How I came to be talking to the most glamorous woman in the room I shall never know. She introduced herself as a “chrematist”. I must have flinched slightly, picturing her shapely form shovelling bodies into a furnace.

“It’s a political economist.”
“Ah, of course. Not…er…?”
She smiled darkly. “There are some I would dearly like to get my hands on.” Glancing swiftly round the room betraying, I fancied, just a touch of anxiety, she asked, “What do you do?”

I became acutely conscious of my own inadequacies: what can one say about clerical duties?
“I’m an exequatureur.”
“A what?”

I remembered the word from an old document I had found in a disused filing cabinet. “I process government licences for foreign agents,” I said as airily as I could, then back-tracked. “Commercial agents, actually.” It was substantially true, but low-ranking civil servant would have been more to the point.

Deftly she took a martini from a rapidly passing tray. I had missed and contrived to push the hair back over my ear with the trailing arm.
“We’re almost in the same line of business, then?”
“Indeed?”
“Forex.”

I raised my eyebrows non-committally. “I advise the Minister on the foreign exchange markets.” She swung round again to survey the entire room in one panoramic sweep, giving me a fleeting opportunity to regard her more closely.

The cut of her jib was undoubtedly superior to any jib I had come across before. Her lustrous eyes matched the heather-flecked colour of her hair, and the slight Scottish burr was a visceral pleasure. More to the point, she had a power job that made mine seem like a deckchair franchise.

I found her viewing me quizzically; my baleful expression must have shown. “The finger buffet is always excellent, if you’re hungry?”

It took me a little while to realise that she was inviting me to lunch, albeit standing up with a nibble. We stood over minuscule smoked salmon sandwiches, hardly speaking. Various bodies flitted to and fro, pushing us together as if we were part of some encounter group. Presently she spotted someone on the other side of the room. “Oh look, there’s the Minister.”

He had seen her and was scurrying towards us, a portly cove in his late forties, his familiar face festooned with a multitude of smiles for his lovely adviser. She was only slightly less welcoming; but there was a fine edge there which he did not seem to pick up.

She attempted to introduce me. “Tom, this is…” She didn’t know my name. My reply was completely drowned out by the tannoy making some feckless announcement about a BMW in the car park. The Minister shook my hand vigorously as if after my vote. He started to talk about the feelgood factor, while his arm reached squidlike around her waist. I sensed a minute discomfort on her part, professionally concealed. He whispered something in her ear and was almost instantly gone with a wave and a twinkle. I condemned him silently without trial. Lounge lizard!

“Why don’t you come over for supper tonight?” To say I was surprised would be the understatement of all time. “Er…yes…Ok…if you like…why not.”

She handed me her card. Her name was Tania Lawson. In my confusion I forgot to give her mine. Thus we parted half strangers, almost as we began.

The evening started well. Tania looked stunning in a little black number that knowingly emphasised the finer points of her person. Supper was almost certainly tarted-up fare from the supermarket chill cabinet, but in her company it was a feast for the gods. We talked about the City, the current political situation, of which she was exceptionally well informed, and a film called “Thumb”.

Over coffee, I noticed a faraway look in her eyes. “I like this time of year, don’t you?” I glanced out of the window at the slashing rain driving against the glass. “It’s so masculine,” she sighed. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance and for some reason I thought of Odin. “I believe they mentioned storms in the forecast,” I ventured, lamely. “Don’t worry, you can stay if it gets worse.”

I must have gulped audibly. She stared at me for a moment as if it were the sort of invitation I would receive all the time. The sky thundered uneasily, matching my mood. Her glass tapped sharply on the vitreous surface of the coffee table. She rose absently and went over to the picture window. “How much do you earn?”

I was jolted yet again out of my reverie. Here was a conundrum. After a moment’s hesitation I settled on playing it long.

“You’re not going to sell me a pension, are you?” She was silent a long while. So that was it! She was going to sell me a pension. I should really have known better.

She turned abruptly, her face peculiarly intense. “I like you. You don’t boast about your income. That’s different. It’s a great asset.” She was not going to sell me a pension. I inhaled gratefully.

“What’s your favourite football team?” “Er…I haven’t got one. Can’t stand the noise frankly.” “Even better.” She clapped her hands with girlish glee. I couldn’t put a foot wrong.

“Do you like Pavarotti?” Now here was a cliffhanger. Was she an original instrument purist or a Classic FM groupie. I went for the former with an almost visible tremor. “Excellent.” Tania swivelled towards me.

“Favourite book?” “Er…Hornblower and the Hotspur.” She paused for just a second: “The 19th Century is the future.”

Tania was looking straight at me now: “Favourite piece of music?” I fumbled, not being even faintly musical. Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony rose unbidden. Her smile said it all. “Those chords!”

I had got it right again. Aware that my luck could change, I tried to head her off. “Would you like to see my CV?”

“Sense of humour, good taste, man of the world…” I grimaced with some disbelief. Was this an ego massage, or a subtle trap? I confess I hadn’t a clue.

“You could be head-hunted.” “For what?” “It’s my little joke — a woman’s joke.” “Ah, of course,” I said, pretending to understand.

“What car do you drive?” I had a vision of my old Talbot Alpine with its livery of white and rust. “It’s a kind of classic car…You know, Inspector Morse…that sort of thing.”

Tania beamed her approval. The clock struck ten. Like Cinderella at the ball, she unaccountably span round and stared hard out of the window with that strange intensity I found oddly unsettling. I fell silent for quite a while, unable to connect with her ragged ideas.

Suddenly, no doubt becoming aware of my increasing bewilderment, she swept towards me with that same assured impulsiveness that seemed to be her trademark. She sat down beside me on the sofa, placed her liqueur on the table and, without a by your leave, threw her arms around my neck. Utterly astonished, I felt her warm, moist lips press invitingly against mine. I surrendered willingly to her charms.

