Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

While the men settled themselves Andrew remained standing by the mantelpiece, facing Jock McPherson who had obviously been chosen to act as their spokesman.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” McPherson began. “We want you to fight under the SNP banner at the next election.”

Andrew tried not to show his disbelief, and began, “I don’t feel...”

“Hear me out,” said McPherson, raising his massive palms. “We want you to contest the Edinburgh Carlton seat not just as a Scottish Nationalist candidate but as leader of the party.”

Andrew still couldn’t believe what he was hearing but remained silent.

“We’re convinced you’ll) lose your seat in any case if you stand as a Socialist,” McPherson continued, “but we realize that there are many people in Scotland who, whatever their political views, admire what you have achieved in the nine years you have been in the House. After all, man, you were brought up and educated in Edinburgh. With you as leader, we believe we could capture forty to fifty of the seventy-one seats in Scotland. And I may add that your own party is moving inexorably to the left, a state of affairs that I can’t believe you are altogether happy about.”

Andrew still made no comment. He listened as each one of the MPs put his own view, which became predictable long before the last one had spoken. Every Scottish tone from a Highland lilt to a Glasgow growl was represented in the voices. It became clear that they had given the matter considerable thought and were obviously sincere. “I am very flattered, gentlemen,” he began when the last one had said his piece. “And I assure you I will give your offer my serious consideration.”

“Thank you,” said McPherson. They all stood up like clan leaders in the presence of a new chief.

“We’ll wait to hear from you then,” said McPherson. One by one they shook hands with their host before filing out.

As soon as they had left Andrew went straight into the kitchen where Robert was still waiting impatiently to play football before going to bed.

“In a moment, in a moment,” he said in response to his son’s noisy demands. “I’ll join you in the garden.”

“And what did that lot want?” inquired Louise, as she continued to peel the potatoes.

Andrew went over the details of their proposition.

“And how did you respond?”

“I didn’t. I shall wait a week and then decline as gracefully as possible.”

“What made you decide against the offer so quickly?”

“I don’t like being told by Jock McPherson, or anyone else for that matter, that I will lose my seat at the next election if I don’t fall in with their plans.” He headed toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be back to the red box as soon as I’ve scored a couple of goals against MacPele.” A moment later he had joined Robert in the garden.

“Now listen, clever boots, I’m going to teach you how to feint a pass so that your opponent goes one way while you go the other.”

“Sounds just like politics to me,” muttered Louise, watching them out of the kitchen window.

27 Eaton Square,

London, SW1

23 April 1974

Dear Derek,

Thank you for your letter of 18 April and your kind invitation to rejoin the board of Seymour’s. I am delighted to accept and look forward to working with you again.

Yours sincerely,

Fiona checked the wording and nodded. Short and to the point. “Shall I post it?”

“Yes, pleas,” said Charles as the phone rang.

He picked it up. “730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”

“Oh, hello, Charles. It’s Simon Kerslake.”

“Hello, Simon,” said Charles, trying to sound pleased to hear from his former colleague. “What’s it like out there in the real world?”

“Not much fun, which is exactly why I’m phoning. I’ve been short-listed for Pucklebridge, Sir Michael Harbour-Baker’s seat. He’s nearly seventy and has decided not to stand again at the next election. As his constituency touches the south border of yours, I thought you might be able to put in a word for me again.”

“Delighted,” said Charles. “I’ll speak to the chairman tonight. You can rely on me, and good luck. It would be nice to have you back in the House.”

Simon gave him his home number which Charles repeated slowly, as if he were writing it down.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Charles.

“I really appreciate your help.”

Simon put down the phone.

Elizabeth looked up from her copy of The Lancet .

“I don’t trust that man,” she said.

“A woman’s intuition again?” said Simon, smiling. “You were wrong about Ronnie Nethercote.”

“That’s yet to be proved.”

It was several days before Kate Garthwaite agreed to see Raymond again. And when she eventually joined him for dinner at the House she was not overwhelmed or flattered and she certainly didn’t hang on his every word.

She was lively, fun, intelligent, and well informed and they began to see each other regularly. As the months passed Raymond found himself missing her at weekends when he was in Leeds with Joyce. Kate enjoyed her independence and made none of the demands on him that Stephanie had, never once suggesting he spend more time with her or that she might leave clothes behind in the flat.

Raymond sipped his coffee. “That was a memorable meal,” he said, falling back into the sofa.

“Only by the standards of the House of Commons,” replied Kate.

Raymond put an arm round her shoulder before kissing her gently on the lips.

“What! Rampant sex as well as cheap Beaujolais?” she exclaimed, stretching over and pouring herself some more coffee.

“I wish you wouldn’t always make a joke of our relationship,” said Raymond, stroking the back of her hair.

“I have to,” said Kate quietly.

“Why?” Raymond turned to face her.

“Because I’m frightened of what might happen if I take it seriously”

Raymond leaned over and kissed her again. “Don’t be frightened. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Kate, turning away.

Charles sat through the Annual General Meeting in silence. The chairman made his report for the year ending March 1974 before welcoming two new directors to the board and the return of Charles Seymour.

There were several questions from the floor which Derek Spencer had no trouble in handling. As Charles had promised, there was not even a hint of Miss Janet Darrow. Miss Trubshaw had let Fiona know that the payment had been stopped and also mentioned that she was still worried that her contract was coming to an end on I July.

When the chairman brought the AGM to a close Charles asked courteously if he could spare him a moment.

“Of course,” said Spencer, looking relieved that the meeting had gone through without a hitch. “What can I do for you?”

“I think it might be wiser to talk in the privacy of your office.”

The chairman glanced at him sharply but led him back to his room.

Charles settled himself comfortably in the leather chair once more and removed some papers from his inside pocket. Peering down at them he asked, “What does BX41207122, Bank Rombert, Zurich, mean to you?”

“You said you would never mention—”

“Miss Darrow,” said Charles. “And I shall keep my word. But now, as a director of the bank, I am trying to find out what BX41207122 means to you?”

“You know damn well what it means,” said the chairman, banging his clenched fist on the desk.

“I know it’s your private ” — Charles emphasized the last word — “account in Zurich.”

“You could never prove anything,” said Derek Spencer defiantly.