Free A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie Page B

railing, making modesty difficult. Andrew also observed with a sharp intake of breath that she was paying her new companion no attention. Instead she leaned dangerously over the balcony, looked down and around. Then she caught Andrew’s eye. To the amused nudges of his neighbour, she smiled at him, and gave a little wave of encouragement.
     
    Getting up in the morning was never easy. Elaine envied people who so loved their work that as each day dawned they leapt from bed, showering and pulling on clothes, all in an excited frenzy. Not that many people of her acquaintance, friends or constituents, fitted that description.
    Getting out of bed on a Sunday was a different and more pleasurable business. Mike was home and could be heard singing in the bath to the accompaniment of Classic FM. ‘Nessun dorma’ did sound better from the vocal chords of Pavarotti, but Mike was making contented noises, which made her smile affectionately. She carried a tray back to bed and began sucking an orange, stretching her limbs in unaccustomed luxury.
    Mike came into the bedroom, dressed in a voluminous towelling dressing gown. Elaine was engrossed, and muttering to herself.
    ‘What are you reading?’
    ‘Mmm? Oh, an infuriating article which says that out of the hundred top jobs in Britain ninety-six are held by men. We are making progress, however. Twenty years ago it was ninety-eight. Funny country we live in.’
    Mike was puzzled. Having achieved his life’s ambition to be an international pilot he was at a loss when faced with the proposition that someone else, equally well qualified, might be turned down on irrational grounds. The best people got where they wanted if they were determined enough. Promotion should always be on merit and nothing else. Those who missed out were simply not capable or gave up too soon. The fact that so many were women, or black, or north-country, was irrelevant.
    ‘If it bothers you, I should read something else,’ he suggested mildly, and headed back into the bathroom.
    Elaine read bits out as Mike dressed. He should be keen to understand what annoyed her: she was, after all, his wife. She was aware that he was only half listening.
    It was enough, Mike decided, to make appropriate noises. He brushed his hair in front of the mirror, fretting a little at the hairs which remained on the brush. With Elaine in this mood, golf and male companionship seemed very attractive. ‘What’s that?’ Mike was being polite. ‘What are you doing today, Elaine?’
    His wife glanced up, a murderous glint in her eye. ‘Me? Oh, I think I’ll read a few more articles like this, and then maybe I’ll just lie here and grind my teeth.’
    Her husband was at the bedroom door, looking uncertain. ‘Whatever you say, Elaine. Er … what time is lunch?’
    ***
    ‘That’s a wrap, Secretary of State. Well done, if I may say so.’
    Martin Chadwick unrolled his lanky frame, rose from the conference table and focused through the windows at the remains of the afternoon sunlight. The flight home should be easy and comfortable. Satisfied, he shuffled the minister’s confidential papers first into a large, red folder then carefully into a battered black leather briefcase and turned the key. The royal seal and ‘EUR’ in specks of gold were still just visible on the outside. The briefcase had been his father’s: Sir Matthew Chadwick, CB, KCMG and a few more handles besides, recently retired Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, now serving on thirteen boards in the city and loving his well-pensioned freedom, while cherishing the thought that the brightest of his four children was climbing the same ladder, and faster.
    ‘You mean we’ve finished. And not before time,’ Boswood grunted. He made no effort to collect his own papers; security of sensitive documents could safely be left to Martin. He was tired after a grinding session. It irritated him that his private secretary so liked to show an awareness of the world outside