Part 40 (1/2)

Inside was another full-page piece, headed: The Rise and Fall of James Mulholland, which also included the fact that he had changed his name. There was an excoriating leader about him as well. As Minister with special responsibility for 'Lifelong Learning', Mr Mulholland has now learned two important lessons himself: a) that honesty is always the best policy, and b) that the truth, invariably, will out. His ministerial ambitions are now in shreds, it concluded. I put the paper down, feeling a smile spread across my face. Jimmy's political career was ruined. And I rejoiced.

'Thank you, Daisy,' I whispered. 'Thank you for working that one out-you clever, clever girl.' I called her, but there was no reply and her mobile was turned off. Maybe she was with her mum. Then I turned to page four of the paper, every inch of which was devoted to the boys: A herd of llamas have been recruited to work as golf caddies for a Suss.e.x golf club...brainchild of Ted Sweet and his ex-wife, Alice Ingram...eight llamas...special golf bag backpacks...sensitivity and intelligence makes them suitable for the job, according to Mr Sweet. The club, which had been struggling to attract new members, has received hundreds of new enquiries since word began to get out last week.

Occupying the top half of the page was a photo of Henry with his golf bags, captioned, Henry Kissinger.

'The great thing about Henry,' said one member, Sarah Penrose, 'is that you get a kiss from him every time you play a shot-whether or not it was any good!'

'But don't llamas spit?' the reporter asked. 'No,' Mum replied. 'Or only, occasionally, at each other-if they're arguing.' And why do they hum? 'That's easy,' Dad replied. 'Llamas hum because they don't know the words.'

'Good news, Herman,' I said. 'Very good news. On two fronts, at least.' He did his best to look happy. 'And today, I'm thirty-three.' It would be a strange sort of birthday as I wouldn't be seeing anyone. Daisy had offered to spend the day with me, but I somehow felt like being alone. I turned on London F.M. and had it on in the background while I worked-I had at least eight reports to write up.

'Growing pressure on Mr Mulholland...' I heard as I typed away. 'Mr Mulholland has still not issued a statement... Conspicuous lack of support from his ministerial colleagues... His admission that he has lied about his degree result has made his position as Education Minister untenable... Not a case of if he goes, but when... The Education Minister, James Mulholland, has resigned from Government,' I heard at the top of the four o'clock bulletin. A warm glow filled my heart. Jimmy, like Trigger, had been the domineering top dog, who had had his status reduced-at last.

I put Herman on the lead and walked up Primrose Hill. The sun was still high, though it would soon start to sink. The joggers and kite-flyers were out in force. I sat on the bench at the top, drinking in the view, remembering my birthday last year. I'd spent it with Alexander. He'd taken me to Paris. Now here I was, alone. But worse things had happened to me than that, I thought, as I shut my eyes. Far worse...

I thought of Daisy, and how brave she'd been to leave Nigel. That leap into the void had taken more courage than fifty parachute jumps. I listened to the distant shriek of children, and the dull roar of the cars. Then I walked back down. And I was staring at the ground, lost in my thoughts, when Herman suddenly barked. I looked up, then stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs. He was coming up the hill, towards me. Was he real, or had my exhausted mind conjured an image of him? He was maybe fifty yards away. Now twenty. And now he'd drawn level.

'I thought I might find you up here.' He looked tired, and unshaven. 'So, aren't you going to say h.e.l.lo?'

'h.e.l.lo...' I murmured.

He smiled. 'h.e.l.lo, Miranda.'

'But...why have you come?'

'Can't you guess?'

'No. Not...really.'

'Well, because it's your birthday. Don't you remember? I said I'd take you out for dinner.'

'Oh...yes. I do. But you don't have to...' My voice trailed away.

'I always like to keep my word. Unless you're busy this evening?'

'No. No, I'm not busy.'

'And how have you been?'

'All right,' I replied quietly. 'And you?'

'I've been...okay too. But, do you know what? I've been in the dark room all day, and I'd really love a drink.'

'Would you like a beer?'

He smiled. 'Yes. I'd love a beer.' We walked down the hill together, in perfect step, our feet slapping against the tarmacked path. 'Now tell me, how's your birthday been?'

'Rather wonderful, actually. And it's getting better all the time.' We turned into the Mews, and now I was unlocking the door, and there on the chaise longue was the newspaper. David picked it up.

'That's quite a story, isn't it?'

'It is,' I replied feelingly. 'It's an amazing story.'

'Imagine hiding something like that.'

But he's been hiding so much more. 'Do you really want a beer?' I said. 'You could have a gin and tonic instead, or a gla.s.s of wine, or...' I opened the fridge and saw Jimmy's bottle of vintage champagne. 'We could drink this.' I held it up and David looked at it.

'Pol Roger 1987? Don't you want to keep it for some special occasion?'

'This is a special occasion. You have no idea quite how special it is.' I got down two gla.s.ses and opened a carton of olives, while David twisted the cork. As the champagne foamed slightly over the rim, I saw the overflowing Jacuzzi again, and felt a sudden stab of desire for David which made my soul ache.

He raised his gla.s.s. 'To you, Miranda. Happy Birthday. It's so nice to see you again.'

'It's nice to see you too. I didn't think...you'd want to.'

'I didn't think I would either-at first. I needed...' he stopped, then shrugged. 'I needed a bit of time. That's all. To think about everything. It was a bit of a shock, to put it mildly.'

'I know...'

'I needed to process it, I suppose. To go into my dark room and develop it, until I could see it all properly. And two things happened which helped me do that. Do you want to know what they were?'

'Only if you want to tell me.'

'I got your letter-and that made me think. Then, a few days later, Daisy came to see me.'

'Did she? But I had no idea she'd done that.'

'I know you didn't. She got my number from my website and called me, and we met for a drink. And she told me that everything you'd said to me was absolutely, one hundred per cent true. She told me how tormented you'd been.'

'I was.'

'And she told me how much you'd liked me.'

'I did.'

'Did?'

I smiled. 'Do.'

'Then she said one particular thing, which I kept thinking about afterwards, over and over. She said that the point was, that you didn't have to come and find me. No one made you. You could have just let it lie-especially after so long. Then I began to realize how true this was, and how awful it must have been for you. And what it had cost you-the whole sad story-and then my att.i.tude changed.' I stared out of the window. 'I realized then how much you must have suffered.'

I felt my eyes fill. 'I did, David. I did suffer. And did Daisy tell you who was responsible for it all?'

'No. I asked her, but she said she couldn't reveal it without your permission.'

I glanced at the newspaper. 'Do you still want to know?'

'Of course I do. I've wanted to know for sixteen years.'

'And what will you do, when I tell you?'