What Will Survive by Joan Smith

don’t want to admit it. Not in public, at any rate.’
    Stephen’s mobile rang and he started. ‘Yes, speaking.’ Pause. ‘The euro? Yes, I am broadly in favour but—’ He listened for a moment, then moved the phone away from his head while an expression of great weariness passed over his face: ‘I’m sorry, the line’s breaking up. I can’t hear you—’ He pressed a button and ended the call, then looked at Angus as if he had no idea what they had been discussing.
    â€˜That’s the first sensible thing you’ve done all morning. Who was it?’
    â€˜Hmm? Oh, someone from the
Mail.’
    Angus shook his head and began collecting his things. Folding away a copy of
The Times, a
picture caught his eye and he gestured to Stephen. ‘You knew her, didn’t you? That poor lass who died in Lebanon?’
    Stephen stepped back, bumping into a chair.
    â€˜A bad business, these landmines. I have a constituent, she married a Lebanese, met him when she was a nurse in one of the refugee camps — Sabra and Shatila, I think it was. Her husband’s nephew, laddie of twelve or thirteen, had his legs blown off and she’s trying to raise money for artificial limbs. Say what you like about Princess Diana, but she’s on the right lines with this campaign of hers. Did you know her well?’
    Stephen said blankly: ‘Princess Diana?’
    â€˜No, Aisha Lincoln, isn’t that her name?’
    Stephen’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Yes, I — I knew her.’
    â€˜I remember seeing you with her in the dining room. A striking lady.’ A look of enlightenment crossed his face and he added: ‘Ach, no wonder you’re not feeling yourself this morning. Sudden death is always—’
    Stephen’s mobile rang again. He looked down, read the number on the phone’s display and answered in a strained voice: ‘Carolina?’
    Angus touched his arm, lightly this time. ‘Give her my regards.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Your wife. Give her my regards.’ He had met Carolina Massinger — the Honourable Carolina Massinger, not that she or Stephen made a fuss about it — and remembered her as a slightly washed-out blonde with a long face and an aristocratic accent. She had a sister, also with an unusual first name, who seemed rather more forceful — ran a charity for displaced agricultural workers, according to something Angus had read or heard recently. They were the daughters of a Party grandee, Lord Restorick, and Angus had the impression Stephen was not entirely comfortable with his father-in-law. Judging by Stephen’s grim expression, he was not on the best of terms with his wife either and Angus remembered a rumour in the tea room that the Restorick family was furious, en masse, about Stephen’s refusal of a job on the Opposition front bench. Though that was almost three months ago...
    â€˜It’s out of the question,’ Angus heard Stephen exclaim, and he instinctively moved towards the door. Reaching for the handle, he could not help overhearing Stephen’s side of the row: ‘I told you last night, Carolina, there’s a three-line whip. There’s nothing to discuss, I’m staying in town again and that’s it. Well, perhaps in that case you shouldn’t have married a politician. What about your father? Oh God, don’t start—’
    Angus had heard enough. He made a quiet exit, walking slowly down the corridor and thinking about his own wife, who had died a couple of years before from cancer. They had been perfectly content with each other, if not wildly passionate, but then Angus knew from many years of observing his colleagues where that sort of thing could lead. Perhaps it was something to do with not having children, so that Nora hadn’t minded the demands of his job or having to travel down from the Scottish borders to see him during the week. They had