A Woman's Place by Edwina Currie Page B

infants their own TVs. It was also perfect for a group of friends to share.
    Outside the frontage was narrow and the garden non-existent, merely a few tired privet bushes and a dusty bay tree in a broken pot. Yet a handsome door with its original stained glass and art nouveau tile border hinted at a stylish interior, while the black-and-white chequered hallway and the airy conservatory at the back had won over its new owner at once. Battersea was almost walking distance from the Commons; the tip of Big Ben was visible from the end of the street. It would make an ideal base for aspiring MPs and the odd additional tenant, such as Ms Karen Stalker.
    Karen had just fished two mugs out of another box and was heading for the kitchen. Elaine lounged against the wall and watched as her daughter made instant coffee, and noted with maternal affection how the girl carefully wiped up the small spills of brown powder and milk. She must be growing up.
    â€˜It’s a splendid place. Your new friend Anthony seems to have both taste and the funds to indulge it. Do you get on all right?’
    â€˜Yes – well, he’s a bit shy, isn’t he? He must be over thirty but he’s no idea how to talk to girls. Maybe he’s the strong silent type. Rather attractive in a gloomy way so perhaps I’ll have the chance to find out. Fred’s OK, though – closer to my age, but a bit out of his depth. Could improve, probably. Lachlan is grand – he’s the doctor, Anthony’s cousin, and American. He works strange hours at the hospital, and of course Anthony and Fred are out all day and most evenings, so they don’t get in my way.’
    The radio was chattering excitedly about the first appointments by the new Prime Minister. Karen sensed that her mother’s attention was on the broadcast. ‘Will you be involved, Mum?’
    â€˜Doubt it. If I was, it wouldn’t be today but tomorrow.’
    â€˜You mustn’t spend the evening worrying about it. Would you like to come here for supper? I can’t guarantee cordon bleu…’
    The focus of mothering was shifting: pleased but patronised, Elaine shook her head. ‘That’s sweet of you, but no. Actually, I have a date.’
    She knew it was a mistake the moment she said it. Karen whirled round, eyes alive. ‘Great! Anyone I know?’
    Elaine pursed her lips. ‘No, fortunately. We’re going to a club – Le Beaujolais in Litchfield Street. Next to the Ivy but friendlier, George says.’
    â€˜Ooh! George who? At least it’s not that awful Roger Dickson. He may be Prime Minister but I could never understand what you saw in him. But I’m glad for you. After all, you’re still … well, not bad for your age, Mum, are you? Anyway, I trust you to behave.’
    Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, to be frank. And now I’ll leave you. Don’t go making eyes at the boys. After all, at your age…’
    She dodged a well-aimed dishcloth and the moment dissolved in laughter.
    Yet as Elaine drove away she wondered quite what George had in mind for the evening, and afterwards. And whether she was still capable of responding.
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    Cameras clicked and whirled as each incumbent left Downing Street. For several, to be chased down the road by jostling photographers while trying to contain their joy and retain their dignity was an unnerving experience. The cavalcade resembled nothing so much as stolid grey Thames tugs pursued by hungry seagulls. Others, older hands, slid into waiting cars and informed their drivers, who of course knew already.
    Up in the white drawing room where the interviews had taken place the atmosphere was still fraught. A crumpled piece of paper lay ignored in the comer of the room where it had been thrown. One or two MPs who had backed the wrong side had objected bitterly to being removed to make way for fresh faces. The new team was younger, leaner: a