junior banker on his way from cashierâs desk to the boardroom, via marriage with the bossâs daughter, he had eschewed contact with anything demeaning. As a government whip he had known many MPs channel money from the Fees Office into their own pockets â employing a wife as staff at £10,000 a year, for example, when the lady couldnât feed paper into a typewriter, or booking on a foreign trip a research assistant whose talents were solely in the bedroom. Such behaviour he deplored. Sometimes it had been his role to warn the more blatant perpetrators, but only on the practical grounds that they were in danger of being caught. Perhaps the demands of high office had blunted his sensitivities â necessarily, for a totally upright life within the rules would have been very uncomfortable. It wasnât as if ministerial jobs were well paid; had he stayed with Tarrants Bank, his income would have been at least twice that of a Cabinet Minister, possibly more. But was using the Jaguar â which privately he could hardly have afforded â so different? It amounted to misuse of public funds â well, almost. In other countries nobody would have turned a hair; only in Britain did it matter. He bade his conscience be still, and with an effort continued to read.
For him it would be a tremendously important Conference: his performance would be assessed for every nuance. If there were to be a leadership contest, would he throw in his hat? If he did, would he stand a chance against the more ideologically pure candidates? Would he go down well with the blue-rinsed brigade, those supporters whose long-suffering loyalty to the party guaranteed them a say of sorts in who should lead it? The question of who could inspire the average voter was seldom mentioned. Who might best lead the country was not a criterion which counted at all.
It would not be a long journey. Charming commuter villages slid past the smoked-glass windows, their window-boxes showy with pink and mauve autumn asters and trailing ivy, their smellier agricultural links long since sanitised away. Neighbourhood Watch boards vied with parish council notices and tidy litter bins. Roger saw a well-dressed woman out with her dog nudge the squatting animal into the gutter, and smiled. The Conference hotel would swallow him and his doubts soon enough. He abandoned the folder and lay back with his eyes closed.
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The largest of the three cars was a flashy silver XJ12, its interior upholstered in cream leather. The travellers were a thickset olive-skinned man at the wheel, and his wife. The woman was handsome, dressed in a brilliant yellow sari, her hair coiffed and oiled, face immaculately made-up. Chattering happily, she riffled through a pile of invitations on her lap.
âWe have been invited to the âOne Nationâ party on Thursday night, to a South African Embassy reception, and to the Greater London Area reception tomorrow,â she enthused. âOh, Jayanti darling, do you think we will get to meet the Prime Minister? What would I say to him? I am so thrilled! Our first Party Conference! Now tell me â shall I wear my red sari tonight?â
Jayanti Bhadeshia knew that while his wife required an attentive audience she was not in the habit of listening to the responses. To satisfy her he grunted encouragement from time to time. Meanwhile he drove quietly, revelling in the six litres of power beneath his right foot. That he and his beautiful wife would make quite a stir in Brighton he had no doubt. The TV cameras would catch her swirl of silk, his flashing smile, as two obviously well-off Asians circulated among the white faces.
A plan was forming in his mind. If he genuinely wanted to become a notable figure in British life as opposed to a businessman known well only in his own community, then more time would have to be spent at events like this, where the coupleâs very uniqueness would attract attention. That would suit
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