They were going to a National Party fundraiser. Karen's friend Trish had helped to organise the dinner for a couple of hundred people, at which the new party leader, David Hallwright, was going to speak. Karen and Trish had been talking about the dinner for weeks. They had persuaded Simon to make a big donation to the party.

Simon said, 'I hope it's not as boring as the last one.'

Karen banged the iron down. 'Too bad if it is. It's important.'

He looked at her without expression.

Barbara turned up.

'Welcome to the war zone,' Karen said.

Barbara was a plump and stately woman. She got a package out of her bag: chocolates. Elke and Marcus crowded around, Claire stood looking at them, arms folded.

Barbara said, 'Claire, how are you, dear. Aren't you getting tall? If you could just fetch me a cup of tea.'

Claire stared at her. There was a silence, then she turned and stalked out of the room.

Barbara raised her eyebrows. She and Karen exchanged a look.

Barbara said, 'She's getting to be as tall as her father.'

Simon followed Claire. She was standing at the window, drawing on the gla.s.s with her finger.

She said, 'I hate that woman.'

He sighed.

'And she hates me.'

Simon rubbed his face. 'Ah, you hate everyone.'

'Not everyone.' She faced him and grinned.

'You're the end,' he said. 'Do your b.l.o.o.d.y homework.' He hugged her hard and smiled at her, squeezed her arm and left.

He and Karen stood in front of the hall mirror, looking at themselves. Karen was short, blonde, competent; her dyed hair was pulled back from her face and her eyes were very blue.

She fingered the material of her new dress. 'What do you think?'

'Yeah. You look beautiful.'

He didn't really like the dress. It was something her friend Trish would have persuaded her into: too elaborate, too many frills, as if she'd been wrapped up in Christmas paper. Trish's circle all had the same hard, affluent, provincial look - long skirts with elaborate flounces and frills, big boots, detailed tops; they were always done up to the nines in yards of cloth, as if big money had to mean big clothes.

She straightened his tie and brushed his shoulders while he watched himself in the mirror, a tall, ungainly and unwilling figure, his hair a mess of curls that would never lie flat, his thin, bony hands that moved nervously, never still. He waved her away, then stooped to kiss her when he saw she was shaping up to be annoyed.

They drove across town, parked, and joined the crowds moving up the stairs into the centre. The brightly lit room was crowded with hundreds of people; there was a noisy band in one corner, the walls were decorated with party colours and there was a stage at the front with the party logo as a backdrop. They were late, and people were already moving from drinks in the foyer to the tables.

Trish surged towards them looking like a mad doll, with her garish make-up and blonde frizzy hair. Her husband Graeme followed, leathery and affable and blurred already with booze.

Trish said, 'We've got a table right at the front, next to the Hallwrights.' She took Karen's arm and they threaded between the tables.

Graeme gave Simon a conspiratorial look and handed him a gla.s.s. 'I'll introduce you to David Hallwright.'

Simon found the card with his name on it and sat down, with Trish on one side and an elderly woman on the other. Across the table he faced a plump couple who resembled each other, both with ruddy complexions and black hair. Rob Farnham the QC was telling Jenny Francis a joke and Graeme was talking to a thin, nervous-looking woman whose hand shook when she raised her gla.s.s. The light was too bright.

There was a lull in the music and the nervous woman said too loudly, 'I can't believe that.' She blushed and laughed. Then everyone was looking the same way as David Hallwright and his wife were ushered to their places at the next table. Somebody clapped, and there was a burst of laughter, a few extra claps. David Hallwright made a slight mock bow, to more laughter and a few cheers. Someone shouted, 'Our next prime minister,' and finally a proper storm of applause broke out. Everyone was smiling. Karen clapped, with shining eyes.

Simon felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice said hollowly in his ear, 'Our time has come.'

It was Peter Brown, a colleague from the hospital, smiling sardonically. Simon said, 'How are you, mate.'

'Drunk.'

Peter Brown pa.s.sed by, and a waiter leaned over and filled Simon's gla.s.s.

