One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [31]
The night before he’d confided to me that the post he hankered for, the one he lay in bed at night and fantasized about, Education Secretary, had gone, he thought. Not for sure, but the whisper was Tim Atkinson, from Environment.
At ten past twelve the door flew open. Katya and I spun round in our seats. Dominic stood in the doorway, eyes shining.
‘Foreign Secretary,’ he breathed.
‘Oh!’ We sprang to our feet, dumbfounded.
In a moment he’d crossed the room, taken me in his arms and twirled me around. Then he put me down and hugged Katya. We were all ecstatic now, and as we shrieked and jumped up and down and congratulated him, suddenly the room hummed again. Ken, the permanent undersecretary, appeared, beaming, phones rang as members called in their congratulations, doors opened and shut like a French farce as people flew in from all corners. Champagne was found – someone had belted to the off-licence – and Dominic, in the midst, like a tall blond lion, handsome face shining, genuinely baffled as well as delighted, was looking like a little boy, although now of course, a hugely important, influential man. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And now and again, as he turned to accept congratulations, wring hands, I knew those eyes came back to me.
The day passed in a blur. Journalists rang constantly, wanting quotes: at thirty-four Dominic was the youngest Foreign Secretary, it transpired, that century. Even Anthony Eden in Chamberlain’s government in 1935 had been a ripe old thirty-seven when he achieved the same high office. Again and again Dominic went out to Parliament Square to speak to banks of cameras, news crews from all over the country, as we, his department, watched from the windows above.
Other results came in: some good, some bad. His great friend Peter Ward, a kind, intellectual man, had lost his job at Transport. He’d been shuttled to the back benches. Whilst Sally Turner, her of the sexy black suits, bright red lipstick and patterned tights, had a meteoric rise to Health. Health! We all giggled, high on champagne.
‘Hope she doesn’t give them anything,’ remarked Katya tartly. ‘Who knows where she’s been.’
Katya was thrilled, but brisk with me, snapping out orders and I knew why. She’d watched as her boss of six years had crossed the room to hug me first, to sweep me up in his arms before her: her smile was broad but her eyes were like flints as she made sure I was edged out of any limelight that might be shining round our office. I typed away guiltily.
At close of play, yet another journalist rang, wanting a few words with Dominic for an evening chat show. But Dominic, by Katya’s desk, was on another line and shook his head, frowning. He put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Katya, pop down, would you, and say a few platitudes on my behalf? Or send Hattie, if your back’s not great?’
‘I’ll go,’ said Katya quickly, getting up not so smoothly and hobbling to the door. ‘I’ll say you’re extremely honoured and looking forward to the tremendous challenge the job offers, shall I?’
‘Splendid. If you would. You are marvellous, Katya.’
But she went out wordlessly, the damage having been done. Dominic was oblivious, though, and then, as Katya left, her phone rang and I found myself talking to our new counterpart office in America.
‘It’s Warren Christopher,’ I breathed, ‘wanting to congratulate you. D’you want me to… ?’ I pointed to his office, indicating I’d put it through in there, but instead, he just took the phone from my hand and perched on the desk.
I listened as he thanked and smiled, got up and walked around, swept back his hair, his colour high, walked around my room, and then into his room. At the door, still talking, he looked back and jerked his head at me. I frowned. He jerked it again, meaning for me to follow him.
Smiling and shaking my head, bemused,