Free A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie Page A

political lines, similar to Andrew’s. They were both MPs. Equals.
    ‘And may I introduce Miranda Jamieson, a journalist from The Globe , one of the better of our tabloid newspapers?’
    Miranda giggled. ‘Roger, you do talk tripe at times.’ The accent was loud and Australian.
    Elaine’s sense of disappointment intensified. If this were Dickson’s lover she would rather not know. She shook hands frostily and quickly excused herself, controlling her temper. What with Marcus expecting miracles and now Roger Dickson flaunting his girlfriend, it was all too much.
    Dickson looked at the retreating figure in puzzlement, then hooted with laughter, giving Andrew a conspiratorial slap on the back. ‘I seem to have upset the prickly Mrs Stalker! My God, she thinks you’re my dolly bird, Miranda. She must believe I’m some kind of sex fiend. Not that I would reject you out of hand, my dear, I hasten to add.’
    He turned to Andrew. ‘Now then, old chap. It is a good thing for bright sparks like you to get to know journalists and to learn how to talk to them without saying anything. The Globe asked the whips’ office if they could meet a few of the new intake – I’m sorry Mrs Stalker has gone off in a huff. Would you be kind enough to entertain Miranda a while? I do assure you she is quite harmless. Just don’t tell her any important secrets.’
    Muncastle profoundly wished he were somewhere else, but good breeding and deference to authority were to the fore. In a few minutes Miranda Jamieson was perched on a high bar stool drinking vodka, showing off tanned, bare legs in the evening sunlight to the assembled gathering. The miniskirt barely covered the essentials but Miranda seemed not to care. Andrew pulled in a few admiring friends and began to fuss over his charge. Given a task he was swift and capable, standing close to her protectively but not trying to impress her, yet, in not trying, succeeding. She was so used to men breathing over her and peering down her cleavage that it was an unexpected joy to meet this pleasant man with his impeccable manners. Not a wimp, either: he had been put in charge and had not hesitated. Interesting.
    For his part, Andrew was fascinated. He had never met anyone like Miranda before. Cautious with his remarks, because she was press, he found himself making a considerable effort to entertain and look after her. Her appearance was a challenge to all his limited sensibilities. You could not call her a lady or even a girl; this was a woman . Yet no woman of his acquaintance ever dressed like this. Usually he would have run a mile. But Miranda was friendly and fun and undeniably good company. That was bizarre. How could a woman who paraded in such a blatantly sexual style, who recrossed her legs and smoothed her bare thighs with one hand and giggled as that fool Ferriman went pink also be so intelligent? Wasn’t there a conflict here? Thoughtful women like his wife were not sexual creatures, indeed did not like sex much. Yet Miranda Jamieson, belying Roger’s downbeat introduction, was not any old journalist but, he soon learned, had just been appointed deputy editor of the newspaper. She was an important person in her own right. Thus Andrew Muncastle fussed over her, and forgot his promise to phone home before Barney went to bed.
    Eventually it was time for the wind-up speeches. Etiquette demanded that all backbench speakers should attend, as the minister’s office would have dug out answers to points made. Andrew regretfully made his apologies. He hurried through the Terrace door, turned right and headed up the stairs to take his place in the Chamber. As he got his breath back he glanced up at the gallery, where Tessa and Barney and Grandfather had sat. It had been a long day, a day of huge responsibility, and he was weary.
    To his surprise Miranda Jamieson was settling in the front row of the gallery, accompanied by Freddie Ferriman, still pink-faced. Her legs were jammed up against the