This Honourable House by Edwina Currie

actually possessed, an aggressive masculinity on his part would be both inappropriate and unsustainable. No , in other words. And on that, he had won, though he suspected only temporarily.
    Christine was out, trailing round a maternity hospital, an invitation he had been glad to pass on to her. She would return in an hour, saying little but with a wistful glint in her eye. When the Prime Minister’s wife was so blatantly fecund, the lack of babies chez Ashworth had to be explained away. Benedict swallowed hard. Tonight, there would be no excuses. The set-piece speeches had been well received. The sponsors’ dinner had passed without incident. She would have spent hours gazing in wonder at maternal lumps and scans of pulsing foetuses. Tonight he would have to perform.
    It was close to dusk. From outside the open window came snatches of music, the remains of some march or demonstration that was breaking up for the evening. He could hear a jazz-style trumpet being blown with energy: ‘When The Saints Come Marching In’ – a trombone following with less skill, a cornet bringing up the rear, a bass drum booming. It was always unwise to stick one’s head out to stare. Paparazzi were on the alert, aware of which room was his. But he could peek from behind the curtains.
    The straggling march was coming to a halt. The banner that read ‘Rank Outsiders’ had been pelted with eggtears. She was employed bys and tomatoes, but was still held aloft, though out of the vertical, by a bizarre figure in a red dress, tights and high heels, but with a shorn head and grossly exaggerated makeup, as if it had started out done up to the nines as a female. A stubborn rictus distorted the individual’s face as he, or she, struggled to keep the weighty banner upright. At a signal from someone behind, however, the banner was at last allowed to droop and rested in a tangled heap on the pavement. The standard-bearer rubbed a beringed hand over stiff shoulders and over the naked pate.
    Behind him stood ranks of men and women in military uniform. Benedict noted the khaki, brown and blue of the army and air force, and three young men in sailors’ whites. They were attracting more than their share of wolf whistles from a small crowd. In front marched two naval officers, braid gleaming in the dying sun. The girls were mainly short and butch, except for the androgynous banner-holder.
    As Benedict peeped cautiously, keeping himself hidden, a youth emerged from the crowdclutching what looked like a black cat; but it was lifeless, and Benedict realised it was a scalp of silky hair. Tentatively, the boy held it out to the shorn man who took it, turned it over, shook it out then set it on his head and straightened it with a defiant tug. Instantly he was transformed into a female, admittedly one who might have been dragged through a hedge backwards, but with vestiges of verve and femininity. The gaggle behind broke into a ragged cheer. The youth, emboldened, stepped forward and kissed the banner-holder’s cheek. The supporters laughed, relaxed, and applauded. The youth took his place quietly beside them. Then the marchers began to break away into groups and disappeared towards the seafront pubs.
    Upstairs in his hotel room, Benedict was also clapping his hands together but softly, making no noise. His face was ashen, and his eyes were half closed as if in pain.
     
    ‘Is this the restaurant?’
    Betts consulted his notes. ‘The Mirabelle. Yeah.’
    The photographer shifted the bag from one shoulder to another, reached inside, took out a camera and screwed on a zoom lens. ‘Spending freely, isn’t he? You can’t get away with a dinner for two here light of a hundred and fifty quid.’
    ‘Well, it’s the new government, innit? Paying themselves a hundred grand a year. He can afford it.’
    ‘Didn’t you say it was a set-up? He’s probably putting the bill on the promotion budget of his department.’
    ‘We can check it out later. But not even he’d