He had a clear view of David Hallwright, who was deep in conversation with the man next to him. Hallwright was very tall, about six foot four, with narrow shoulders, small, nervous hands, thick, fair hair and a smooth, pink complexion. He had keen blue-grey eyes and a narrow face, the eyes underscored with shadows. He walked with a limp, the result of an injury when he was young - it was said that he'd fallen off his motorbike and a car had come to rest on his leg, and been lifted off by a crowd of pa.s.sers-by. The leg had been saved from amputation, but his walk was a kind of smooth undulation, and he swung his arm to compensate. He was left-handed, which added a slight sense of embattlement; it gave the impression of his grappling, overcoming physical obstacles.

Hallwright said something and the other two laughed. He sat back, and the men leaned respectfully towards him. Around the table people were talking to one another, but kept stealing looks at him. There was a brittle atmosphere in the room; the men talked loudly, the women had an air of overexcitement. People drifted past Hallwright's table, casting fawning looks; others were herded by a suited functionary into a holding pattern to one side, where they sipped their drinks and talked and pretended they weren't queuing to say their piece to the Leader.

The waiters began to bring food, and the knot of hopefuls around the top table cleared, giving Simon a clear view of the people seated facing him.

Trish elbowed him. 'Simon. Are you listening? Are you paying attention? I'm saying if we could raise just a quarter of the money needed ...'

Simon interrupted her. 'Who's that?'

He was looking at a slim woman in a grey dress, seated two along from Hallwright. She had a cloud of fine, light-coloured hair, large, pale eyes, an expressive face, slender hands and a wide mouth. She was listening to the man next to her, but not with any particular attention; she looked as if her mind was elsewhere. Simon had just seen her grimace at her plate, as if what she was hearing had displeased her. She played nervously with her silver necklace, andcast her eyes around distractedly.

'Who's who?' Trish peered.

'There, in the grey.'

'With the necklace? That's Roza Hallwright. David's wife.'

'I've never heard anything about his wife,' Simon said.

'She's very private. They say she doesn't like politics. She'll have to front up when David wins the election.'

'She doesn't like politics,' Simon repeated.

'David's very protective of her, of her right to not like politics. He's probably quite happy if she stays in Auckland. In her own little world.' Trish sniffed.

He registered her sharp tone. 'It sounds as though you don't approve.'

'Well. Put it this way, she doesn't exactly leap in to help anyone who has a good idea. She could do a lot in her position, but she doesn't lift a finger.'

'Does she have a job?'

'She works for a publisher. She's David's second wife. I a.s.sume you know his first wife died. Cancer. Terrible.'

Simon said, 'Could I have met her? Has she been to one of your parties?'

Trish dabbed her lips. 'Never,' she said coolly.

Simon stared. There was something about the woman that absorbed his attention. He not only felt that he'd seen her before, but that she was strangely, intensely out of the ordinary. She could have been a patient - that was probably it - but he had no memory of having treated her. Surely he would remember such a striking person.

He said, 'Maybe I've seen her picture somewhere.'

'They did a magazine interview this year. But she was only in one picture. David did all the talking. She's the most undercover wife in the world.'

The woman looked up and smiled. There was a very slight gap between her two front teeth. She looked directly at Simon; her eyes rested on him for a second and then flicked away.

Trish said, 'His first wife was gorgeous. Vivacious. A real organiser. Not wishy-washy like that one.'

'I think she's ...' He stopped himself, and picked up his gla.s.s. He spent his life distancing himself from strong feeling; he needed to be detached, to work. But looking around the table now, at the ruddy, bedizened, cackling lot of them, he felt a flaring of his nerves - exhilaration, anger, energy - like the stirring of a much younger self.

He kept his thoughts to himself, also his feeling that Roza Hallwright was beautiful.

The spotlights went on at the front of the room and a man stepped up to the podium, and introduced David Hallwright as 'our next prime minister'.

Hallwright listened to the applause, then raised his hand for silence. There were cameras set up below the stage and the light shone at an angle on his face, making his cheeks look hollow. He leaned forward and began to speak. His diction wasn't clear and he mangled some words, but he made up for it by staring fiercely around the room, projecting energy and vigour, and by outlining, with dogged simplicity, the points the audience wanted to hear. At first, applause burst out at ragged moments, but the audience began to learn the pattern Hallwright had set, and to respond when he signalled.

