I have to admit that when I looked round the congregation at the Memorial Service I had to wonder. How many were there simply to pay tribute to a remarkable woman they had admired? How many were there with more intimate memories? The eulogy sketched in the public details of what had been a very public life. Married at twenty, divorced at thirty-five, twenty years in politics, seven years in the City, tireless work for charitable causes. A career that seemed destined for further distinction until it was suddenly ended at the age of sixty-two. Heart failure, they said, but doesn't everyone die of that? Unexpected in this case but apparently due to some congenital weakness.
Well, that was the public image. Having worked for her for an important part of that career, my thoughts during the Service strayed to much that wasn't even hinted at from the pulpit. I certainly didn't know everything; her ability to compartmentalise was remarkable. But our professional relationship meant that inevitably I had a number of windows into her private activities, some of which I had shared. I knew enough to look across the packed pews and identify many present who would have been there for entirely personal reasons. They were those, male and female, who had enjoyed, albeit briefly, the privilege of her sexual favours.
Perhaps, after a suitable lapse, some future biographer will be able to tell the full story . For the present, I must warn that many persons in the following narrative will have to be disguised to protect them from infamy, and to protect me from legal action. I shall call her Fay Middleton. That bears no resemblance to her real name but keen students of politics and the financial world may well put two and two together. And, of course, there will be others who will read this and add a private reminiscence or two of their own.
I went to work for Fay shortly after she was first elected to Parliament. Originally, I was hired as a researcher but my ability to organise an office and to get on with all kinds of people earned me swift promotion. As Fay's PA, I came to understand that maintaining her diary, making her appointments and travel arrangements, keeping on top of her correspondence, preparing her daily briefing, and a myriad similar tasks, was much more than a nine-to-five job. I didn't mind because, despite the twenty years between our ages, we were two of a kind; rather than employer and employee we developed a relationship that was much more than that, hard though it is to define.
There was an evening when we had been working late to clear a backlog of correspondence from her constituents. I was tired after a lengthy spell at the computer. A headache was coming on. Fay, who had a genuine instinct for the mood of those around her, came and stood behind my chair, resting her hands on my shoulders.
"You're very tense," she said.
"A bit weary, that's all. We need to get this done. I'll be all right."
"There's not much now that can't wait until tomorrow." Her fingers gently massaged the back of my neck. "Let me relax you for a moment."
Her voice, often strong and strident on the hustings or on the floor of the House, was calm and soft. I'm not one who needs a lot of cosseting but just at that moment I was ready to welcome a little respite at the end of a hard day. The fingers moved more firmly across my shoulders. I closed my eyes and leaned back.
"That's better," Fay said. "I'll just unfasten these." When she began to open my blouse, I felt no urge to protest. Fay had just turned forty, almost a mother figure or elder sister for me.
Her hands continued their manipulation, inducing a gradual lessening of the tension. My head began to clear. Inch by inch, Fay's fingers worked their magic down my chest, across the swell of my breasts. I have never needed a great deal of support; I know now that my bra, flimsy and lacy as it was that evening, concealed little. More to the point, as Fay told me later, it revealed nipples she was sure would respond to stimulation. At first, the contact was so minimal I almost ignored it as accidental. By the time it became clear it was more than that, I was past resisting. I was being seduced by another woman, and I wanted it to happen. Perhaps, never having known the experience before, I had subconsciously invited it.
"My dear Pam," she murmured, moving round to remove my blouse and bra, bending closer, "You can't imagine how much I've wanted ot do this ever since you came to work for me."
Her lips closed round a nipple and teased it, drawing it out. It was as though she knew without asking how quickly I respond to being aroused by a clever mouth and fingers. And now I was discovering how much more erotic it can be when the tongue and fingers are another woman's. I could have taken as much as she cared to give, but Fay had other ideas. She turned my swivel chair away from the desk, knelt, pushed back my skirt and parted my knees. Her hands reached up round my thighs.
"Lift up, dear," she said. "We mustn't be too long." When I complied, she slipped off my knickers in one swift movement. For a moment she paused, contemplating my pussy, her face so close I could feel the warmth of her breathing. When her fingers parted my lips and the tip of her tongue fluttered across my clitoris, I bucked as though I'd been given an electric shock.
