Free Goodfellowe MP by Michael Dobbs Page A

tenaciously, both hands gripping the table. ‘You told me yourself that it’s a war out there. And how do you fight it? Maybe you call a meeting of some planning committee, prepare a holding statement, discuss what, if anything, you dare to say. By which time it’s already too late. As far as the media are concerned you give us nothing but yesterday’s sardines wrapped in slices of stale bread.’
    She paused, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass, listening to the mournful note.
    ‘Forget about advertising,’ he insisted. ‘It’s hard news you need to worry about. Play the enemy at their own game. Get your retaliation in first. Screw ’em!’
    The wine waiter had returned with the Burgundy. Grand Cru. Exceptional. From a chateau that nestled against the rising hills outside Puligny which the waiter knew and much loved. He handled the bottle with almost phallic respect, presenting it formally, running his fingers gently down its shaft, demanding both their attention and admiration. Then he produced a corkscrew, sheathed it around the long neck and twisted and turned and screwed until the arms of the corkscrew seemed to rise gently above its head in a gesture of feminine surrender. The cork came out with a sigh of silk sheets. It was a wonderfulperformance, a gesture so rich in overtones that Corsa shivered in appreciation, as he did with all good business. She’d noticed too.
    She raised her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She stared directly at him across glasses filled with fine, honeyed liquid. ‘It sounds, Freddy, as though you want to lend me your front page.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ he smiled, ‘not lend. I’ve something much better in mind for you.’
    Goodfellowe had fallen for Werringham School as soon as he had driven into the grounds on his first visit – and well before he had discovered the cost. By that time it had been too late, his heart was committed, and the expense was simply another part of life that his thought processes struggled desperately to cordon off and ignore. The school was set in thirty acres nestling in the cupped hand of the Somerset uplands as they pushed towards the River Exe. That first time, as he had driven along the school drive – when he still had a licence to drive – there had been azalea and maple and pleached limes. Buzzards rested in the huge cypress trees before gliding gracefully up on the thermals that gathered in the bowl of the hills. If it couldn’t be home for Sam, it was as close as she was likely to get in any institution. Warm and protecting. But it could never be home.
    The day of the fashion show he arrived unannounced after a slow train journey from Waterloo. He had hoped to remain inconspicuous, the reminder about term fees still burning in his pocket, but no sooner had he reached the porch of the old sandstonemanor house which formed the centre of Werringham than he was intercepted by a regional television crew. ‘Bright girl, your daughter,’ the female interviewer smiled as they stood him in front of the camera. ‘Badgered us into sending a crew. Made us feel that if we refused we’d be responsible for famine throughout the whole of central Africa. Didn’t tell us you were coming, though.’
    And he had said a few words about the school and the girls and the example that the young could give us all. Then he had run straight into Miss Rennie.
    ‘An unexpected pleasure, Mr Goodfellowe,’ she acknowledged, looking him sternly in the eye. She had the sort of Presbyterian stare which seemed to go straight through to his bank balance. ‘I hope you’ll have a chance to linger after the fashion show. I would welcome the chance of a quiet conversation.’
    ‘I’m afraid I must be back in Westminster for seven. A vote.’
    ‘A pity. We need to talk. It’s not ideal but … perhaps we could sit together during the show. The opportunity for a few words, at least.’
    There had been no question of a refusal and, much out of sorts,