doorstep like an ice sculpture.
‘Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late.’
Eddie leaned forward to kiss her. She hugged him stiffly, her arms opening and closing like a puppet’s as the cameras clicked away. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted: a public reunion. She could cheerfully have strangled Milo.
Eddie turned to face the media while the chauffeur brought in his case.
‘It’s good to see you all and great to be home,’ he announced. ‘I’m looking forward to the next chapter in my life and to getting back to work.’
The questions came like bullets.
‘What sort of work?’
‘Are you planning a return to politics?’
‘Has the prime minister been in touch?’
Eddie smiled graciously. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand this is a private family moment. All I want right now is a cup of tea with my wife. Thank you.’
Ushering Annabel inside, he closed the door behind them.
‘I’ve missed you.’ He pulled her to him.
Annabel said nothing.
‘The house looks beautiful.’
‘Thank you. Where have you been? I expected you hours ago.’
‘Oh, we stopped off for lunch in Winchester,’ Eddie said nonchalantly. ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into afterwards?’
Annabel wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. She was still trying to get over the ‘stopped for lunch’ part.
‘Charles French!’ Eddie beamed, apparently oblivious to his wife’s displeasure. ‘You remember Charles, my literary agent? Anyway, I invited him and his wife for dinner.’
What little colour Annabel had left drained from her face. ‘You invited him for dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here? Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eddie, you’ve just got out of prison.’
‘Exactly. So I thought it might be quite jolly to have some friends round. And we can talk about the book. You know, the prison memoirs.’
Annabel forced herself to count to five before speaking.
‘You should have asked me, Eddie. I don’t have a cook. I’ve nothing prepared.’
‘Charles won’t mind. As long as there’s wine. Milo can go and pick us up something in Chichester.’
Annabel could barely speak.
‘Milo!’ Eddie yelled up the stairs. ‘Make yourself useful and go and do the shopping for your mother. We’re having guests for dinner tonight.’
Milo appeared on the landing. ‘Great. Am I invited?’
‘No. It’s business. You can walk down to the pub for supper. Oh, and FYI, if you’ve been chucked out of Harrow it’s the end of the line. I mean it. No more school fees. You can get a bloody job.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Don’t “Oh, Dad” me. I mean it. Have you been expelled?’
‘Let’s talk about it later.’ Grabbing his mother’s car keys and purse, Milo wisely slipped out of the door.
‘We need food for four,’ Eddie shouted after him. ‘And when you get to the supermarket, ask them if they’re hiring.’
‘This is delicious.’ Sarah French, Charles’s journalist wife, took another bite of fish pie. ‘And the house is spectacular. Truly, Lady Wellesley, you’ve done an amazing job.’
‘Thank you,’ Annabel said stiffly. Sarah was still waiting for a smile, or at least a ‘Please, call me Annabel’. So far she’d received neither, but she wasn’t giving up.
‘It’s terribly kind of you to have us over. Especially on Eddie’s first night back. If it were me I wouldn’t dream of entertaining.’
‘Yes, well. It was Eddie’s idea.’
Clearly Annabel only bothered to turn on the charm for people whom she believed could help her and Eddie politically. And I don’t fit into that category, thought Sarah. She was so rude, it was hard to feel sorry for her. And yet Sarah found that she did. How typically thoughtless and male of Eddie to invite people over, tonight of all nights, without running it past his wife first. No wonder Annabel was irritated. Was he was trying to avoid being left alone with her? Delaying the inevitable? Or was he simply such an innately social animal, he couldn’t help himself?
‘Let’s talk book,’ said Charles, helping himself to a third glass of Eddie’s excellent claret and attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Do you know what you’re going for in terms of tone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you could pitch it various ways. You could go more Jeffrey Archer. Or more Jonathan Aitken. Or there’s always the Alan Clark approach.’
‘Not Clark,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘The man was a fraud and a bastard.’
‘Damned funny, though. His diaries sold like hot cakes.’
‘I know. But he claimed to love his wife and regret his affairs, then wrote a book boasting about them. That’s not my style.’
Sarah French watched Annabel’s face for any flicker of emotion, but found none.
‘On the other hand I couldn’t do an Aitken.’
‘Too pious?’
‘Exactly. All very well if one finds God in prison. But I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘What did you find?’
Eddie thought about it for a moment. ‘Compassion, I suppose. Camaraderie. And ambition. Renewed ambition. I enjoyed Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, but I want this to be my own voice. I want it to be the book that gets me back in government. Or at least back in the party fold.’
‘Blimey,’ Charles French spluttered. ‘That might be a tall order.’
‘It might be,’ Eddie agreed. ‘I made a lot of enemies in Westminster.’
‘And Fleet Street,’ Charles reminded him.
‘One enemy in particular, as we all know,’ Eddie said darkly. ‘But I’m also foolish enough to believe that I still have a number of friends, in both those worlds. Voters aren’t looking for perfection. They’re looking for someone who can learn from their mistakes. I’ve learned from mine.’
Have
