Minister!’
Prime Minister. There it was. The first time. He’d done it.
‘So…what did he say?’ They were in the car on the way to Downing Street before his wife roused him from his reverie.
‘What? Oh, not a lot. Wished me well. Talked about the great opportunities ahead. Went on about a building site near Westminster Abbey. Wants me to ensure it’s built in mock Tudor or some such nonsense.’
‘Will you humour him?’
‘Mortima, if sincerity could build temples then the whole of England would be covered in his follies, but this is no longer the Dark Ages. The King’s job is to give garden parties and to save us the bother of electing someone else president, not to go round interfering.’
Mortima snorted her agreement as she fumbled impatiently through her bag in search of lipstick. She was a Colquhoun by birth, a family which could trace its descent in direct line from the ancient kings of Scotland. They had long since been stripped of the feudal estates and heirlooms, but she had never lost her sense of social positioning or her belief that most modern aristocracy were interlopers – including ‘the current Royal Family’, as she would frequently put it. Royalty was merely an accident of birth, and of marriage and of death and the occasional execution or bloody murder; it could just as easily have been a Colquhoun as a Windsor, and all the more pure stock for that. At times she became distinctly tedious on the subject, and Urquhart decided to head her off.
‘Of course I shall humour him. Better a King with a conscience than not, I suspect, and the last thing I need is sour grapes growing all over the Palace. Anyway, there are other battles to be fought and I want him and his popularity firmly behind me. I shall need it.’ His tone was serious and his eyes set upon a future of perceived challenges. ‘But at the end of the day, Mortima, I am the Prime Minister and he is the King. He does what I tell him to, not the other way around. The job’s ceremony and sanctimony, that’s all. He’s the Monarch, not a bloody architect.’
They were driving past the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall, slowing down as they approached the barriers at the head of Downing Street, and Urquhart was relieved to see there were rather more people here to wave and cheer him on for the benefit of the cameras than at the Palace. He thought he recognized a couple of young faces, perhaps party headquarters had turned out their rent-a-crowd. His wife idly slicked down a stray lock of his hair, while his mind turned to the reshuffle and the remarks he would make on the doorstep, which would be televised around the world.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Mortima pressed.
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Urquhart muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he smiled for the cameras as the car turned into Downing Street. ‘As a new King the man is inexperienced, and as constitutional Monarch he is impotent. He has all the menace and bite of a rubber duck. But fortunately, on this matter, I happen to agree with him. Away with modernism!’ He waved as a policeman came forward to open the heavy car door. ‘So it really can’t be of any consequence…’
Loyalty is the vice of the underclasses. I hope I am above such things.
‘Put the papers down, David. For God’s sake, take your nose out of them for just a minute of our day together.’ The voice was tense, more nervous than aggressive.
The grey eyes remained impassive, not moving from the sheaf of documents upon which they had been fixed ever since he had sat down at the breakfast table. The only facial reaction was an irascible twitch of the neatly trimmed moustache. ‘I’m off in ten minutes, Fiona, I simply have to finish them. Today of all days.’
‘There’s something else we have to finish. So put the bloody papers down!’
With reluctance David Mycroft raised his eyes in time to see his wife’s hand shaking so vigorously that the coffee splashed over the edge of her cup. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘You. And me. That’s the matter.’ She was struggling to control herself. ‘There’s nothing left to our marriage and I want out.’
The King’s press aide and principal public spokesman switched automatically into diplomatic gear. ‘Look, let’s not have a row, not now, I’m in a hurry and…’
‘Don’t you realize, we never have rows. That’s the problem!’ The cup smashed down into the saucer, overturning and spreading a menacing brown stain across the tablecloth. For the first time he lowered his sheaf of papers, every movement careful and deliberate, as was every aspect of his life.
‘Perhaps I could get some time off. Not today, but…We could go away together. I know it’s been a long time since we had any real chance to talk…’
‘It’s not lack of time, David! We could have all the time in the world and it would make no difference. It’s you, and me. The reason we don’t have any rows is because we have nothing to argue about. Nothing at all. There’s no passion, nothing. All we have is a shell. I used to dream that once the children were off our hands it might all change.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’m tired of deluding myself. It will never change. You will never change. And I don’t suppose I will.’ There was pain and she was dabbing her eyes, yet held her control. This was no flash of temper.
‘Are you…feeling all right, Fiona? You know, women at your time of life…’
She smarted at his patronizing idiocy. ‘Women in their forties, David, have their needs, their feelings. But how would you know? When did you last look at me as a woman? When did you last look at any woman?’ She returned the insult, meaning it to hurt. She knew that to break through she was going to have to batter down the walls he had built around himself. He had always been so closed, private, a man of diminutive stature who had sought to cope with his perceived physical inadequacies by being utterly formal and punctilious in everything he did. Never a hair on his small and rather boyish head out of place, even the streaks of grey beginning to appear around his dark temples looking elegant rather than ageing. He always ate breakfast with his jacket on and buttoned.
‘Look, can’t this wait? You know I have to be at the Palace any—’
‘The bloody Palace again. It’s your home, your life, your lover. The only emotion you ever show nowadays is about your ridiculous job and your wretched King.’
‘Fiona! That’s uncalled-for. Leave him out of this.’ The moustache with its hint of red bristled in indignation.
‘How can I? You serve him, not me. His needs come before mine. He’s helped ruin our marriage far more effectively than any mistress, so don’t expect me to bow and fawn like the rest.’
He glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘Look, for goodness sake, can we talk about this tonight? Perhaps I can get back early.’
She was dabbing at the coffee stain with her napkin, trying to delay meeting his gaze. Her voice was calmer, resolved. ‘No, David. Tonight I shall be with somebody else.’
‘There’s someone else?’ There was a catch in his throat, he had clearly never considered the possibility. ‘Since when?’
She looked up from the mess on the table with eyes which were now defiant and steady, no longer trying to evade. This had been coming for so long, she couldn’t hide from it any more. ‘Since two years after we got married, David, there has been someone else. A succession of “someone elses”. You never had it in you to satisfy me. I never blamed you for that, really I didn’t, it was just the luck of the draw. What I bitterly resent is that you never even tried. I was never that important to you, not as a woman. I have never been more than a housekeeper, a laundress, your twenty-four-hour skivvy, an object to parade around the dinner circuit. Someone to give you respectability at Court. Even the children were only for show.’
‘Not true.’ But there