A Parliamentary Affair by Edwina Currie Page B

ways: Kemal would have to register, pay his taxes and obey the law himself. That would restrict his activities somewhat.
    Nigel ordered another coffee and sat quietly. It made a delightful change to be an observer instead of constantly the one under observation. It was a joy just to sit in this strange, dangerous café and listen to people arguing amicably, not seeking his opinion, not deferring to his experience or elevated position, not expecting him to take responsibility for all their complaints and woes.
The young blond man had said nothing for several minutes. Boswood became aware that he was being examined in a pleasant, inoffensive manner. He smiled encouragingly. The boy had blue eyes – very Aryan.
    ‘Sind Sie deutsch?’ the boy asked.
    ‘No, no, English, sorry.’
    ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Don’t be sorry! It’s so British to apologise, isn’t it? I thought you might be. So am I. My name’s Peter.’
    Contact had been made. The boy had a reassuring Home Counties accent. He looked about twenty. His jeans were close-fitting, his shirt white, clean, the cotton sweater on top dark blue and emblazoned with the arms of the University of Utrecht, its pushed-up sleeves revealing slim, tanned forearms.
    ‘I’m … er … Stephen,’ Boswood said. He put both hands clasped on the table in an unconsciously supplicatory pose. ‘I’m just here on business. Got the night off – don’t have to go back till tomorrow. Grand feeling.’
    ‘Been to Amsterdam before?’
    ‘Oh yes, over the years, several times.’ That would tell Peter all he needed to know. There would be no misunderstandings.
    ‘Then you may know it better than I do!’ The young man laughed. His teeth were white, slightly uneven. ‘Have you been to that new place down the street? It’s called EXIT. Bars, music, quiet areas too – if you like. The food’s not bad either. How about it?’
    There were lots of bars. In this area most were in converted warehouses. Proprietors would pay commission to good-looking young people like Peter to encourage custom; it would be better to take a look himself first.
    ‘That sounds like a great idea, but perhaps I should go back to my hotel and change, if it’s informal and there’s going to be dancing. Shall I meet you there when things liven up a bit later?’
    ‘Make it nine thirty.’ Peter looked pleased and leaned over, putting a hand on his arm. Showing me he’s not a junkie, thought Nigel, as he grasped the offered hand and turned it over. There were no needle marks. Eyes met again in mutual comprehension and Peter grinned. ‘I think this could be a fun night for you, Stephen. Come on, I’ll show you where it is, then we can meet there later. It’s not open just yet.’
    Back at the Golden Tulip, as he showered and changed into slacks, a polo-necked sweater and the grey leather jacket he had bought years ago for nights such as this, Boswood tried and failed to stop himself thinking about what he planned to do. At home it was legal – just; but never in a million years would the Prime Minister or the party accept as Cabinet minister a man who was other than utterly heterosexual, all the time. Even to be excessively hetero was OK these days, as the survival of both Cecil Parkinson and more recently David Mellor, so far, had showed. It was so bloody unfair. When Paddy Ashdown’s escapades became public knowledge just before the 1992 election his position in the opinion polls showed a 4 per cent improvement. But gay . That was still different entirely.
    A gay man might have been able to manage as a private citizen, but the Right Honourable Sir Nigel Boswood MP, tenth baronet, cousin to an earl and related to the Royal Family, did not know what it was to be a private person. Since childhood he had been watched, his progress discussed, his moods and foibles noted and compared, his manners corrected, his beliefs laid bare, his companions carefully scrutinised and largely chosen for him. First by his