Almost at that very moment the door of the flat boomed open with a violence that startled me out of my torpor of delight. I looked up to confront the Minister, framed voluminously in the doorway. His eyes thundered down on me, pinning me mentally to the seat with silent damning accusation.

Tania stood up immediately, her eyes ablaze, though not without a hint of trepidation. “I told you it was never on, Tom,” she said with the brittle calmness of a prepared speech.

The Minister glared. Not a man to cross, I rapidly surmised. “You’ve met…er…haven’t you?” I realised I had still not told her my name.

He remained silent. I calculated it was not a normal characteristic of his and boded ill. “…at the buffet, this afternoon. I did tell you, Tom.” She was stumbling gamely to an inevitable collapse.

The Minister visited a satanic glare in my direction. No feelgood factor now, I sensed. “He’s in forex,” she continued. “Briefs agents. Top gun. High flyer. Into vintage cars.”

Now, it is my experience that when a man wants something from a woman, finding her singing the praises of another is not designed to ameliorate the situation. I opened my mouth to comment, but was inexplicably lost for words. The tableau continued without my intervention: Tom scowled menacingly; Tania had stopped talking and sat down heavily beside me.

“What are you going to do?” she asked pathetically. But the Minister had wheeled on his heels and made a noisy exit.

Tania turned guiltily towards me. “I’m sorry to have used you like this.”

So that was it. I was nothing but a buffer to repulse the advances of the importunate Minister. “I had to do something,” she almost whined. “Can’t you see that? He was all over me. I thought that if he found me in the arms of someone else…” She trailed off.

“But he had your key,” I reminded her stiffly, still not entirely satisfied. “It’s one of his flats. I had nowhere else to go at the time.”

“I see.” Words were not coming easily. There was a long pause.

She turned to me again. A kindly look, almost human — a departure. The thunder roared outside and we began to be aware of the rain. “What about all those questions?” “Just conversation.” “Filling in time before Tom came?” It was all plain now, and to give her her due, she didn’t deny it. Why did I suspect that, despite all that had happened, she was actually laughing at me. The dupe, the fool whose body stood between her and God knows what fate at the hands of the diplomatically-challenged Minister?

“Stay for a while.” “What?” She gazed down at her feet. “He might come back.” There was another pause. “I should tell you…hmm…that Tom is yesterday’s man. The PM is on his way out and the smart dosh is on Simonson to take over. Tom won’t appear in his Cabinet — old scores, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” I said wearily. “And where does that leave you, Tania?” Her eyes gleamed. “In pole position, of course.”

It seemed she was moving in with Simonson, who had never married. “He feels the need of a young wife to make him look cool.” “That’s a bit mercenary.” “Way to go,” she said, with a wink that to my imagination contained the kiss of death.

“Tom has moved me sideways.”

I considered her trim figure and then her shell-shocked face. “That seems a pointless exercise.”

“He’s posted me to Overseas Development. I’ll spend the next five years cutting through African jungles and punting down the Amazon in hollowed-out tree trunks. Naturally, I’ve resigned.”

She had asked me to stay overnight in case Tom came back. When I agreed, she put me into a small box-room in an out-of-the-way corner of the apartment. I had already ventured out into the local park to shake off the effects of the lumpy mattress stoically endured in her cause.

Sheepishly I handed her the flowers I had picked on the way back. “They’re a white variety of blubell, apparently known for their scent”

It was meant to be a tender moment but she responded like an automaton, burying her face dutifully in the bunch. I watched her features screw up in disgust. “Where did you get these — a Greek restaurant? They stink of garlic!”

It was not an auspicious start to the day. After she had thoroughly showered for the second time that morning (she has an aversion to the onion family, especially floral bouquets of wild garlic), her fine mind turned briskly to the business of the day.

“I’ll have to find a new flat.” “What about Simonson?” “He’s not making waves just now, not until the PM resigns.” “Yes, of course,” I replied dubiously.

“And a new job.” “Quite.” “Of course, I might be head-hunted.” “So you’re going to the Amazon after all?”

Tania was not in the mood for jokes. We drank tea in silence. Her preoccupation was unnerving. I was used to a near-manic Tania, swinging from mood to mood like a psychological Tarzan. This figure of despondent introversion was entirely new to me.

“Well, maybe I’d better make a move. Things to do, people to see …” “Agents to brief. You are so lucky. I don’t suppose you can second me onto your team”

I gulped. My team? I had a team of two if you included a part-time typist and the tea lady. “Tania, you need to strike out on your own now. Don’t be content with second best or sideways. Call in your favours and insist on some respect. After all, you stood up to the Minister. Simonson should be able to find you a job, at the very least.”

She gazed at me entranced. “That’s what I like about you. You’re a go-getter, a grasper of the moment. You’ll go far. No doubt about it.”

I did. I beat a hasty retreat before she could make inroads into my defence. I never saw her again.

A month later, the Prime Minister resigned for health reasons. By some strange twist of fate Tom was asked to form a new Government.

A week after that bombshell, Tom rang me at home. His voice was more smug than ever. “Look here, I want you to come and work here at Downing Street. I was very impressed with Tania’s opinion of you. She may be a very foolish young woman, but where work’s concerned, she’s got an eye for talent.”

I felt myself busking. “Er…what happened to Tania?”

He chuckled. “Reduced to the outer darkness, I’m afraid. Said to be marrying that old loser Simonson — can’t see it myself. So then, will you or won’t you come to work for my policy unit?”

“Yes Prime Minister…of course,” I stammered. He cooed, as his type do when getting their way.

“Incidentally…what is your name?”