Free A Woman's Place by Edwina Currie Page A

slipped down to the fuzz between her parted thighs. Their clothes lay in a tangled heap on the floor; to retrieve his own he would have to kneel near the toes wriggling over the side of the bed…
    Some day, when she had landed a Conservative MP and adopted Jaeger suits and pearls, she would be tubby and formidable; but not yet. He stopped towelling and looked down at himself.
    â€˜Oh, damn,’ he said. ‘Oh, well.’
    * * *
    It was going to be a long day. The young waitress’s feet hurt already. On duty at seven on a dismal morning for a measly £2.50 an hour – what a life. She pushed a lock of damp hair out of her eyes before ladling scrambled egg on to the heated plates alongside glistening slices of black pudding, bacon, extra-large sausages, tomato, mushrooms and fried bread.
    â€˜Sautéed potatoes, madam?’ she enquired.
    Elaine had accepted only a sausage, egg and a slice of bacon. She noted the tired face and wondered how Karen was getting on. ‘No, thanks. Enough cholesterol already.’
    Beside her the tall spare man was even more disciplined and accepted only egg and tomato. George Horrocks shrugged self-deprecatingly at the waitress’s disapproval. A few more like these two and the chef’d be out of a job. He turned to the lady. ‘Where would you like to sit, Mrs Stalker?’
    â€˜Elaine, please. Where do you suggest?’
    â€˜Why don’t you take the seat facing the door? I’ll join you as soon as I’ve shepherded the rest.’
    She watched with amusement as George Horrocks deftly placed his guests exactly where he wanted them. The Asian gentleman was introduced to the PPS to the Home Office on one side, while opposite Lady Howe could be heard engaging the Heritage Minister in her long campaign to appoint more women to public bodies. Not that it had worked with any of his predecessors either.
    The Industry Minister counted himself lucky to be seated next to Dr Archer; soon the two were deep in conversation about solar energy. He judged it best to keep off the ravages of Lloyd’s which had ruined two parliamentary colleagues. Fortunately they had had sufficient wisdom to stand down before the bankruptcy petitions were enforced. Bit like her husband in 1974, he recalled, and wondered if any of the current losers could write.
    The waitress moved unobtrusively around the table offering seconds. At the Indian gentleman’s place she hesitated. You could never tell from a person’s appearance: he might be a Catholic like Hari Singh at college.
    â€˜Sausage, sir?’
    Bhadeshia’s first instinct was to demur but he had reckoned without Harrison’s sadistic streak.
    â€˜Oh, go on,’ Harrison urged him. ‘They’re very good – speciality of the hotel.’
    The smell of the bacon made Bhadeshia feel nauseous but maybe a sausage would not be so bad. They were supposed to be mainly bread filler, anyway. He accepted and toyed with the obscenely shaped meat, then pretended it was a kebab, drowned it in ketchup and chewed quickly. It would not do to exhibit weakness in such a place.
    â€˜In my home I keep two cooks,’ he informed Harrison as he wiped his mouth at last. ‘One for western cooking and one for Indian. My wife’s mother is still very strict.’
    Harrison had not missed the Rolex watch, the heavy Cartier cufflinks, the tie-pin set with a single diamond. ‘Must be tough, having all those servants,’ he concurred. ‘What did you say your name was? Jayanti? I’ll call you Jay, if you don’t mind. It’s easier.’
    Bhadeshia nodded but he had not quite finished boasting. ‘We have five staff who live in. Two do the gardens – three acres. They are relatives from the poorer side of the family. It can be a problem getting work permits, you know.’
    Harrison was not about to discuss the intricacies of British immigration law. It might be departmental