She laughed easily and was quick and bright. Bank employees could have Bank of
England accounts, she said, and over drinks recounted the problems she had convincing traders her cheques weren’t toy-town. Charles liked her and wished he could relax. He hadn’t yet
seen Sarah because the door had been answered by Nigel. When eventually she came in from the kitchen they were all laughing at something Nigel had said.
‘Charles, how nice to see you again.’
She presented herself for cheek-kissing. She looked as he remembered, though in both dress and manner she was now the middle-class London hostess. He wondered how he seemed to her.
‘Charles and I met at Oxford through Sarah,’ Nigel explained. ‘Now it’s the Foreign Office that brings us together.’ Like most diplomats, he took seriously the
obligation to maintain cover for the Friends.
Charles felt no more relaxed as the evening went on. He suspected no-one else did, either. There was a brittle tension that kept everyone talking as if in competition, with a lot of laughter but
no humour. Liz played her part valiantly and he helped as best he could, thinking she would make someone a good and capable wife. Sarah seemed edgy and assertive, as if conversation needed
sprinkling with the salt of contrariness. It was a tendency he remembered in her from before, but it had been less marked then. Nigel drew paradoxes and made verbal sallies which everyone laughed
at. Charles did not see them address a word to each other, except once, when they were both in the kitchen between courses and he passed the door on the way to the loo. Nigel was standing holding
the pile of dirty plates and she was on one knee before the open oven, wearing oven gloves, heedless of how far her skirt had ridden up her thigh.
‘Where shall I put them?’ Nigel asked.
‘Anywhere.’ She spoke shortly, without looking at him.
It meant nothing, of course; it was how people were under pressure, it was marriage. He didn’t like to hear her speak like that, but he wasn’t displeased.
There was another exchange, not involving her, that much later bubbled to the surface of his memory, under the pressure of a very different circumstance. It began over coffee, when Liz asked
Nigel something technical about the Single Market negotiations which, as a junior member of the Foreign Office European Community team, he was helping to conclude in London and Brussels. As often,
when asked a specific question, Nigel made a joke of it.
‘The first time I ever heard of the Single European Act I thought it was about legalising brothels. Long overdue.’ He laughed. ‘But I really can’t say, Liz, because
it’s one of the areas we’re still grappling with, thanks to that old nanny goat in Downing Street. If it weren’t for that niggling bitch we’d have had it all wrapped up
months ago.’
Liz would not be put off. ‘But it was partly Mrs Thatcher’s initiative, wasn’t it? We – the British – helped start the process.’
‘Only because she was persuaded it would be easier for British bankers and insurers and builders and whatever to get into Europe. Not through any enthusiasm for the European project
itself. There’s not a shred of idealism in her.’
‘I’m not sure I blame her. They’re all out for themselves as far as I can see, from where we sit.’
‘I blame her. I blame her absolutely. She’s a brake on the whole thing. Anything – anything – I can do to expedite the European project, I’ll do. She’s
got no feeling for it, no feeling at all – probably no feeling for anything, if truth be known. But luckily, she’s also got no idea of the political difference the act is going to make.
She’s such a bloody Philistine, she sees it only in economic terms. Doesn’t realise it’s a huge step towards integration. That’s why we want it, not just so that your filthy
rich bankers can get even richer and filthier.’
Liz smiled. ‘Hence the photo?’ She nodded at
England accounts, she said, and over drinks recounted the problems she had convincing traders her cheques weren’t toy-town. Charles liked her and wished he could relax. He hadn’t yet
seen Sarah because the door had been answered by Nigel. When eventually she came in from the kitchen they were all laughing at something Nigel had said.
‘Charles, how nice to see you again.’
She presented herself for cheek-kissing. She looked as he remembered, though in both dress and manner she was now the middle-class London hostess. He wondered how he seemed to her.
‘Charles and I met at Oxford through Sarah,’ Nigel explained. ‘Now it’s the Foreign Office that brings us together.’ Like most diplomats, he took seriously the
obligation to maintain cover for the Friends.
Charles felt no more relaxed as the evening went on. He suspected no-one else did, either. There was a brittle tension that kept everyone talking as if in competition, with a lot of laughter but
no humour. Liz played her part valiantly and he helped as best he could, thinking she would make someone a good and capable wife. Sarah seemed edgy and assertive, as if conversation needed
sprinkling with the salt of contrariness. It was a tendency he remembered in her from before, but it had been less marked then. Nigel drew paradoxes and made verbal sallies which everyone laughed
at. Charles did not see them address a word to each other, except once, when they were both in the kitchen between courses and he passed the door on the way to the loo. Nigel was standing holding
the pile of dirty plates and she was on one knee before the open oven, wearing oven gloves, heedless of how far her skirt had ridden up her thigh.
‘Where shall I put them?’ Nigel asked.
‘Anywhere.’ She spoke shortly, without looking at him.
It meant nothing, of course; it was how people were under pressure, it was marriage. He didn’t like to hear her speak like that, but he wasn’t displeased.
There was another exchange, not involving her, that much later bubbled to the surface of his memory, under the pressure of a very different circumstance. It began over coffee, when Liz asked
Nigel something technical about the Single Market negotiations which, as a junior member of the Foreign Office European Community team, he was helping to conclude in London and Brussels. As often,
when asked a specific question, Nigel made a joke of it.
‘The first time I ever heard of the Single European Act I thought it was about legalising brothels. Long overdue.’ He laughed. ‘But I really can’t say, Liz, because
it’s one of the areas we’re still grappling with, thanks to that old nanny goat in Downing Street. If it weren’t for that niggling bitch we’d have had it all wrapped up
months ago.’
Liz would not be put off. ‘But it was partly Mrs Thatcher’s initiative, wasn’t it? We – the British – helped start the process.’
‘Only because she was persuaded it would be easier for British bankers and insurers and builders and whatever to get into Europe. Not through any enthusiasm for the European project
itself. There’s not a shred of idealism in her.’
‘I’m not sure I blame her. They’re all out for themselves as far as I can see, from where we sit.’
‘I blame her. I blame her absolutely. She’s a brake on the whole thing. Anything – anything – I can do to expedite the European project, I’ll do. She’s
got no feeling for it, no feeling at all – probably no feeling for anything, if truth be known. But luckily, she’s also got no idea of the political difference the act is going to make.
She’s such a bloody Philistine, she sees it only in economic terms. Doesn’t realise it’s a huge step towards integration. That’s why we want it, not just so that your filthy
rich bankers can get even richer and filthier.’
Liz smiled. ‘Hence the photo?’ She nodded at
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