!'

'You don't need seventy thousand. On Thursday morning I went to see your landlord. A certain Mr Sandman. Difficult fellow. One brown eye, one blue, so I didn't know which one to look at. Foreign, I think. Anyway, I explained to him the foolishness of putting up your rent in the middle of a recession. Told him frankly that it would put you out of business and then he'd get no rent at all.'

'And?'

'Sadly he remained desperately unconvinced. Didn't give a damn. Told me to sod off, in fact, until I told him about his other problems.'

'What other problems?'

'It seems that Mr Sandman has got his claws into several restaurants in central London. He's been trying to turn them into bars. Apparently bars are more recession-proof, people drink through their miseries even if they can't afford to eat. That's why he's been jacking up the rents, trying to force people like you out in order to turn everything into high-profit watering holes.'

Her eyes began to fill with misery.

'However, in order to do that he needs the consent not only of the planning authorities but also the licensing justices. So I explained to him that the whole of the local residents' association in this part of town is on e-mail, which means that with a single touch of a button I can get four thousand objections put in to any planning or licensing application he might make. That's when he began to concede that I might have a case. Then I told him that the four thousand included a couple of hundred Members of Parliament and the chief licensing justice herself. At which point, for reasons which are beyond me, Mr Sandman became overwhelmingly convinced by the logic of my argument.'

'You mean…?'

'The rent's been frozen.'

She uttered a cry of joy and threw her arms round him, but somehow it was an unconvincing gesture and he remained uncharacteristically wooden.

'I could have helped, if you'd asked. But then I could have stopped you going to Paris, if I hadn't allowed myself to get distracted. My fault.'

'Paris meant nothing.'

'No, it meant so much, to me at least, not just because of jealousy but because you were cutting me off. You knew how much that hurt, yet still you went. And that's your fault.' He bit his lip until it hurt.

'A relationship shouldn't be a set of shackles.'

'Whatever happened to commitment and loyalty?'

'For God's sake, what is this, a sheep-dog trial?'

'Yes, a bit old fashioned, I agree. But over the past few days I've had a couple of refresher lessons. In commitment that goes too far – and the type that doesn't go far enough.' She flushed. 'You remember when we talked, about motivations being more important than actions? On the whole, I think I prefer the motivations of the sheep dog.'

'But I love you, Tom.'

'When we're together, yes. But commitment needs to be a full-time thing, not something that gets squeezed in between courses.'

'Or punctures.'

'My point exactly. Both our faults.'

'You're being silly. You're always looking for a fight, Tom. Can't resist it. Your bloody nature.'

He wasn't sure if she was talking about his politics or their relationship. It scarcely mattered which. 'There are things we both want too much, Elizabeth. Most of all, perhaps, we want each other to be different to what we are. You want me to be on show in the back of a ministerial car, but sadly I seem condemned to be on my bike in the gutter.'

'And me? What do you want me to be?'

'Perhaps it's that I want you to be in love with me as much as I am with you. And that's never going to happen.'

She could, perhaps, have contested the point. She could have cried, but that would come later, in private. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a public display. Instead, very softly, she damned the whole race of stubborn men and their inherent and extraordinary capabilities for letting women down. She should be used to it by now, yet – oh, how it always hurt.

'That's it?'

'That's it.'

'Lucky for me I held on to the restaurant, then,' she offered stubbornly.

'I think I ought to go.'

He rose.

'Even with the frozen rent I would still have needed more capital. Needed Paris.' It was a last defiant charge thrown at him across the room. He turned.

'Oh, I was forgetting. Bendall introduced me to the Ukrainian Ambassador the other day. He's arranging a presidential visit here. Turns out the president is a cousin of your mayor in Odessa. Small world. So I took the liberty of mentioning the problem a very close friend of mine was having with a shipment of wine from that city. The ambassador was charming and very understanding. I think he saw my request as part of the general back scratching that goes on between presidents and prime ministers – you know, giving each other pandas and horses and handing out contracts to each other's sons. I think he assumed you were Jonathan's mistress. Anyway, he promised to look into it.'

'Another political promise?'

'The wine will be with you by the end of the week.'

He turned towards the door.

'Why, Tom? Why are you so angry?'

'Angry?' He paused to consider. I'm angry because I can't help wondering whether you slept with him. I ought to be above that, but I'm not. And I'm angry because you think it's none of my business. But most of all I'm angry because I think I shall miss you so very much.'

'I'll see you,' she whispered.

Did she mean it, or were they simply words to fill an awkward space?

He didn't reply.

His hand was on the doorknob.

'And a pox on Paris.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= They were sitting on the Terrace of the House of Commons, enjoying the sun while they ate, watching the Millennium Wheel revolve slowly against the sky. The tables around them were crowded, filled with the frenzied buzz of speculation and rumour that accompanies the installation of any new Prime Minister.