Fortress

35

‘My God, I’m so sorry. The bastards.’ Pippa’s face was a picture of concern.

Not even Nasima’s expert attention could entirely disguise Sam’s bruises. He had done a bit of improvisation with some foundation of Helen’s he’d discovered in the bathroom but the finish was uneven. How did women get that stuff to go on properly? Fortunately the worst of the damage was not on his face or hands. ‘I think they came off worse,’ he joked.

She laughed along but Sam doubted she believed his lie. ‘Well, I’m sure the police will get them.’

‘Ah, I didn’t report it.’

‘Why ever not?’

He felt like saying, You just don’t get it, do you? The assault had been a wake-up call, a reminder of who he really was and where he had come from, but that wasn’t what he had come to talk about.

‘It’s not that simple. There could be reprisals. Look, there’s something I was hoping you could help me with. I’ve been chucked out of my flat.’

It was sort of true. It was only a matter of time before Helen would want the place back. He had decided Pippa was the best person to broach this with. Derek Farmer was the decision-maker but Sam didn’t think he could stand his particular brand of bonhomie just now. Uppermost in his mind was finding somewhere he could also accommodate Nasima. Her imminent arrival in London dominated his thoughts.

‘Oh dear. That’s not good, is it?’ She shook her head in sympathy.

‘Things aren’t as easy as they were, put it that way.’ That much was true. Things weren’t. Everything was different. The attack had knocked away the foundations of everything he held dear, as if he had been punished by some malign force for clinging to his values of tolerance and inclusion. But almost as powerful had been Nasima’s response. First, her concern, the professional way she had taken charge of his injuries. How much his life had changed in just a matter of days. This new job and now this woman. Helen was history. What was the point of having some white trophy girlfriend when there were people like Nasima out there?

Not that she was his girlfriend. Not yet.

Pippa listened, her head tilted to one side as he spoke. She reminded him of a kindly headmistress, even though she was probably not much older than he was. ‘Well, no. Absolutely. We can’t have our star spokesperson living on the streets. Stay here while I make a few enquiries. I might have just the thing.’ She gave him a broad smile and glided out of the room.

It had been Nasima’s idea to ask the Party. It wouldn’t have occurred to him, and when he had said he didn’t like to ask, she had become quite frosty. ‘They’re in government and they’re your employer. What’s wrong with asking?’

In less than a minute Pippa was back, triumphant. ‘Courtesy of one of our recently disgraced members, it seems we have a rather nice little pied-à-terre in Victoria going begging.’

‘Disgraced?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Shared a bed in Brussels one night with another man — not a problem per se, but his wife wasn’t terribly happy. And his constituency party is — shall we say — very old guard.’

Sam nodded noncommittally. ‘It sounds perfect. Does it have two bedrooms? My girlfriend is very modest.’

There was a beat while she took this in. He could see her thinking, They’re a funny lot.

‘Oh, yes. Right. Of course. As it happens, it does, though the smaller one really is a bit bijou, as the agents like to say.’

‘I’m sure we’ll manage. It’s very kind of you.’

‘The furnishings aren’t much to write home about, but as you’ll be out and about most of the time, I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem. And it is very central. The neighbours may be a bit old-fashioned, but I’m sure you’ll use your charm on them.’

He assumed that by ‘old-fashioned’ she meant likely not to want Muslims living among them. Whatever, it wasn’t his problem. His life was evolving and he was taking charge of it, leading his destiny in a new direction.

From a drawer she produced a large gold-edged invitation card and held it out to him. ‘Welcome to the next level.’

He gazed down at it.

The Prime Minister requests the pleasure…

‘Beware, you’re going to be bombarded with these. We want you at all the PM’s VIP bashes. We’re keen to widen the gene pool around him — and you’re, well, the best thing that’s happened to us in a while.’

Sam stared at the card.

‘And I can make them plus one if you like.’

He grinned. ‘Wow, thanks.’

His life was on track. He was someone. He couldn’t wait to tell Nasima.