could go e ither way.'
He was staring at her directly across the rim of his glass. 'Forget debate. Let's talk about open warfare. Could your opinion polls tell who would win such a war?'
She leaned forward in her chair, as if to get closer to him in order to share a confidence. 'Opinion polls are like a cloudy crystal ball. They can help you look into the future, but it depends what questions you ask. And on how good a gypsy you are.'
His eyes fired with appreciation.
‘I couldn't tell you who would win such a war. But I could help wage it. Opinion polls are wea pons, mighty powerful weapons at times. Ask the right question at the right time, get the right answer, leak it to the press ... If you plan a campaign with expertise, you can have your opponent pronounced dead before he realizes there's a war on.'
'Tell me, O Gypsy, why is it that I don't hear this from other opinion pollsters?'
'First, because most pollsters are concerned with what people are thinking right now, at this moment in time. What we are talking about is moving opinion from where it is now to where you want it to be in the future. That's called political leadership, and it's a rare quality.'
He knew he was being flattered, and liked it. 'And the second reason?'
She took a sip from her glass, recrossed her legs and took off her glasses, shaking her dark hair as she did so. 'Because I'm better than the rest.'
He smiled in return. He liked dealing with her, both as a professional and as a woman. Downing Street could be a lonely place. He had a Cabinet full of supposedly expert Ministers whose duty it was to take most of the decisions, leaving him only to pull the strings and carry the can if the rest of them got it horribly wrong. Few Government papers came to him unless he asked for them. He was protected from the outside world by a highly professional staff, a posse of security men, mortar-proof windows and huge iron gates. And Elizabeth was always off taking those damned evening classes . . . He needed someone to confide in, to gather his ideas and sort them into coherent order, who had self-confidence, who didn't owe their job to him, who looked good. Who believed she was the best.
'And I suspect you are.'
Their eyes enjoyed the moment.
'So you think there will be war, Francis? Over One Nation? With the Opposition?'
He rested back in his chair, staring into a distance, struggling to discern the future. This was no longer the energetic exchange of academic ideas, nor the intellectual masturbation of cynical old men around a Senior Common Room dining table. The horrid stench of reality clung to his nostrils. When he answered his words were slow, carefully considered. 'Not just with the Opposition. Maybe even with the King - if I let him make his speech.' He was pleased to see no trace of alarm in her eyes, only intense interest. 'War with the King . . . ?'
'No, no . . . Not if I can avoid it. I want to avoid any confrontation with the Palace, truly I do. I have enough people to fight without taking on the Royal Family and every blue-rinsed loyalist in the country. But. . .' He paused. 'Let us suppose. If it did come to that. I should need plenty of gypsy craft, Sally.'
Her lips were puckered, her words equally deliberate. 'If that's what you want, remember - you only have to say please. And anything else I can help you with.'
The gyrations of the end of her nose had become almost animalistic and, for Urquhart, exquisitely sensuous. They remained looking at each other in silence for a long moment, careful not to say a word in case either of them should destroy the magic of innuendo which both were relishing. He had only ever once - no, twice -combined tutorials with sex. He would have been drummed out had he been discovered, yet the risk was what had made it some of the best sex of his life, not only rising above the lithe bodies of his students but in the same act rising above the banality and pathetic pettiness of the university
He was staring at her directly across the rim of his glass. 'Forget debate. Let's talk about open warfare. Could your opinion polls tell who would win such a war?'
She leaned forward in her chair, as if to get closer to him in order to share a confidence. 'Opinion polls are like a cloudy crystal ball. They can help you look into the future, but it depends what questions you ask. And on how good a gypsy you are.'
His eyes fired with appreciation.
‘I couldn't tell you who would win such a war. But I could help wage it. Opinion polls are wea pons, mighty powerful weapons at times. Ask the right question at the right time, get the right answer, leak it to the press ... If you plan a campaign with expertise, you can have your opponent pronounced dead before he realizes there's a war on.'
'Tell me, O Gypsy, why is it that I don't hear this from other opinion pollsters?'
'First, because most pollsters are concerned with what people are thinking right now, at this moment in time. What we are talking about is moving opinion from where it is now to where you want it to be in the future. That's called political leadership, and it's a rare quality.'
He knew he was being flattered, and liked it. 'And the second reason?'
She took a sip from her glass, recrossed her legs and took off her glasses, shaking her dark hair as she did so. 'Because I'm better than the rest.'
He smiled in return. He liked dealing with her, both as a professional and as a woman. Downing Street could be a lonely place. He had a Cabinet full of supposedly expert Ministers whose duty it was to take most of the decisions, leaving him only to pull the strings and carry the can if the rest of them got it horribly wrong. Few Government papers came to him unless he asked for them. He was protected from the outside world by a highly professional staff, a posse of security men, mortar-proof windows and huge iron gates. And Elizabeth was always off taking those damned evening classes . . . He needed someone to confide in, to gather his ideas and sort them into coherent order, who had self-confidence, who didn't owe their job to him, who looked good. Who believed she was the best.
'And I suspect you are.'
Their eyes enjoyed the moment.
'So you think there will be war, Francis? Over One Nation? With the Opposition?'
He rested back in his chair, staring into a distance, struggling to discern the future. This was no longer the energetic exchange of academic ideas, nor the intellectual masturbation of cynical old men around a Senior Common Room dining table. The horrid stench of reality clung to his nostrils. When he answered his words were slow, carefully considered. 'Not just with the Opposition. Maybe even with the King - if I let him make his speech.' He was pleased to see no trace of alarm in her eyes, only intense interest. 'War with the King . . . ?'
'No, no . . . Not if I can avoid it. I want to avoid any confrontation with the Palace, truly I do. I have enough people to fight without taking on the Royal Family and every blue-rinsed loyalist in the country. But. . .' He paused. 'Let us suppose. If it did come to that. I should need plenty of gypsy craft, Sally.'
Her lips were puckered, her words equally deliberate. 'If that's what you want, remember - you only have to say please. And anything else I can help you with.'
The gyrations of the end of her nose had become almost animalistic and, for Urquhart, exquisitely sensuous. They remained looking at each other in silence for a long moment, careful not to say a word in case either of them should destroy the magic of innuendo which both were relishing. He had only ever once - no, twice -combined tutorials with sex. He would have been drummed out had he been discovered, yet the risk was what had made it some of the best sex of his life, not only rising above the lithe bodies of his students but in the same act rising above the banality and pathetic pettiness of the university
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