"Stay still. I'll make it good for you. No more tension." While I tried to do as she wanted, it was impossible. The unprecedented nature of the situation was blowing my mind; at the same time the skill of her application was producing physical responses I couldn't control, nor wanted to. Her tongue delved, my hands clasped the back of her head, my bottom rose from the seat to force us closer together. At some point she contrived to insert two fingers. How and when it happened I don't know bur it was the trigger point. My orgasm exploded, huge and all encompassing. When it eventually began to subside, I slumped back into the chair, panting.
Fay swayed back on to her haunches and looked up at me. "First time?"
she asked. Once again she seemed to know.
"Yes," I said.
"It needn't be the last."
A ll I could think was that I wanted what had just engulfed me to happen again and again. But this was Fay Middleton, Member of Parliament for Backwater South, my employer, old enough to be from another generation.
"How can it?"
"Be patient, Pam dear, and be discreet, . You know how this place gossips. Well, make sure we give them nothing to gossip about. Trust me, and there won't be a problem as long as I can trust you. And I believe I can." She said all this with such confidence, I couldn't find the words to express my apprehensions.
I nodded. "But what about you now? Do you want me to - "
"There's probably nothing I'd enjoy more, but not this evening. I have to vote in the Division and after that I've promised to have that supper with young Mr Spender, haven't I?" J T Spender was the latest recruit to the Correspondents' lobby. Thirty-six, tall, very self-confident, the subject of much Westminster speculation. He'd approached Fay for an interview to do a profile and they'd agreed the supper date. It was in the diary. "My guess is our Mr Spender is after more than just an interview, and in that case I don't want to disappoint him. I wouldn't want you to take the edge off my appetite. But next time - I promise."
In twenty minutes I had learned a lot about Fay Middleton. First and foremost that she was an expert lover who could have me at any time she wanted. But secondly, she had an ability to close the door on a relationship, not permanently, but until she was ready to open it again. I had never encountered anyone like her before and I guessed no one had written a guide book. I knew I would succumb next time she beckoned; but I knew, too, I had to be very wary and prepared at any time to be either exhilarated or disappointed.
The following day, Fay left a message to say she was going straight into a meeting in one of the Committee Rooms without calling at the office first. I was not short of work: in any quiet moment I was gradually transferring Fay's personal contacts records from an old card index to a proper data base on the computer. It was necessary but boring and I was just taking a break with my salad lunch when Fay breezed in. I brought her up to speed on the calls I'd taken during her absence. She nodded and began returning them. No reference had been made to what had happened between us the previous evening.
During a lull between calls, I tried an oblique approach. "How was Mr Spender?"
"Satisfactory." Fay's expression gave nothing away. "Yes, you could say very satisfactory. On the LBW scale, B."
At that time, I didn't understand these coded indications that were appended to some of the names of Fay's contacts; I just added them as instructed. Though I soon noticed the subjects were all male, I doubted they had anything to do with cricket. Some time elapsed, and our relationship had developed from that first strange encounter, before I learned the secret. One day when I was updating the records, Fay casually offered the explanation. L equalled 'long', and W equalled 'wide.' B meant simply 'big.' "Hey," I thought, remembering the attractive lobby correspondent, "Hey, Big Spender."
****************
I've jumped ahead of events somewhat, but I've already given some indication of the mercurial mood changes that governed Fay's private life. Professionally, in her political aims and responsibilities, she was focussed to the point of being single-minded. Her appointment as a junior Minister was acknowledged on all sides as the reward for a keen intellect and hard work. Not to mention fierce ambition. She applied herself no less determinedly to satisfying her physical needs, and it was here that she was unpredictable. Whether she wanted to fuck or be fucked, whether she wanted a man or another woman, whether she wished to consult the LBW register or ignore it, seemed to depend only on the whim of the moment. For as long as I knew her, I was unable to detect any pattern to these activities even after I came to play a significantly greater, though far from exclusive, role in them.
