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comments resurface every time I give an interview. I want to talk about helping the Third World or benefits for the disabled, and the interviewer asks sweetly how I react to being dubbed the vilest lady in the country. I’m promoting a greater role for women in society and the questions are lifted straight from the Globe : why did my marriage break up, am I against marriage, do I intend to curb my wild ways now I’m in the Cabinet? So I’m listening to advice, but without a withdrawal and a grovelling apology soon, I’ll probably go ahead and sue.’
    Mark’s glum expression was more eloquent than words. Diane loosened the sheet around her hips. She reached put for the young man’s hand and guided it to her crotch, but he pulled away. With a brusque movement she sat down on the bed. ‘Out with it. What’s eating you?’
    ‘Not the article, though I don’t think the Boss’d be too pleased at your pursuing PansyIllingworth and her crowd. We want them with us, not against us. But, Diane, this has got to stop. Our – our affair. I wanted to tell you before but it’s come to a head.’
    ‘Go on.’ Diane’s face had darkened. The empty glass was cradled in her hand. She sat holding herself quite still.
    ‘Oh, Lord, there’s no easy way to put this.’ Mark struggled into his shirt, began to do up the buttons then realised he had mismatched them, undid the lot and started again, fingers trembling. ‘I can’t, I really can’t, keep you happy, and my wife, whom I love, plus do my work as an MP. That job is more gruelling than I anticipated. I’m a new backbencher, so I have to be in the House till ten night after night. That’s taking its toll, as you can imagine. It’s a four-hour journey up to the constituency at weekends, and we hope to start a family. Kids will come first, Diane.’
    ‘Yeah, understood,’ she answered, a trifle impatiently. ‘I was half expecting this.’
    ‘But, Diane, there’s more. Better coming from me than anyone else. I have so enjoyed being with you. How many times do I have to say that? You’re a fabulous woman, enticing, exciting, and magic in bed. But you should be more careful. You took a hell of a chance with me, though I would never let you down. I won’t talk – you can count on it. The very fact that I’m married, and ambitious, means I have as strong an incentive as you to keep my name out of the papers. And I reckon you like the thrill of the illicit, don’t you? Me too. But the more you select younger men as lovers, the more risks you run. You’ll get set up one of these days. Then you could come a cropper.’
    ‘What makes you think younger men are any less trustworthy?’
    ‘They’re not. Look, if you were having it off with, say, a chap in his fifties who is free and adores you, a companion like that might produce plaudits, not criticism. But there’s something – ah – indecent about an older woman with, well, boys. Especially when she’s in a position of seniority, as you are.’
    ‘What I do with my personal life is my business, and nobody else’s,’ Diane said stiffly. ‘The way we fulfil our office is what matters. Not who we sleep with, or where, or what particular tastes we like to indulge. That’s nobody’s business.’
    ‘But it is,’ Mark insisted. ‘The punters are fascinated by our private lives. We live in goldfish bowls. And we actively invite such attention. We offer ourselves up, in our election manifestos and addresses, as having special virtues. We promise honesty, and truth, and altruism of the highest order. The moment one of us is discovered engaging in behaviour that doesn’t match those high ideals we can go swing for our credibility.’
    ‘And how,’ said Diane, with a sharp edge to her voice, ‘could having younger boyfriends be regarded as damaging my credibility?’
    Mark turned away slowly as he fastened his tie, and addressed his next remarks to the wall. ‘It’s exploitation. You don’t intend it like that,