Free A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie

need to become better known nationally: speaking at Party Conference, letters to the press, TV, that sort of thing.’
    Marcus cast her a sidelong look. ‘I’m not sure about that, but it’d be useful gaining experience at the hard end here in Westminster. I put out feelers for an MP to work for, but in all honesty I think I can do better than that. Say, working in a minister’s office. As a special adviser, helping write speeches and doing political research. You’re very well thought of, Elaine, and you have lots of contacts. I was wondering if you might have a word in the right ears.’
    If Elaine had indeed known whom to approach about such a valuable post a different name would have hovered on her tongue: her own. Not to become a special adviser, but to perform much the same tasks, as a parliamentary private secretary, a PPS, the first rung on the ministerial ladder. Yet she had no such contacts. She eyed Marcus despairingly. He looked so longingly at her, as if she could open doors when in fact she had no idea how. He would not believe that; nor did she want to admit it. It was easier to hide her impotence. Again she asked for appropriate material, this time about himself. At last she could draw the conversation to a close and thankfully she ushered him down the steps to the exit.
     
    Andrew Muncastle was hurrying on to the Terrace and nearly knocked her over. His tall frame looked thinner than on their earliest meeting in the Members’ Lobby that euphoric first afternoon.
    ‘I’m so glad I caught you, Elaine. I just wanted to thank you for being so kind to my wife and son in the café. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you but I got a bit tied up. Tessa has taken him home now. You were a great hit – Barney is quite besotted with you and asked when he can have tea with you again.’
    ‘I was very pleased to meet your wife.’ Best not to respond to the invitation.
    ‘Now, what’s this, Mrs Stalker? Who is besotted with you?’
    She jumped. The voice was very close. A male hand rested lightly on her waist. Roger Dickson might be a big man but he could move quietly and was developing a disconcerting habit of catching her unawares. He also seemed to take it for granted that he could touch her, though each time it was unobjectionable, asexual and not unpleasant. He had picked up the tail-end of the conversation.
    ‘I’ve been making a big play for a five-year-old boy, Andrew’s son.’ Elaine kept a straight face and feigned haughtiness. But Roger Dickson had another woman with him, standing very close.
    Taller than herself, younger, on high heels, the woman was dark-haired, tanned and perfumed. A red silk jacket hung loose over firm shoulders, setting off a white bustier and short skirt. She looked stunning, whoever she was, with a mocking, knowing air. Elaine’s heart skipped a beat. In rapid succession she felt alarmed, then cross with herself, then unaccountably angry with Roger. Was this Mrs Dickson? The style was all wrong for Tory ladies’ tea parties. If not Mrs Dickson – was he a cheat?
    Andrew was shuffling his feet again. He was clearly not comfortable in the presence of a man with a woman, or more than one woman, when a little sexual electricity was in the air. Elaine took refuge in a twinge of disappointment in both men: Andrew for being such a blushing dope and Roger, more so, for seeking the company of a bimbo.
    Dickson turned to his companion with a proprietorial air. ‘Miranda, I should like to introduce you to two of the best of the new intake. Andrew Muncastle here has won accolades today for his maiden speech, the first this Parliament. If he carries on like that he will be much in demand. And the lovely Mrs Stalker naturally needs no introduction.’
    That remark, often said about her now, did irritate. It was so patronising and seldom well meant: it usually implied a snigger, a smirk hidden behind the hand. She did need an introduction and would have preferred it on straightforward