A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie

the Civil Service as to use slang which made his superiors wince; that was the intention. In assessments an old hand would say, ‘Chadwick? Isn’t he rather … ah … slick? Wears wild ties? Is he quite ready, do you think?’ Another, showing delicate discernment, in the same club as his father, would always add, offhandedly, that the chap’s work was what mattered, and that was rather good. ‘Just the type we’re looking for, in fact.’
    Chadwick coughed discreetly. ‘Do you have any plans now, Secretary of State? Can I order you a car, perhaps?’
    Boswood glanced at the ornate gilded clock, although he had been watching it with growing impatience for the last hour. Six o’clock was late to finish a meeting which had started at nine and crashed on with only a hurried lunch.
    Still, it had been a successful day. Agreement had been obtained with no concessions from the British. The French were looking gloomy; there would be trouble back at the Elysée palace. The elegant, sandy-haired Dutch chairman was walking round the table chatting and shaking hands, looking relieved. One more feather in the cap of the Dutch government. 
    Boswood pulled himself out of his chair and shook himself to loosen stiff muscles. ‘Thank you, Martin, but I have some plans for this evening. Can’t let an opportunity of a few hours in Amsterdam go by. Got some friends here, so I shall be seeing them for dinner later. I can get a taxi – actually I’d rather: I can look after myself occasionally, you know.’
    From the normally excessively courteous Boswood this was a curt dismissal. Martin looked anxious. It was not good practice for him to go straight back to London on the 8 p.m. plane, leaving his Secretary of State behind and alone. The Dutch secret service had been alerted but had simply shrugged; there was no terrorist activity in the area and their Ministers did not endlessly demand protection. Boswood was being difficult. Everyone on the British team, with the exception of the multilingual Forster who would stay to check texts and translations, was booked on the same flight home. Then last night, just as they settled down for a briefing session with the Ambassador, the Secretary of State had announced airily that he had decided to stay another night, and had changed the flight – himself! – to lunchtime the following day. Bloody nuisance.
    Boswood smiled to himself. The Civil Service did not like to let anyone out of the cage, not for a moment, and certainly not for eighteen hours in a foreign city. Fortunately the Ambassador had not pressed him to dine. The feeling of unaccustomed revolt speeded his pulse. Tonight would be a good night.
    Outside the conference hall he nodded briefly to Martin and noted with secret glee the ministerial boxes the man was now stuffing with an aggrieved air into the boot of the official car. He slung his hands in his pockets like a naughty schoolboy and strode off whistling in the direction of the Golden Tulip hotel. Chadwick climbed in the car and watched out of the back window. Satisfied but still uncomfortable, he turned to the driver: ‘Airport, please. Quickly.’
    As soon as the line of cars snaked away, Boswood changed direction. The clean, fresh air of an Amsterdam evening ruffled his hair as he walked steadily along cobbled streets by the canal. First to a cash dispenser to get more money. The official allowance of £115 per day handed over on the plane by the ever-efficient Martin would not be sufficient for his purposes.
    Then the porn shop. Just to look: one of these days he would go in, but for the moment he sated both curiosity and need by gazing into the shop window. You could not do this at home, just stop nonchalantly and stare at such a display. Photographs of women variously attired, sporting whips and handcuffs with a bored air; a life-size female model in scant lace underwear, bra pushing up and exposing the breasts, a large hole in the crotch; book titles, texts laid open