10

KATE WAS RELIEVED that the house was still empty when she got home, the children having not yet returned from Cornwall with Rose and Simon. The respite she’d felt during the meeting at Chevening receded with the onset of fatigue, and the energy drained from her once more. She put on the kettle to make a cup of tea, then thought better of it and poured herself an enormous glass of white wine instead.

She sat at the table to drink it, wondering if this was what being an alcoholic felt like. She looked at Nelson, quite possibly the laziest beagle she had ever come across, gazing up at her without much enthusiasm from his basket in the corner. She got down on her hands and knees to rub his head and scratch his tummy, then lay flat so that she could put her head alongside his in the basket. He didn’t much like to travel, these days, so she relied on a neighbour to look after him when she and the children were away.

Good God, his breath smelt. Perhaps that was what old age did to you. She shifted position so that her head was resting on his back instead and closed her eyes. It wasn’t exactly comfortable on the tiled floor, but she was as likely to get to sleep there as anywhere else.

She lay there until the smell of him got too much, then stood and walked through to the living room. She switched on the TV and channel-surfed for a few minutes.

She’d managed an entire vacuous half-hour watching Game of Thrones before the doorbell rang. She glanced through the keyhole to check that it was Fiona and Gus, no doubt having forgotten their keys, only to see Imogen Conrad standing there.

Damn, Kate thought. The very last thing she needed. Was the woman stark, staring mad? She waited, pretending no one was in and hoping her unwanted guest would get the message and turn away.

Fat chance. The bell rang again. Kate gritted her teeth, opened the door and smiled. She was determined not to give her former friend the satisfaction of seeing just how much hurt she’d caused.

When she was talking politics, Imogen rarely drew breath, and Kate could tell tonight was going to be no exception. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, as she marched through the kitchen to the living room beyond. ‘Oh, God, wine on a Sunday night. I shouldn’t . . .’

Kate hadn’t been intending to offer, but she filled a glass more or less to the top, since she’d long ago learnt that Imogen really did like to drink, and returned to the living room. ‘Game of Thrones?’ Imogen said, looking at the screen, paused on a dragon in flight.

‘Better late than never.’

‘I couldn’t watch. Too much violence and all the energetic sex just reminded me of what I miss with Harry.’ Imogen took a large sip of her wine. ‘Too much information?’

‘I should say so.’

‘I’m sorry. I suppose you’re single again.’

‘I suppose I am.’

The silence that followed this reference to the fallout of Stuart’s betrayal was awkward enough to have both of them avoiding each other’s eye. In the immediate aftermath of Stuart’s admission of his affair with Imogen – or, rather, their episodic trysts, since both denied it had ever been more than that – she had bombarded Kate with phone messages containing ever more profuse and abject apologies. They had been followed by letters, then unannounced visits.

Kate knew then as she did now that she should have been angrier with her erstwhile friend, but she couldn’t quite summon the bitterness the circumstances seemed to demand. Imogen was every clichéd politician writ large: engaging and entertaining, but unfaithful and untrustworthy. Kate had never laboured under any illusions regarding her, but Stuart was the rock she herself had built her life on. She reserved her rage, therefore, for him and allowed herself to be bludgeoned into submission by his former boss, knowing that Imogen’s desperate attempts to preserve some vestige of their friendship were nothing more than an attempt to salve her own conscience. ‘So, what do you think?’ Imogen asked, still staring at the TV screen. Kate quickly turned it off.

‘About dragons?’

‘No! What’s going on in Estonia.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘What do you mean, “Oh, that”? What else would I be talking about? I’m surprised you’re not stuck at your desk.’

‘I’ve just come back from seeing Meg Simpson.’

‘What did she have to say?’

‘About what?’

‘The prime minister’s response, of course! I mean everything we said – you said – during the leadership election looks like it must have been true. He’s a Russian spy, isn’t he? How else do you explain his utterly bizarre reaction unless he really is working for the Russians?’

‘Innate caution?’

‘But he isn’t a cautious man, is he? In fact, we’d probably agree he’s reckless by nature – and pretty bellicose when it suits him.’

‘I suppose so.’ Kate wanted to get out of this conversation. She was relieved to see the wine disappearing at a rate of knots.

‘What are you going to do?’

Not refill the glass, she thought. ‘About Estonia?’

‘The suggestion that he’s a Russian spy!’

Kate sat down on the arm of the sofa. She suddenly needed to. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We have no evidence. The case is closed. He’s the prime minister, after all.’

‘Have you spoken to Meg about it?’

‘No.’ Kate avoided Imogen’s penetrating gaze.

‘Are you all right?’ Imogen asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘Just tired.’

‘I’m sorry. I know the past six months have been . . . very difficult.’

Kate smiled weakly. She had forgotten: Imogen also had a gift for understatement. ‘I should probably get some rest. I understand what you’re saying, but I honestly don’t think there’s very much we can do about it.’

Imogen drained her wine and stared at the floor, deep in thought. She started waving the glass in a circle, and Kate worried that she would ask for a refill. But she placed it decidedly on a side table. ‘I’m going to have a word with Meg myself. I won’t mention you – don’t worry – but I think I should at least raise it with her. And perhaps the home secretary as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we can’t let him get away with it.’

‘As you wish.’ Kate didn’t doubt her former friend’s political skills. She was one of the great survivors, after all. But she wasn’t about to launch a leadership challenge so soon after losing her battle against James Ryan for the premiership.

Imogen hovered. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I really don’t like to see you this way and I know I . . .’ She smiled again and made her exit. What else, Kate supposed, was there to say?

Kate drained her own glass and went up to lie on her bed while she waited for the children to come in. It was strange to feel dog-tired, but not at all like sleeping, as if she were being hollowed out from within.

It was a shade after eleven when she heard the door go. Neither Fiona nor Gus bothered to come and say goodnight, so she had to haul herself off her bed to do so. She went to Gus first. He’d flopped face down on to his mattress. ‘How was today?’

‘Fine.’

‘Long journey back?’

‘It was fine.’

‘How was Fiona?’

‘Fine.’

‘You all okay for tomorrow?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I have to go away for a couple of days, so Rose said she’d be here.’

‘I know.’

‘Will you be fine?’

‘Yeah.’

Kate allowed herself a smile as she kissed his head. She moved on to her daughter’s room. Fiona was lying in bed, staring at her phone. ‘You’d sleep better if you didn’t look at that all night, you know.’

‘Because you’re the expert.’

Kate smiled again. Perhaps it was despair. ‘I have to go away for a few days—’

‘I know. Rose said. I’m staying with Jed this week.’

Kate recognized the incendiary device for what it was, but trod on it anyway. ‘You can’t do that, love.’

‘Er, actually, I can.’

‘This is your home. You can’t just leave.’

‘I’m going to Jed’s house. Not Moscow or Beijing, or the moon. His parents are both doctors. I’m fairly sure I’ll come to no harm. I’ll be back by the time you finally get home anyway, so you’ll hardly notice the difference.’

‘But it isn’t really fair to leave Gus here on his—’

‘He won’t notice either. Whenever he crawls out of whatever gaming hole he chooses to occupy this week, Rose will be there to spoil him. He’ll be like a pig in shit.’

Kate was tempted to go on, but, for once, discretion got the better of her. Fiona was right: Jed’s parents were responsible people and she was unlikely to come to any harm.

She retreated, without kissing her daughter goodnight, took Nelson down the road for a night-time pee – he didn’t bother – then came back to bed. She took 15mg of her sleeping drug of choice, zopiclone – double her normal dose – and lay down to stare at the ceiling until chemistry finally overwhelmed her worried mind and gave her at least a few hours of fretful sleep.