This Honourable House by Edwina Currie

can’t they meet up in Marbella or Kos?’
    ‘Because they’d have to pay for it themselves,’ Betts answered. ‘Their fact-finding trips abroad are at taxpayers’ expense. The more exotic the better. They’ll check out satellite installations over Mauritius and the Indian Ocean on our behalf. Or the quality of British aid in the nicer parts of the Amazon basin, followed by a colloquium in Florida. The average backbencher takes four trips a year covering eight thousand miles. Brighton must seem comfortingly homely after that.’
    ‘It’s the grottiest place on earth,’ Pansy moaned, as she picked at the edge of a red-tipped nail. ‘Cold, dirty and frigging expensive. Marbella would be sunnier and cheaper. The booze, especially. Or Amsterdam. Then we could get stoned, legally.’
    ‘We’d lose ’em in the red-light district,’ Betts said, with an air of experience. ‘They’d vanish into the arms of some voluptuous East European lovely and that’d be that.’ He indicated the terrace. ‘Some action soon. The Ashworths are expected at six.’
    ‘Tanned and handsome after their honeymoon.’ Pansy snickered. ‘The golden couple. It’ll be interesting to see whether he’s a changed man.’
    ‘Now, now, Madam Feminist Editor. Bit of rogering never did anybody any harm.’
    Pansy poked him firmly in the chest. ‘Don’t you get any fancy ideas, Mr Betts. My favourite sleeping partner may not be arriving till Wednesday, but that doesn’t mean I’m free tonight. Gotta couple of editorials to write in advance of tomorrow’s editions. We have to warn the nation of the full dire implications of the conference speeches.’
    ‘Before they’re delivered?’
    ‘Sure. The spin doctors have already informed us what they hope their bosses mean. We’ll manufacture a flaming row out of it. Shock! Horror! The delegates will gel mighty uppity and demand a vigorous response. By the end of the week we’ll be riding high, our every predict ion of splits and backstabbing borne out. And if not, we’ll keep stirring. That’s the game, Jim.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Betts dipped a hand into a bowl of peanuts; and stuffed them into his mouth. His eyes darted about as delegates began to drift into the bar.
    The bartender, a swarthy man with sideburns, sidled over, his eyes drifting to Pansy’s crotch. ‘Here for the conference?’
    ‘Yep. We’re with the Globe ,’ Betts announced proudly, and flashed his press badge.
    ‘On the tab, then, is it?’
    Pansy smiled sweetly.
    The barman began to wipe the bar. ‘Conference season – ain’t what it was. The Conservatives’ gatherings used to be the best.’ His eyes went misty. ‘Champagne, and put it on the slate, and I say, by Jove, let’s have your best whisky! They didn’t always pay up, mind, but they had style. Not these days. Tory supporters are mostly doddery old dears who’d like a small sherry. The fellahs that come with ’em are either gay and drink spritzers, or fat and forbidden alcohol by theirdoctors.’
    Betts made a mental note. The conference gossip column was his responsibility. ‘What about Labour? They’ve also seen fashion shifts, haven’t they?’
    ‘Not as many as you’d imagine,’ the bartender said. ‘See, years ago it was in to drink Newcastle Brown with a chaser, or Guinness to demonstrate solidarity with Sinn Fein. That was in the Thatcher era when Ken Livingstone was their hero. Hasn’t he done well for himself? In the nineties it was a chilled chardonnay, dahling , and guacamole instead of mushy peas, not that they knew the difference. And Bombay mix not peanuts. Now it’s back the other way. I have to lay in Tetley’s bitter specially. And natter in a Yorkshire accent. Heartlands! That’s all you hear from them now, even if they’ve never been north of Camden.’
    Betts choked on his nuts. ‘What’s it like when the conferences have gone home?’
    ‘Dead. The only money round here is pink.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Gays. Around twenty