but who knows for how much longer?’ Charles responded softly. ‘A whisper has started that Jack is going to stand down at the next election, which could be as soon as May next year.’
‘Is Esher a safe seat?’
‘Not by a long shot. His majority has been whittled down to a couple of thousand. But if he does stand down, the party will be inundated with CVs. It’s a wonderful seat for somebody. Wealthy, close to London …’
Camilla could barely contain her excitement at where this conversation was going. ‘What sort of candidate is the party looking for?’ she asked, trying to keep her cool.
‘Someone capable of winning a campaign. Someone like yourself, Camilla.’
‘How do you know I’m a Conservative?’
‘Oh dear,’ laughed Charles, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I assumed like father, like daughter.’
Truth was, Camilla was political without having any particularly strong party affiliation. Some of her opinions swung to the right, others were squarely towards the left.
But in her mind, politics wasn’t about policies, and there was very little between the three major parties now anyway. To her, politics was about power. It was the thought of the respect and authority that turned her on. The glamour of her heels clicking down the corridors of Westminster, the credibility she would get when compared to Cate and her fancy magazines or Venetia with her over-decorated society houses. More importantly, to the outside world she would no longer just be a satellite in Serena’s Stardust-sprinkled universe.
‘I voted Tory in the last election,’ she replied, without adding, ‘only just.’
‘Then you have everything you need to win a campaign,’ nodded Charles, pulling a leather cigar holder from out of his top pocket. ‘Do you mind?’
Camilla shook her head. One of her first memories was the heavy smell of cigar smoke and damp tweed; she was used to its sticky, woody aroma.
‘You have political nous; you have determination. And you have profile. Never discount the importance of celebrity,’ he smiled. ‘Look at Boris Johnson and Glenda Jackson. And surely your father could canvass some support for you.’
Camilla doubted that. Her father wanted more than anything to get back into the Lords in one of the elected seats, but had been defeated in the last two by-elections. She wondered how he’d take to the news of Camilla running for the Commons. Not well, she suspected.
‘Are you sure I’m not a bit young?’
‘No. The party needs an injection of youth and fresh, modern ideals. It needs to modernize – completely – in the way New Labour did in the nineties, and that process has already begun.’
‘You’re sure I’m eligible?’
‘You’re the daughter of a baron. It’s fine.’
She paused, more confused than she thought she would be. ‘If I do decide it’s something I want to do, and if Jack Cavendish announces his retirement, what do I do next?’
‘I assume you’re not on Central Office’s approved candidates’ list?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, that’s step one.’
‘It’s obviously something I need to think about carefully,’ she replied, running her thumbnail up and down the grain of the table. Then she looked up into Charles’s knowing eyes. ‘But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in looking into it, is there?’ she grinned.
‘I’ll smoke to that,’ replied Charles, inhaling his big fat brown Cohiba and blowing a perfect smoke ring into the air as a fat-faced barrister behind them started coughing. And Camilla began to smile.
Michael Sarkis’s Mustique villa, La Esperanza, was the complete opposite of the gaudy deluxe hotels for which he was famous. Perched at the tip of a lush headland jutting out into the hazy turquoise waters of the Caribbean, it was a huge, Balinese-style mansion with a jade green infinity pool, ornate koi carp pond full of lilies and an enormous sweep of terrace overlooking the sea.
‘I can’t believe we’ve been here two days already,’ sighed Serena, nibbling on a lobster salad as she swung in an enormous blue cotton hammock on the terrace, eyes gazing upwards at the palm trees.
‘It’s the Cotton House cocktail party this evening,’ said Venetia, looking over the top of her Valentino sunglasses. ‘Shall we wander down for a few martinis? Or are you still officially in hiding?’
Serena put down her salad bowl and plumped the soft linen pillow under her head. ‘Darling, the whole point of coming to Mustique is to avoid tourists rather than actively seek them out,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you understand and you know I appreciate you being so supportive.’
‘Oh, and I appreciate being here. Whatever you want to do,’ laughed Venetia, taking a swig of mineral water. ‘The villa is lovely enough on its own.’
‘Can you believe Cate refused to come?’ said Serena. ‘That ungrateful sod. Not that you were second choice or anything,’ she added quickly.
‘She’s not ungrateful,’ said Venetia with a wry smile. ‘But you know she always feels guilty about having fun. Actually, I think she is really busy this time. I spoke to her this morning because I thought she might be a bit depressed and she said she was working on some magazine idea she wants to try and launch.’
‘Well that’s typical, isn’t it?’ sniffed Serena. ‘While she’s unemployed she should be doing something useful like going to see Tom for me, rather than pretending she’s Donald Trump. She is so impossibly selfish.’
Venetia smiled to herself. Cate’s heart was as big as Serena’s ego, but she knew it was fruitless to say anything. Tired from their morning’s ride – they had picked up two gorgeous chestnut horses from the Mustique Equestrian Centre that morning to take for a canter along L’Ansecoy Beach – she lay back and opened a historical biography, pulling her sunglasses down deep onto the bridge of her nose to avoid the sun glaring back up from the page. She tried to stop herself smiling, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. Jonathon had been furious when she’d announced she was off to Mustique. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision after she’d got the first results of her hormone tests. Her mind instantly had become too full of things she did not want to think about. A failing marriage. Failing ovaries. Failure. She had to escape.
A steward in a pristine white uniform appeared with a frosted pitcher of fruit punch and a plate of brilliant-white coconut slices. Obediently, he placed a glass of punch in Serena’s outstretched hand.
‘I also have a fax for you,’ said the handsome steward, handing Serena a rolled sheet of cream paper on another silver platter.
‘A fax?’ asked Venetia, craning her neck over. ‘What is it? Don’t say the press have tracked you down here already. I don’t feel prepared for my paparazzi close-up.’
‘Oh,’ said Serena after a moment, scanning the scratchy black words.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Michael says he’s flying into Esperanza this evening. He would like to join us for dinner.’ She shot a puzzled expression in Venetia’s direction, which slowly began to pull into a smile.
‘It’s an awfully long way to come from New York, isn’t it?’ she said as her mouth continued to curl up.
‘And a bit weird just barging in?’ said Venetia, taking a bite of coconut. She paused, the penny dropping. ‘Or did you know he was coming?’
She raised an eyebrow at her sister who sat, sphinx-like, saying nothing and everything all at once.