It was an exercise in affirmation, more communion than speech, and Hallwright controlled the crowd better as he went on, getting up a rhythm between his punchy signals and the eager response. Simon didn't listen to the words, but felt, in his tipsy, heightened state, that he was watching a dance between two natural forces; that Hallwright, having whistled the crowd up into fixed, reptilian attention, had only to move to make it bend and sway in reply.

The speech finished and there was a standing ovation. Simon stood and caught Roza Hallwright's eye. She looked away.

The lights were dimmed, the mood relaxed. Simon got trapped in a conversation with the elderly woman next to him, and tried not to stare at the next table. His mind wandered. Roza Hallwright. He was the last person who could ask a woman whether he'd met her before. Once at a party he'd asked that of someone's tipsy, bawdy wife and she'd said loudly, 'Well, doctor, you once spent a lot of time staring up my f.a.n.n.y.' More than one woman had said to him, 'Oh, you're the first person who held my child.' And he would have a mental picture of her screaming, legs raised in the air. He felt a laugh rising. It was a funny life. He checked Mrs Hallwright again; she was staring down at the table, perhaps wanting to escape the h.o.a.ry old b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was whispering in her ear. Simon felt an intensity of emotion, almost happiness, as if he'd broken through a membrane, and everything was fresh and new. He realised he'd had too much wine, and turned to his neighbour, trying to focus.

Later, the lights went dimmer still, the band cranked up, and people began moving around the tables. Trish dragged Karen away, and for a while Simon was left by himself. He decided to drink no more, and went for extra coffee, and on the way back he ran into Trish and Karen.

'Come and meet David,' Trish said.

They approached the table. There was a crowd around the Hallwrights, but Graeme was already there, and beckoned. David Hallwright was standing as Graeme surged forward and introduced them. Hallwright shook Karen's hand and she gave a little jump of nerves and said, 'Hi,' in a squeaky voice, then turned to look at Trish, as if to confirm the magic of the moment.

Simon felt resistance rising. Trish looked so proud and moist-eyed he wanted to slap her. It was his turn. He offered his hand to David Hallwright. The sharp grey eyes rested on him, and something registered in the keen face.

Simon said, 'Good to meet you,' and wished Karen would stop twitching like a kid beside him. He stepped back, and Trish angled in, greeting Hallwright with a smoochy kiss.

Hallwright turned slightly away. Roza Hallwright was sitting at the table behind, with the old shark still bending her ear. Simon stepped sideways and sat down next to her. She turned and he muttered, pulling at his tie, 'Do you mind if I sit here for a minute.'

She watched him tugging at his collar. 'Are you all right?'

'It's very hot.'

'The excitement of meeting the great man,' she said. Her voice was low, humorous, wary. She touched her necklace. 'Would you like some water?'

She poured him a gla.s.s. Seeing he'd been usurped, the old man next to her got up with a groan and shambled off.

He took the gla.s.s. 'Thanks.'

'Are you enjoying the dinner?' she asked, looking around absently.

'Yes. Lovely.' It came out more sarcastic than he'd meant.

She turned to him, paying attention. 'I see.'

'No, really, it's very nice.'

She smiled and he got the strange feeling again, something like freedom, happiness.

He said, 'Well, okay. I was just thinking I might actually vote Labour.'

She laughed.

'Only joking,' he added.

'Are you?' She leaned forward, looking at him searchingly. 'Do these occasions make you feel rebellious?'

He was surprised. 'Rebellious? Is it rebellion or ... My mother was a member of the Labour Party. You know what she would have called all of us here tonight?'

'What?'

'Hyenas.'

She drew back, and he instantly regretted it; it was too harsh, too much. He had offended her.

'I didn't mean to ... I'm one of the hyenas too,' he added, floundering. 'I was only joking about voting Labour.'

She looked away. 'I don't really like politics.'

'It'll be hard to avoid after the election.'

She smiled, still looking away. 'You think he's going to win.'

'Everyone knows he's going to win.'

'I'm glad. It's what he wants.'

Simon laughed. 'What he wants. You make it sound like a pair of new socks.'

'Yes. I'm very simple aren't I?'

'No. I don't think you're simple. Just the opposite.'

She glanced around at his tone. It was too interested.

He said, 'Is it possible we've met before?'

Again she drew back, and he tried to check himself, to sit back and appear neutral.