Jeffrey Archer: First Among Equals

“Probably caused by all the excitement,” his mother said on their return. “Still, you can always have another, can’t you? And this time folk won’t be able to call it a little...”

She checked herself.

Raymond showed no interest in having another. Ten years had passed since that memorable honeymoon; he had escaped to London and become a barrister, but had long since accepted that he was tethered to her for life. Although Joyce was only thirty-two she already needed to cover those once-slim legs that had first so attracted him. How could he be so punished for such a pathetic mistake? Raymond wanted to ask the gods. How mature he had thought he was: how immature he had turned out to be. Divorce made sense, but it would have meant the end of his political ambitions: Yorkshire folk would not have considered selecting a divorced man. To be fair, it hadn’t all been a disaster: he had to admit that the locals adored her, and his parents seemed every bit as proud of Joyce as they did of their son. She mixed with the trade unionists and their frightful wives far better than he ever managed. He also had to acknowledge that Joyce had been a major factor in his winning the seat by over 10,000 votes. He wondered how she could sound so sincere the whole time: it never occurred to him that it was natural.

“Why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for Downing Street?” Raymond said as they rose from the breakfast table. She smiled: he had not volunteered such a suggestion for as long as she could remember. Joyce had been left with no illusions about her husband and his feelings for her, but hoped that eventually he would realize she could help him achieve his unspoken ambition.

On the night of the reception at Downing Street Joyce made every effort to look her best. She had spent the morning at Harvey Nichols searching for an outfit appropriate for the occasion, finally returning to a suit she had liked the moment she had walked in to the store. It was not the perfect fit but the sales assistant assured Joyce that “Modom looked quite sensational in it.” She only hoped that Raymond’s remarks would be half as flattering. By the time she reached home she realized she had nothing to match the unusual color.

Raymond was late returning from the Commons and was pleased to find Joyce ready when he leaped out of the bath. He bit back a remark about the incongruity of her shoes and new suit. As they drove toward Westminster he rehearsed the names of every member of the Cabinet with her, making Joyce repeat them as if she were a child.

The air was cool and crisp that night so Raymond parked his Sunbeam in New Palace Yard and they strolled across Whitehall together to No. 10. A solitary policeman stood guard at the door. Seeing Raymond approach, the officer banged the brass knocker once and the door was opened for the young member and his wife.

Raymond and Joyce stood awkwardly in the hall as if they were waiting outside a headmaster’s study. Eventually they were directed to the first floor. They walked slowly up the staircase, which turned out to be less grand than Raymond had anticipated, passing photographs of former Prime Ministers. “Too many Tories,” muttered Raymond as he passed Chamberlain, Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, and Home, with Attlee the only framed compensation.

At the top of the stairs stood Harold Wilson, pipe in mouth, waiting to welcome his guests. Raymond was about to introduce his wife when the Prime Minister said, “How are you, Joyce? I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Make it? I’ve been looking forward to the occasion all week.” Her frankness made Raymond wince; he failed to notice that it made Wilson chuckle.

Raymond chatted to the Prime Minister’s wife about the difficulty of getting poetry published until she turned away to greet the next guest. He then moved off into the drawing room and was soon talking to Cabinet ministers, trade union leaders, and their wives, always keeping a wary eye on Joyce, who seemed engrossed in conversation with the General Secretary of the Trades Union Congress.

Raymond moved on to the American Ambassador, who was telling Andrew Fraser how much he had enjoyed the Edinburgh Festival that summer. Raymond envied Fraser his relaxed clubbable manner and had already worked out that the Scotsman would be a formidable rival among his contemporaries.

“Good evening, Raymond,” said Andrew. “Do you know David Bruce?” he asked, as if they were old friends.

“No,” Raymond replied, rubbing his palm on his trousers before shaking hands. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he said, glad to see Andrew slipping away. “I was interested to read Johnson’s latest communiqué on Vietnam and I must confess the escalation...”

Andrew had spotted the Minister of State for Scotland arriving and went over to chat to him.

“How are you, Andrew?” Hugh McKenzie asked.

“Never better.”

“And your father?”

“In great form.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the minister, grinning. “He’s giving me a lot of trouble over the Highlands and Islands Development Board.”

“He’s a sound chap basically,” said Andrew, “even if his views are a little misguided.” They both laughed as a slight, attractive woman with long brown hair came up to the minister’s side. She wore a white silk blouse and a McKenzie tartan skirt.

“Do you know my daughter Alison?”

“No,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”

“I know who you are,” she said, in a slight lowland accent, her eyes flashing. “Andrew Fraser, the man who makes Campbells look trustworthy. The Tories’ secret mole.”

“It can’t be much of a secret if the Scottish Office know about it,” said Andrew.

A waiter, wearing the smartest dinner-jacket in the room, approached them carrying a silver tray of thinly-cut sandwiches.

“Would you care for a smoked salmon sandwich?” Alison asked mockingly.

“No, thank you. I gave them up with my Tory background. But beware — if you eat too many you won’t appreciate your dinner tonight.”

“I wasn’t thinking of having dinner.”

“Oh, I thought you might enjoy a bite at Sigie’s,” teased Andrew.

Alison hesitated, then said, “It’ll be the first time anyone’s picked me up at No. 10.”

“I hate to break with tradition,” said Andrew. “But why don’t I book a table for eight?”

“Is Sigie’s one of your aristocratic haunts?”

“Good heavens no, it’s far too good for that lot. Why don’t we leave in about fifteen minutes? I must have a word with one or two people first.”

“I’ll bet.” She grinned as she watched Fraser comb the room. His years as a Tory party fellow-traveler had taught Andrew all he needed to know about how to make the best use of a cocktail party. His trade union colleagues would never understand that it was not in pursuit of endless smoked salmon sandwiches drowned by whisky. When he arrived back at Alison McKenzie’s side she was chatting to Raymond Could about Johnson’s landslide victory at the polls.

“Are you trying to pick up my date?” asked Andrew.

Raymond laughed nervously and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. A moment later Andrew was guiding Alison toward the door to say their farewells, and Raymond, watching them, wondered if he would ever learn to be that relaxed. He looked around for Joyce: it might be wise not to be the last to leave.

Andrew was ushered discreetly to a corner table at Sigie’s Club and it became quickly evident to Alison that he had been there several times before. The waiters ran around him as if he were a Tory Cabinet minister, and she had to admit to herself that she enjoyed the experience. After an excellent dinner of roast beef that wasn’t burnt and a crème brûlèe that was they strolled over to Annabel’s where they danced until the early morning. Andrew drove Alison back to her Chelsea flat a little after two a.m.