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Blackpool, isn’t it, Mrs Stalker?’ Elaine felt a sinking sensation at the ingratiating whine. The man was small and seedy-looking, his Fair Isle sweater dotted with shiny badges and congealed food. The shirt collar peeping over the top was mangled and the cuffs grubby.
    Most people at Conference, particularly in years when party support nationally was a bit thin, were hard-bitten but genuine. Some, however, were groupies whose persistent attentions could be achingly depressing. Elaine lowered her coffee-cup into its saucer.
    â€˜Well, these facilities are much newer. And the atmosphere is better, you know, when we’ve just won an election.’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ the small man responded eagerly. His accent was nasal, Midlands. ‘I should introduce myself. I’m Roy Twistleton. From Newcastle. Under Lyme, that is. I was on the council there … well, until a year or two ago.’ His face fell, then brightened. ‘But I’m going to stand again, although it won’t be easy – we lost nearly every seat.’
    He hesitated, before it came out in a breathless rush.
    â€˜And I’ve applied to go on the candidates’ list. What I want to do, Mrs Stalker, is be an MP. Like you.’
    Elaine suspected that ex-Councillor Twistleton read those books on self-improvement which recommend perpetual optimism. It might be a greater kindness to put him off.
    â€˜It’s a hard life, Roy. Both before and after elections. Nursing a constituency can be tough, not to mention expensive – loads of travel and time off work. Have you talked it through with your family? And your employer?’ She gestured vaguely at the appalling sweater. ‘And then, you know, appearance matters. Have to dress smartly and that.’
    Roy Twistleton looked crestfallen. His hand defensively twiddled a badge. ‘I don’t have an employer. I’m unemployed, to tell you the truth, since the factory closed, but I call myself a consultant. D’you think I’d have any chance?’
    Elaine’s heart softened. ‘I’m sure you have, though in the end that’s for other people to decide, Roy,’ she offered gently. ‘The voters, I mean. But you’ve been successful with them once and there’s no reason why you can’t do it again. It may take ages, but I hope we’ll see you at Westminster in due course.’
    As he grinned happily she moved away, to be halted at the door by the restraining hand of Betty Horrocks.
    â€˜I was about to rescue you. Who was that – anyone you know?’
    â€˜No, not at all. He wants to be an MP. I should have told him to try window-cleaning instead: it’s easier and less precarious – and probably better paid.’
    Betty chuckled. ‘You’ve never served on a selection committee, have you, Elaine? You’d be amazed how many deadbeats turn up. If they can’t make a success of life outside politics they think they’re ideally suited to running the country. But from his delighted expression you were clearly nice to him and I’m glad. He might be successful somewhere, you never can tell.’
    At this Betty took Elaine’s arm and firmly propelled her in the direction of the main hall.
    â€˜If you plan to speak in the law and order debate, Elaine, you’d better get a move on; it’s about to start. We’ll be out there rooting for you. Go sock it to ’em.’
    Inside the hall, at a nondescript table half hidden at the right-hand side of the podium, a shrewd-eyed woman was sorting speakers’ slips. Rachel Dutch was organiser for the area covering Elaine’s seat. She glanced up as Elaine approached.
    â€˜Hi! If you’ve come to ask whether you’ll be called the answer is yes. About fourth, so be ready.’
    â€˜Are the others all hang ’em and flog ’em types?’
    â€˜Most of them, naturally. Conference debates aren’t supposed to be