This Honourable House by Edwina Currie Page A

per cent of Brighton male residents are gay, according to the mayor. Even the local Tory candidate’s that way inclined, official. I do a couple of shifts weekends in the Pink Elephant club down Ship Street. Got a complete set of black rubber gear for it.’ He put a hand on his hip and wiggled suggestively.
    ‘Interesting. You that way inclined yourself?’ Betts could not help asking. In a bondage get-up the bartender, a fleshy man, would be a sight for sore eyes. Then he realised that this might be mistranslated as a pass, and flushed scarlet.
    The man smirked down at Pansy’s suede thighs. ‘Me? Nah. I keep my backside pressed well up against the bar, believe me. It’s all in a day’s work, isn’t it?’
    He was called away to the other beer pumps. Betts’s and Pansy’s eyes met, and they both giggled. ‘A fresh twist on a dirty weekend in Brighton,’ he said sotto voce , and reached once more for the bowl.
    ‘I shouldn’t, Jim,’ she chided. ‘You don’t know who’s been handling those nuts. Especially given the conversation we’ve just had.’
    ‘Come again?’ he said, fist halfway to his mouth.
    Pansy slid elegantly off the bar-stool and collected her bag. ‘You don’t read your own newspaper. Didn’t you see the research,’ she said coolly, ‘in our Modern Life section, which showed that the first thing many chaps do after they’ve been for a leak is plunge their smelly paws into the peanuts?’
     
    Christine passed the clothes brush briskly over his jacket and tweaked the shoulder seams to vertical. ‘This is a very important dinner,’ she reminded her husband, who waited impassively. Not to resist had been best with his mother; it was becoming a useful tactic for dealing with his wife. He patted the folded silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.
    She stood back. ‘You know, I’m not sure this double-breasted suit is quite you,’ she murmured, as if the observation slipped naturally into her briefing on the dinner. ‘Are you absolutely certain the tailor is a supporter?’
    ‘He claimed to be, yes,’ Benedict answered, and set her aside gently so that he could check in the mirror. ‘It’s okay, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I wonder if he’s played a trick on us,’ she said. ‘The two extra buttons. They’re positioned over your nipples. Stick your chest out and you’ll see.’
    Benedict twisted this way and that, then chuckled. ‘You’re right, but is it so obvious? Does it make me look a prat?’
    Christine considered. ‘We’ll give it to Madame Tussaud’s for your waxwork. Their visitors are mostly foreigners and don’t care who you are, so it won’t matter. You’re into single-breasted suitsfrom here on.’
    ‘Thank you, darling.’ Benedict bent to kiss her, a half smile on his lips. ‘I’m so glad to have you with me. I would never have noticed anything like that.’
    ‘These little touches are significant,’ she ploughed on, peeved that he lacked the appropriate indignation. ‘When the public see you striding into the room in a jacket that’s a mite too fitting, with buttons flashing over your bosoms, your dignity is diminished. They don’t quite know why they infer you’re a bit lightweight, but they do. A dodgy impression like that is hard to eradicate once established.’
    ‘And that’s what you do so brilliantly. For me, and for your profession. Spot the little touches. You’re so clever.’
    Christine cast him a sharp glance. There were times when Benedict’s dry levity was not appreciated. ‘Anyway, this dinner,’ she continued. ‘Three big donors are on the guest list. One’s from a dot com company who sold out at the peak and now feels guilty about it so he’s pledged the party a quarter of a million. Only he hasn’t written the cheque yet. One’s the grandson of Jo Grimond, doesn’t like what happened to that lot, and has switched to us. The third provided us with transport at election time. His company’s going down the pan