This Honourable House by Edwina Currie Read Free Book Online

meant they could not do everything at once, and would jeopardise the whole Project if they tried. ‘And if I protested,’ Diane muttered to the photo of Mandela, ‘I’d get the sack, pronto. But if I stay, we have some chance of keeping our consciences intact.’
    Midnight came and went, the coffee pot emptied. In the bottom of the third box was a stack of buff folders from her constituency secretary, mostly letters prepared for her signature. The same old complainants. Mrs Cartwright was still worried about her dripping tap: a letter to the council should suffice. Mr Heath way had kids throwing stones at his window. He would not accept that if he ignored his tormentors they might pester someone else. Did he need a sympathetic social worker? Was that the answer? Would anyone in the local office take any notice of him? He was lonely. Maybe the British Legion could help. Diane rubbed her eyes, tired.
    One last folder. This time, she brightened. It contained the applications to replace Mark on her personal staff. The advertisements had been placed promptly, for his resignation was inevitable, now that he was an MP himself. Perhaps she should have anticipated his departure as lover also, but it was still a painful blow. To be honest, his success at the hustings had been unexpected, a wonderful surprise on the crest of the electoral wave that had swept away so many of the previous government’s supporters. Several of the new arrivals had cherished only the faintest hope. Now Mark had left notonly a gap in her workforce but also, if he stuck to his word, in her bed. The rejection hurt.
    On the other hand, replacements were available. Diane began to read.
    She could not take them in. So many excellent candidates. Twenty in total, including five females. A single post was in the offing. Normally she would have glanced at the girls’ CVs and tossed them aside with a twinge of guilt, maybe sent a scribbled note of encouragement. She would have scrutinised the men’s with more care, starting with the photographs. She would try to imagine them in the flesh, wonder whether any would be amenable and how they might respond. But the savour of the chase had gone.
    She picked up her diary and earmarked a spare morning. Her secretary could do the preliminaries. On a Post-it note she wrote, ‘Pick the best half-dozen and ask them to come in for interview Tuesday next. I’m sure they’re all marvellous. Thanks.’
    Then she shoved the papers back into the folder, closed and locked the last red box, and went to bed.

Chapter Four
    Christine lay still. The sheets felt clammy against her hot skin. The air-conditioning hummed an invitation to roll over and close her eyes again, but she was not sleepy. Beside her lay the prone body of her husband. He moved frequently in bed but would not wake, if previous experience were any guide, for another two hours.
    Outside it was getting light. Parakeets chattered in the palm trees. A faint clatter down the corridor in the service alcove heralded room-service breakfast. Christine tried to remember what time they had ordered theirs for, and wondered whether pancakes with blueberries and sour cream had been a sensible request. Fresh pineapple and mango would have been better for them both. If he continued eating too much Benedict would need a crash diet the moment they got home. On the other hand, maybe a little solidity would not go amiss: it would help confirm the picture of a contentedly uxorious man.
    Christine shifted restlessly. The room felt too warm. She longed to throw off the bedclothes and spread her naked limbs out over the bed, but any sudden movement would disturb Benedict. Let him sleep. The desired image, the one that mattered, would not be aided by black circles under the eyes on their return.
    The image. Why did it keep floating through her mind? Why did she have such a precise idea, down to the last visual detail, of how they would appear to photographers in the arrivals hall at