Will Davenport - The Perfect Sinner

This time, the applause went on and on and on.

As the crowd filed out again, buzzing with the reaffirmation of their beliefs, Don Packhurst took Beth firmly by the arm and led her to the side of the stage where the star of the evening was holding court. She went up to Christie Kilfillan with all the thrilling trepidation of a pilgrim approaching a saint. Kilfillan stood there as the crowd swirled around her, fifty looking like forty, her face in profile as fine and fierce as a goshawk, tolerating the adulation as people manoeuvred to shake her hand, congratulating her on her speech and seeking to engage her in unsuitably long exchanges. Beth waited until Senator Packhurst, standing just behind her, urged her forward.

‘Just get in there,’ he said. ‘We don’t stand in queues like you Brits.’

Still Beth held back, watching for the right moment. She had waited seven years for this, more than two and a half thousand days since she had first read Kilfillan’s books and fallen under the spell of her argument. The strength of Kilfillan’s principles, the realisation of the complete and utter rightness of her stance on the world, had been as overwhelming as falling in love. Taking those principles, bending them to fit the softer politics of old England, arguing for a new form of the special relationship between America and Britain at the head of a new world order, had put Beth where she was now.

There was a second when a gap appeared and Kilfillan’s eyes focused on her through it, narrowing, considering. She knows who I am, Beth thought with delight. She’s read about me, been told about me. Maybe she’s even been to hear me speak. In the smaller Washington meetings at the State Department, at the Pentagon and the like, she had scanned the private audiences, hoping for a glimpse of Kilfillan, and she had been disappointed. The New York and Boston meetings which followed had been much larger, public events and anyone could have been there, lost in the haze of faces. Someone else wanting Kilfillan’s papal blessing filled the gap before she had taken more than a step, then Don Packhurst seized her by the arm and pushed her in front of her idol, so that there they were together, shockingly together.

‘Christie,’ he said.’This is our new British friend, Beth Battock. You’ve been hearing about her, I’m sure.’

Beth waited for her response, for the slightest sign of approval.

‘I can’t say I have,’ said Kilfillan with her characteristic rasp, failing to take Beth’s outstretched hand, giving her no more than a quick and supercilious glance.

‘You haven’t read the Post? “Message of support from Britain’s bright hope”? This kid’s the future of the old alliance and by the way, she’s also your greatest fan.’

Beth studied Kilfillan’s face while Kilfillan looked at the Senator with no hint of interest. Beth waited, mute, still certain that at any moment the woman in front of her would begin to engage, would smile, would reach out.

Kilfillan did look at her then, just for a moment, just long enough to say, ‘Right. That one. Yes, I caught it.’ Then she narrowed her eyes again. ‘You’ve got a way to go, little girl. A cute face won’t do it. You got backbone? I don’t think so,’ and turned away into the crowd.

Packhurst grimaced. That’s our Christie,’ he said. ‘Come on, I booked us a table at a place I know you’re going to love.’

Over the meal he did his best to persuade her it meant nothing.

‘She’s a tricky bitch, always has been,’ he said. ‘You’re the future. She sees that, you bet she sees that. The green-eyed monster was riding her back.’

‘Maybe she was right,’ Beth had said, not believing that for a moment as she chased seared scallops round her plate. She wished she’d picked something else which didn’t drip butter on the way to the mouth.

‘She was not. Listen, so far as we’re concerned, you’re Miss Great Britain. It’s all been music to our ears. Remember what they called you on CBS? Winston Churchill’s brain in Jennifer Lopez’s body? We thought our old allies were going cold on us until we heard you. Back to back, the Yanks and the Brits. Together we fear no one. That’s the stuff to give the troops.’

In another ten minutes they’d covered the full range of agreement on that one then he asked her, inevitably, to tell him all about herself.

‘Start at the beginning,’ he said. ‘I want to know how you got so smart. Your parents must have been something special.’

‘My mother died when I was born,’ Beth answered, slowly. ‘My father was a historian.’

‘Oh really? What’s his first name?’

‘Guy, Guy Battock.’

‘What’s he written?’

‘Nothing you would have come across. English medieval social history.’

‘I’ll look out for it.’

‘Oh, it was mostly academic monographs. Regional stuff. You won’t find it in the bookshops.’

‘Is he still writing?’

‘No, he’s dead too. Died a few years ago.’

‘OK. That’s tough. So you’re a poor little orphan.’ He reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘Are you a Londoner?’

‘Yes, born and bred there.’

‘And where did you study?’

‘The London School of Economics. I did my doctorate there.’

‘And then?’

‘I did the usual thing, I suppose. I got a job in television. I was a researcher on one of the political shows. And then I met Alan Livesay.’

‘A good man to meet.’

‘It was just after they made him a minister. I went to see him about a programme we were planning. You can guess the sort of thing, “the new hawk in the dovecote”. We got talking over lunch and I suppose he must have liked my ideas. He offered me a job.’

‘Every politician needs someone behind him with good ideas,’ said Packhurst. ‘You have to shake so many hands there’s never enough time for thinking. You’ve sure got the ideas. Your Mr. Livesay can count himself a very lucky man.’

‘It was lucky for me,’ Beth said. ‘No one took his ideas seriously enough until the war on terror started. He’s the right man at the right time.’

‘Well, I guess we’re all very happy that he sent you to us. Remind me, why exactly was it that he couldn’t come?’

The international situation. You know, after the Embassy bombs. He just couldn’t leave the Foreign Office at a time like that.’

Packhurst gave her a slow smile. ‘Oh sure. Even a junior minister has to feel indispensable. We’re all glad you came in his place. I guess you’re a star now.’

It was only then, trying to guess what lay behind that smile, that Beth first wondered if this trip had been wise. Advisers were meant to be invisible. They weren’t meant to step into the limelight and articulate the truths their masters didn’t dare utter.

When the check had been paid and the limo door was held open for her, Packhurst took her hand.

‘You’ve had a pretty full evening. If you want a little company and a chance to relax, I have a nice, quiet apartment nearby.’

It had a horrible inevitability about it and a few weeks earlier Beth might have said yes to a night with a US senator who combined power and good looks, but now her life was too complicated.

‘Sweet of you,’ she said, ‘but I have some work to do.’

Flying back to London the following day didn’t help her mood. First Class was full. There were no upgrades and the man next to her in Business Class wanted to tell her in detail all about the range of flashing jewellery he had just sold to a US mail-order giant. She closed her eyes and thought about the future.

At twenty-seven, Beth was on the young side for a British government minister’s political adviser. All advisers live in the grey area between politics and public service and are mistrusted by all sides. There was a food-chain at work and many other hungry mouths were clamouring for a bite of her master’s favour. Alan Livesay, junior minister in the Foreign Office, was busy climbing his own ladder while all those around him clung to his coat-tails, trying to hitch a free ride. Beth was good at getting noticed, and that was the key. She needed to catch the attention of Livesay’s boss, the Foreign Secretary. She had to get to the point where they needed her views to shape their speeches, their policies. It had been dog eat dog and she had lost a lot of flesh before she learnt to bite first.