went into the fishmonger’s or came out of a cinema. ‘Honestly, though it’s hard to believe, the reporters doorstepped us for so long that we actually got quite friendly with them. Some of them are perfectly nice people. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. I’ve got to pull myself together. I haven’t been sleeping and … It must have been so much worse for you with your father in prison.’
‘That was truly awful.’ Harriet shook her head as she thought about it, as though to rid herself of the memory. ‘But, darling Bobbie, never mind the press for a minute. You can keep them outside and in the end they’ll get fed up and it’ll be yesterday’s news. But what about you? Have you been able to see him?’
‘No. If you mean Burgo.’
She squeezed my hand. ‘You love him terribly?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘And will he … is he going to leave his wife?’
‘If he leaves her he’s finished as a politician. Margot Holland can’t have a disgraced minister in tow. As the first woman Prime Minister she’s got to have higher standards, work harder and do everything much better than any man. She supports Burgo all the way, naturally: she wouldn’t have appointed him Minister for Culture if she didn’t think he’d do a brilliant job. He’s only thirty-five and she’s promoted him over the heads of several older and more likely candidates. Of course it’s made him enemies.’
‘People are envious of him, you mean?’
‘Well, on the face of it he seems to have everything: brains, career, rich wife, willing mistress. The anti-Burgo faction is also largely anti-Holland, though that’s more or less kept under wraps, of course. The scandal’s given ammunition to those Conservatives who feel their manhood’s threatened by having a female boss. As well as to the Labour Party, of course. The only chance Burgo’s got of holding out against those who are baying for his blood is to be repentant and to persuade his wife to put on a public show of reconciliation with him. After that it depends on the tide of popular opinion. But plenty of politicians have had affairs and survived, provided they showed proper contrition and behaved themselves ever after.’
Harriet got up to make the tea. Keeping her back to me, she asked, ‘Is that what he’s going to do?’
‘He’s telephoned every day since the news broke. Each time he says he loves me and that he’s going to give everything up for me.’
Harriet turned round. ‘Oh, thank goodness! That’s all right, then.’
I shook my head. ‘He hasn’t said it doesn’t matter to him. That he doesn’t mind giving it all up for me. I can hear in his voice what a wrench it is. He’s always wanted this. He’s terrifically ambitious; he wants to be able to change things. One of the things I love about him is his energy and the fact that it’s channelled into real achievement. He doesn’t care about status symbols, possessions, houses, cars, cellars filled with rare vintages. He doesn’t care about winning. What thrills him is informing people, changing their opinions about things he thinks are important. Managing to get a bill read about reforming the laws on assisted suicide or doing something to help ex-prisoners buoys him up for days at a time.’
‘I must admit it’s not how I imagined politicians to be.’ Harriet found some cups in the cupboard. ‘I mean, they aren’t usually very attractive people morally – or even physically. I saw Burgo on television yesterday. He looked pretty cracking.’
I had seen the piece of newsreel myself, of Burgo coming out of 10 Downing Street, looking stern, acknowledging the cameras with a nod and the coldest of smiles, walking quickly away. I had turned the set off after a few seconds because the pain of longing had been so intense.
I offered the coffee fondants to Harriet. ‘Do have one. Or several. They’re horribly sickly but I can’t seem to manage proper food. It all tastes like ashes. Burgo’s having to choose between two things he terribly wants and he thinks he’ll choose me because I’m just about more important to him.’
‘There you are then. You couldn’t reasonably expect him not to care at all.’
‘No, not that. But don’t you see, if he left that world of power and influence and excitement, and we bought a semi in suburbia – neither of us has a bean, his wife has all the money – and he got a job in the Civil Service or presenting programmes on television, do you think I’d go on mattering that infinitesimal but crucial fraction more? We’d be bound to quarrel sometimes and perhaps the love-making would come to seem less exciting and I’d have to ask myself whether I was still more important than the job he’d always wanted, which was his for a few weeks and which he gave up for my sake. If I made a stupid remark or failed to sympathize properly, if I got tired and snappy, jealous, perhaps – after all, he’s had one clandestine affair so what’s to stop him having another? – every sigh, every depressed look, every word that suggested he was becoming disillusioned would throw me into a blind panic. I lack the confidence to be sure I can be all in all to someone else.’
‘You have to admire Wallis Simpson.’
‘Ah, but he never wanted to be king. That’s the difference.’
Harriet sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘I probably ought to urge you not to be a coward and to take on the challenge. But I’m so short of confidence myself I’m sure I’d feel just the same. People can’t be everything to each other and they ought not to expect it. Actually, to be truthful, there isn’t anything that matters to me even a thousandth part as much as Rupert, but then I’m not ambitious. And I’ve been crazy about him since I was old enough to spit.’
‘You mean, you’re childhood sweethearts? How romantic.’
‘Not exactly. He says I was fat, grubby and toothless. But I’ve worshipped him all my life. Anyway, to revert to the jobs thing, although I enjoy my job it isn’t what I really want to do for ever.’ She grew pink. ‘My secret desire is to be a poet. But if I had to choose between losing Rupert and never writing another poem, there’d be no contest. I suppose that means I’m not sufficiently serious about poetry. It’s disillusioning.’ Her eye fell on the fondants. I pushed the bag across. ‘Rather more-ish, aren’t they?’
‘When are you getting married?’
Harriet blushed again. ‘After he’s finished directing Lucia di Lammermoor. But that’s enough about me. It’s you that matters now.’
‘It’s kind of you to come.’ I was struck by a sudden thought. ‘But why did you? Not that I’m not delighted to see a friendly face. But it’s a long way to travel to console someone you’ve met only once before.’
Harriet turned a darker shade. ‘Ah well, the truth is that I’m one of those inebriate vultures at your gate. I’m a reporter on the Brixton Mercury. I used to be the dogsbody but I’ve risen to deputy sub-editor – only because Rupert pulled strings. Oh, don’t look like that.’ I must have inadvertently assumed a look of distaste. ‘Of course I’m not going to write a story about you. Or nothing that you don’t dictate to me word for word. But my boss Mr Podmore asked me if I knew you. He thinks I’m an ex-deb, which is quite untrue and that I know everyone with a double-barrelled surname. When I said that actually I did, he sent me out to get an exclusive interview. And I thought you might like a chance to put your own view to the world, via the BM. Of course our circulation’s tiny but sometimes the national newspapers take things from the local ones. But if not, then I’ll just say you were out. I promise you can trust me. I thought I might be able to help. I hope you’re not cross?’
She looked so anxious that I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Of course I’m not cross. And I do trust you. You’ve already helped tremendously just by listening. But I don’t know what I can tell the world that won’t injure Burgo.’
‘I could write a little piece about what a nice, sensitive, decent person you are. It seems to me that Lady Anna’s getting all the favourable