of words in ears, little snippets fed out over dinner, or over the telephone from which the minds of those at the top of the pyramid of power could be construed by those further down. Eleanor would lie in bed watching Julian pull on his socks, with their thin little snappy red suspenders, and marvel at his villainous urbanity. He made her smile. She loved him. His mind rather than his haunches, which were, granted, a little flabby, turned her on. She always got up later than he did. She loved to watch and listen, and he loved his audience. He would go down to the kitchen and put on the coffee and toast: she would follow. The staff were not required to start work until 9.55 in the morning, thus allowing the happy couple their privacy. It meant the staff seldom finished until eleven at night, for every detail of the spontaneous breakfast must be prepared in advance, from time-setting the microwave for .25 of a minute at fifty per cent power to soften the butter; to grinding the coffee beans at the last possible moment to avoid any loss of flavour. Julian would be in his office by ten, relaxed, happy, accustomed to adoration, expecting more, and unworried by the necessity of making decisions, inasmuch as he knew they would be the right ones.
But now Julian’s heart had missed a beat, and he mistook the reason, and Eleanor was encouraged, and said to Freddie Howard of the Daily Mail, ‘Yes, by all means. I should be happy to be interviewed. If you believe that the home life of the Vice Chancellor of Bridport might be of interest to your readers, on your head be it. You’ll find us very dull, I’m afraid.’
Freddie Howard arrived at twelve in the morning. Eleanor wore black leggings and a silky top, which showed both legs and top to advantage. At that time she assumed a long-legged, supple, Jane Fonda look; hair plentiful and curly about the head. The spirit of Georgina still hovered about the house, as the spirit of first wives is wont to do, leaving some indefinable reproach behind, lurking in eggcups or under saucepan lids, and Eleanor took care to resemble her predecessor as little as possible the better to outwit her, exuding a young energy rather than a cool elegance. She offered him champagne and asked Mrs Dowkin to bring in ‘some of the caviar snacks, you know, the kind I love. I’m sure you will too.’ She ate at least a dozen of the piled biscuits when they arrived, her little even white teeth greedy—he ate two, one to try and the next to reaffirm he didn’t like true caviar at all: he preferred the lumpfish kind. He was a fleshy, saturnine man in his early forties, normally sent out on heartbreak stories. He was known to be good with women; they’d tell him anything.
‘I’m only a wife,’ Eleanor said, ‘and of course I’m not trained in economics. But economics is only a matter of common sense, isn’t it? I like to think I give Julian confidence—that’s the main thing.’ Freddie asked what she thought Julian’s advice to the PM would be, in this time of crisis.
‘Is there a crisis?’ asked Eleanor, calling for more champagne. ‘Down here at Bridport we don’t notice much. Yes, I believe the academic staff are on a work-to-rule, something about wages and inflation: but they’re never contented, are they? And they have such long holidays! Why can’t they do two jobs, if they’re short of money?’
‘Let them eat cake,’ murmured Freddie.
‘I never understood why poor Marie Antoinette got such stick for saying that,’ said Eleanor. ‘It seems a perfectly good suggestion to me, though cake’s not very good for you. Eggs, sugar, butter and so forth. Bread’s healthier, I agree. Of course,’ added Eleanor, ‘Julian’s salary is inflation linked, so inflation doesn’t affect us particularly. He got a hundred and twenty thousand pounds last year and a hundred and fifty this. Everyone should be really careful about their contracts, these days. I think if there’s a message he’d want to give everyone it would be this: “Watch your contract!”’
‘Now unemployment is surging up again, the workforce may find that difficult,’ observed Freddie, writing busily.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘Julian’s view is that money itself is the problem with the economy. Most people would be far better off with none at all.’