'There are civil servants just beyond that door. And no lock . . .'
She took off her glasses and shook her hair. It glowed like midnight in the light of the lamps. 'Life is full of risks, Francis. I find risk makes it all the better.'
'Makes life better?'
'Certain parts of it. What risks are you willing to take, Francis?' 'With the King? As few as possible. With you . . . ?' And already she was in his arms.
Urquhart didn't care for opera, but being Prime Minister involved him in so many things he had no liking for. Attending the Slaughter House twice a week for Question Time. Being affable to visiting presidents, smiling black faces who, calling themselves colonial freedom fighters, had brought their countries to impoverishment and dictatorship, and who Urquhart could remember in their youth having been nothing but murderous thugs. Listening to the front door of the so-called private apartment in Downing Street, the door with no lock, bounce on its hinges as civil servants cascaded still more red boxes and ministerial papers down upon him. As Prime Minister, he had discovered, there was no hiding place.
Elizabeth had insisted he come to the opening night of a new opera and had been so persistent he had been forced to succumb, even though he had no ear for Janacek or forty-member choruses who seemed intent on singing from forty different scores, all at the same time. Elizabeth sat transfixed, her attention upon the tenor who was battling to drag his beloved back from the dead. Rather like the leader of the Liberal Party, Urquhart mused.
Stamper had also encouraged him to come and had secured the private box. Anyone who can afford three hundred pounds a seat for the stalls, he had said, must be worth bumping into. He'd arranged with the management to swap the publicity of Urquhart's presence for the address list of the Opera House patrons, all of whom within a week would be hit with an invitation to a Downing Street reception, a vaguely worded letter about future support for the arts, and a telephone call asking for cash.
And there was Alfredo Mondelli, a man with a face like a light bulb, round, solid, all bone and no hair, with eyes which bulged as if the bow tie of his evening dress had been secured too tightly. The Italian businessman sat with his wife alongside Stamper and the Urquharts; judging by the fidgeting which could be heard coming from his direction, he was equally filled with tedium. For several endless minutes Urquhart tried to find distraction from the music in the procession of gilded female figures who chased plaster cherubs around the domed ceiling, while beside him the creaking of Mon-delli's chair grew more persistent. When finally the interval came it was a release for them all; a clearly exulted Elizabeth and Signora Mondelli rushed off to the powder room, permitting the three men to take refuge in a bottle of vintage Bollinger.
'A pity to spoil business with so much pleasure, don't you think, Signor Mondelli?'
The Italian rubbed life back into his buttocks and thighs. 'When God was giving out 'is gifts, Prime Minister, 'e was a little short on musical appreciation when it came to my turn.' His English was proficient, his pronunciation slow and distinctly Soho bistro.
'Then let us make sure we use the interval well before we get drenched in another dose of culture. Straight to it. How can I help you?'
The Italian nodded in gratitude. 'As I think Mr Stamper 'as told you, I am proud to be one of my country's leading manufacturers of environmentally friendly products. To 'alf of Europe I am Mr Green. I employ tens of thousands of people, 'ole communities depend upon my business. A big research institute in Bologna named after me . . .'
'Very commendable.' Urquhart recognized the Latin exaggeration. Mondelli ran a company which, though significant by Italian standards, was not in the same league as the far more powerful multinationals.
'But now, now it is all threatened. Your Excellence. Bureaucrats who understand nothing about business, about life. They terrorize everything I 'ave built.' Champagne washed over the side of his glass and spilt as the passion built in his voice. 'Those foolish bambini at the European Community and their draft regulations. You know, in two years' time they wish to change the 'ole way we dispose of chemical waste.' 'Why does that concern you?'