She had sat and sat and watched, and watched, as the struggle was gradually lost and the strength and spirit of the tiny bundle had faded away, to nothing. Not her fault, everyone had said so. Everyone, that is, except that slimehound of a husband.
'Downing Street, you say,' commented the cab driver, ignoring a barbed rejoinder about his timing. 'You work there, do you?' He seemed relieved to discover she was simply another ordinary sufferer and began a steady monologue composed of complaints and observations about their political masters. It was not that he was ill-disposed towards the Government, which seemed one stage removed from his daily life since he took all his fares in cash and therefore paid practically no income tax. 'It's just the streets are looking grim, luv. A week before Christmas and it's not really happening. Shops half-empty, fewer people needing cabs and those what do're skimping on the tips. Dunno what your pals in Downing Street are saying, but tell 'em from me the tough times are right around the corner. Old Francis Urquhart better pull his socks up or he won't be long in following whatsisname . . . er, Collingridge.'
Less than a month out of office and already the memory was beginning to slip inexorably from the mind.
She ignored his chatter as they meandered through the dark, drizzly streets of Covent Garden, past the restored monument of Seven Dials which marked what had been some of the worst slums of Dickensian London with its typhoid and footpads, and which now presided over the heart of London's theatreland. They passed a theatre that stood dark and empty; the show had closed, in what should have been the busiest time of year. Straws in the wind, she thought, remembering Landless's warning, or maybe great armfuls of hay.
The taxi dropped her off at the top of Downing Street and in spite of his blunt hints she refused to sign for a tip. The policeman at the wrought-iron gate consulted the personal radio tucked away beneath his rain cape, there was a crackle in response and he let her through. A hundred yards away loomed the black door, which swung open even before she had put her foot on the step. She signed a visitors book in the entrance hall, which was deserted except for a couple of policemen. There was none of the bustle and activity she had expected and none of the crowds of the evening she had met Urquhart. It seemed as if Christmas had arrived early.
Within three minutes she had passed through as many sets of hands, each civil servant contriving to appear more important than the last, as she was led up stairs, through corridors, past display cases full of porcelain until she was shown into an inner office and the door closed behind her. They were on their own.
'Miss Quine. So good of you to come.' Francis Urquhart stubbed out a cigarette and held out his hand, guiding her towards the comfortable leather chairs placed in the corner of his first-floor study. The room was dark, book-lined and very masculine, with no overhead light and the sole illumination coming from a desk lamp and two side lights. It was reminiscent of the timeless, smoky atmosphere of the gentlemen's club on Pall Mall she had visited one ladies' night.
As he offered her a drink she studied him carefully. The prominent temples, the tired but defiant eyes which never seemed to rest. He was thirty years older than she. Why had he brought her here? What sort of research was he truly interested in? As he busied himself with two glasses of whisky she noted he had soft hands, perfectly formed, with slender fingers and nails which were carefully manicured. So unlike those of her former husband. She couldn't imagine those hands clenched and balled, thrusting into her face or pounding her belly into miscarriage, the final act of their matrimonial madness. Damn all men!
Her memories bothered her as she took the proffered crystal tumbler and sipped the whisky. She spat in distaste. 'Do you have any ice and soda?'
'It's a single malt,' he protested.
'And I'm a single girl. My mother always told me never to take it neat.'
He seemed amused by her outspokenness. 'Of course. But let me ask you to persevere, just for a little. It really is a very special whisky distilled near my birthplace in Perthshire, and would be ruined by anything other than a little water. Try a