What a cave up!

And has Josephine brought you even closer together?

She has, yes, inevitably. I only hesitate to say this because to be honest with you I find it hard to see how we could have been closer. Our love for each other really didn’t need strengthening.

The baby seems to have your eyes, and I think I can even make out a bit of the Winshaw nose, there! Can you see much of Sir Peter in her?

Not yet, really, no. I think babies often grow into a resemblance with the parent. I’m sure that’s what will happen.

Does this mean you’ll have to take a break from your column for a while?

I don’t think so. Obviously I want to spend as much time with Josephine as possible – and, of course, Peter was able to offer me pretty good terms for maternity leave. It does help if your husband is also your boss! But I’d be loath to let my readers down. They’re so loyal, and they’ve all been so kind, sending cards and so on. It really restores your faith in people.

I must say, as an avid reader of the column, that it’s something of a surprise not to find the builders here!

I know – I do tend to go on about it, don’t I? But we’ve had to have such a lot done recently. This conservatory’s new, for instance, and so is the whole of the extension with the swimming-pool. It took even longer than expected because the neighbours were so beastly about it. They even took us to court over the noise, would you believe. Anyway they’ve moved now, so that’s all been amicably resolved.

And now I believe we’re about to discover yet another side to your talents.

Yes, I’m currently working on my first novel. Several publishers have been bidding for it and I’m pleased to say it’s coming out next spring.

Can you tell us about the subject?

Well actually I haven’t started writing it yet, but I know it’s going to be very exciting, with plenty of glamour and romance I hope. Of course the nicest thing is that I can write at home – we’ve put in this dear little study overlooking the garden – so I don’t have to be away from Josephine. Which is just as well, because right now I don’t think I could bear to be parted from her for a moment!

Hilary stared malevolently at her daughter, watching her face crumple as she gathered breath for another scream.

‘Now what’s the matter with it?’ she said.

‘Just wind, I think,’ said the na

Hilary fa

‘Well can’t you take it outside for a while? It’s showing us up in front of everybody.’

Once they’d gone, she turned to her companion.

‘I’m sorry, Simon, you were saying?’

‘I was saying we must think of a title. A single word, preferably. Lust, or Revenge, or Desire, or something.’

‘Well, can’t we leave that to their marketing people? I’m going to have enough trouble writing the bloody thing.’

Simon nodded. He was a tall and handsome man whose slightly vague exterior masked a sharp business sense. He had come highly recommended: Hilary had chosen him to be her agent from a shortlist of seven or eight.

‘Look, I’m sorry the auction was a bit disappointing,’ he said. ‘But publishers are really playing safe at the moment. A few years ago six figures would have been no problem at all. Anyway, you didn’t do too badly. I read recently that the same people paid some new writer seven hundred and fifty quid for his first novel.’

‘Couldn’t you have pushed a little bit harder, though?’

‘There was no point. Once they’d gone up to eighty-five thousand they weren’t going to budge. I could tell.’

‘Oh well. I’m sure you did your best.’

They ordered oysters followed by fresh lobster. Just as the waitress was leaving, Simon said: ‘Shouldn’t we order something for – what’s her name – Maria?’

‘Who?’

‘Your na

‘Oh, yes. I suppose we should.’

Hilary called the waitress back and ordered a hamburger.

‘What does Josephine eat?’ asked Simon.

‘Oh, some vile muck you have to get in little bottles from the supermarket. It goes in one end and comes out of the other about ten minutes later looking exactly the same. It really is the most disgusting business. And it screams all the time. Honestly, if I’mever going to get this book started, I’m going to have to go away for a few weeks. I don’t mind where – maybe Bali again, or one of the Barrier Reef islands – any old dump, really. But I can’t get athing done with that blasted baby around. Honestly, I just can’t.’

Simon laid a sympathetic hand on her arm.

Over coffee, he said: ‘Once you’ve got this novel under your belt, why not do a book about motherhood? Terribly popular these days.’

∗

Hilary disliked most women, regarding them as competitors rather than allies, and so she always felt at home in the Heartland Club, the stodgy, calcified and male-dominated establishment where her cousin Henry liked to conduct most of his informal business.

Henry had broken with the Labour Party shortly before the second general election of 1974, and although he had never officially joined the Conservatives, he had, throughout the 1980s, been among their most loyal and outspoken supporters. During this period he became a familiar public figure, his bushy white hair and bulldog features (always rendered a little rakish by a trademark spotted bow-tie) forever cropping up on television discussion programmes, where he would take full advantage of his freedom from party loyalties by slavishly toeing the line of whichever cynical new shift in policy the present administration happened to be trying out at the time. It was partly for these appearances, but also – and more importantly – for the decade of legwork he had put in on a succession of policy-making committees, that he was rewarded with a peerage in the 1990 honours’ list. The notepaper upon which Hilary had been summoned to her latest audience was proudly headed with his new title: Lord Winshaw of Micklethorpe.

‘Ever think of going back into television?’ he asked her, pouring two brandies from a crystal decanter.

‘Of course, I’d love to,’ said Hilary. ‘I was bloody good at it, apart from anything else.’

‘Well, I hear there’s a vacancy coming up soon at one of the ITV companies. I’ll look into it for you, if you like.’

‘In return for which …?’ said Hilary archly, as they sat down on opposite sides of the empty fireplace. It was a hot evening in late July.

‘Oh, nothing much. We just wondered if you and your fellow scribes could start putting a bit more heat on the BBC. There’s a general feeling that they’ve gone way out of control.’

‘What did you have in mind: features? Or just the column?’

‘A bit of both, I would have thought. I really think that something pretty urgent has to be done, because as you know the situation now is completely unacceptable. The place is overrun with Marxists. They’re making absolutely no secret of it. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Nine O’clock News recently, but there’s no longer even a pretence of impartiality. Particularly on the Health Service: the way they’ve reported our reforms has been deplorable. Quite deplorable. There are homes up and down the country which are being invaded – quite literally invaded every night – by a torrent of anti-government lies and propaganda. It’s intolerable.’ He raised a brandy glass to his bilious face and took a lengthy gulp, which seemed to cheer him up. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘the PM loved your front page on Tuesday.’

‘What, LOONY LABOUR LESBIANS BAN KIDS’ CLASSICS?’

‘That’s the one. Laughed like a drain, she did. God knows, we all need a bit of light relief these days.’ His face clouded over again. ‘There’s talk of another leadership challenge, you know. Heseltine might make his move. Madness. Utter madness.’